Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (30 page)

As for my blackberry foe, I'm tempted to call in
A. A. I. D. —
a special operations tactical unit of the French
gendarme
. Despite my measures to cover up, my scratches are now so criss-crossed they represent a map of the national
autoroutes
of France. The week continues in a relentless blackberry battle and a never-ending round of pruning and spraying. With no friends to stay for a while and no absurdly late
dîners
, my body is truly in tune with a life on the land.

Then it's back to the wall, literally. Despite my throbbing, swollen fingers pierced with thorns that somehow still slip through despite the gloves, and my perpetually aching back, this is a job I love. Unlike many other
jardin
tasks, this is one that has instant results. Crunch, snap; the blackberry strands lie in pleasing piles. My moss-covered limestone wall peeps out more as I move further along our boundary, ripping down years of growth. I curse the blackberries profusely pushing against the wall from Monsieur Chanteur's
jardin
in their bid to gain new territory.

Next, on with the relentless spraying. It is my least favourite job. The industrial spray bottle weighs heavily on my shoulder and the only effective way to spray
les herbes
is to stoop. I can only manage one spraying session a day. The weeds seem to know this, for they appear to flourish and spread gleefully overnight. I am full of excitement, however, as Stuart has now finished his paving until next year. This means I have full access to the wheelbarrow.

My country life is so condensed, that such things as a
brouette
become the full focus of a Cuzance day. After
déjeuner
, it's a quick dash to the nursery. Three of my ground covers are struggling and I feel very disappointed with their lack-lustre performance. Don't they realise they are planted in the
premier
row and are supposed to be ready for a standing ovation?

It is in every possible way as different to my life at home as could be imagined. From my life as a librarian, to each summer summonsing reserves of strength and energy I didn't know I had. I often think of my students and how they would be utterly astonished if they could have a window into my days in Cuzance. For now, blackberry remains my mightiest foe. I use all the might and fight I can muster, even against one single, thick old stem. I keep re-defining my combat method. It now encompasses a highly unusual blend of Pilates, yoga and kick-boxing. This is a new strategy I have just developed. It involves lifting and then kicking my legs at the recalcitrant blackberries. It has proved to be very effective and I can highly recommend it on the blackberry front.

I am ecstatic when I unearth what I think is an old fig tree at the far end of the boundary. How it has possibly survived when it has been smothered for years amazes me. It is gnarled and its ancient knots are strewn with moss, as it twists along the wall, searching for light. To bring it fully back to life will have to be a careful operation, for its canopy is completely consumed by blackberry.

I fetch the stepladder to reach high enough and, in a delicate manoeuvre, use the secateurs to peel away the greedy blackberry claws. Despite my joy in this discovery, I have to be realistic at this point in my
jardin
endeavours. The weeks of sheer physical toil have caught up with me. I need to remember that one swallow does not a summer make. As the elderberry has started to flower, it is a sign that our Cuzance summer is almost at an end.

The name ‘Place Du Bicentenair 1789' is on a plaque outside Le Bureau de Maires. It is a very grand name for the few places that our village contains: the mayor's office, the war memorial, the church and restaurant. Despite the absence of any shops, including a longed-for
boulangerie
so that fresh
pain
could be the order of every day, it is still the hub of the village. When the restaurant shuts for a week's
vacances
, an unnatural hush falls over the village, for there is nowhere for the locals to gather. It is even stranger not to hear Monsieur Arnal's strident voice echoing through the quiet village.

One night I walk down to buy some postcards. A
petite
group of women is clustered outside Monsieur Paris' house. They have lost power and yet seem to be the only ones in Cuzance not to have electricity. I convey
désolé
and offer candles if they need them. Monsieur Paris comes stomping out of his
maison
, a surly look on his face. He glares at me in a belligerent way as if it is all my fault. His wife murmurs to him in a soothing tone that I am
Australie
. What this is meant to convey I am not quite sure. Madame Paris pats my arm in a placating manner and rolls her eyes behind his back. Clearly she is attempting to apologise for his abruptness. I am simply left wondering how on earth I could have possibly offended him. I am also left confused by the apparent explanation that my behaviour is because I am Australian, innocent and well-meaning as I was. All I had said after all was, ‘
Bonsoir
, sorry you don't have electricity and would you like some candles?' No wonder people in the country think that people from Paris are aloof. I'll be glad when he takes his Parisian ways back there. To make amends for his abruptness, Brigitte Dal makes a point of showing me that she has potted up the geranium I gave her for a gift. I again think that her kind, gentle nature is the essence of Cuzance for me.

The following day is the Assumption of Mary, August 15. It is one of many religious days in the French calendar, and also a public holiday. This year it falls on a Thursday, at the end of our last working week. I am torn between my boundary wall and the lure of a
vide-grenier
that I remember as being a particularly
magnifique one. Rather than miss out on one of our final treasure hunts for the summer, we decide to compromise and work for a few hours before setting off.

There is an especially festive air at La Chapelle-aux-Saints. The setting is another picture-perfect one; a small stream burbling, picnic tables next to a grove of poplars and the stalls set out in avenues under shady trees. Plough horses are demonstrating their ancient art and I wonder, in this age of sophisticated farm machinery, how many more years they will practise their craft. While you can in fact choose a three-course lunch, for us it is the standard
vide-grenier
fare, a crispy
baguette
with sausage,
frites
and a<
bière
. In the after-lunch quietness, we wander slowly, eager to see if any treasure is still lurking. When I pause at a stall, Monsieur
Vide-Grenier
says he noticed us both in the queue for
déjeuner
. He tells me we both look
très chic
in our
chapeau
. It is the third time I have been complimented in France this summer and now both of us for our fashionable hats. These moments make me float and make up for the
fatigue
that by now consumes me after our long weeks of
beaucoup travail. Like many other words that enter my vocabulary, this is one I learnt very quickly to explain my perpetually tired appearance. As I glide away, I try to gloss over the fact that Monsieur
Vide-Grenier
had a glass of red wine in his hand at the time and was perhaps slightly unsteady on his feet. Midday sun and
vin rouge
may possibly colour your outlook on
chapeau
and looking
très chic.

To prolong our holiday mood, we head to the quiet, picturesque banks of le Dordogne near Floriac. The drives through the rural landscape are like driving through the lines of a French poem, for the names of villages are like rippling lines of verse: Branceilles, Curemonte, Gines, Loulier, Sourdoire and Saint-Michel-de-Bannières. The drive takes us through the depths of fertile farmland. Fields of corn sway at full height and sunflowers tilt their happy faces. The river curls along serenely under the sheer limestone cliffs and kayaks full of children float past. The end of summer is drawing near and the
fête
day for the Assumption of Mary has been graced by an endless blue basin of sky and sunshine that still holds the promise of more such days to follow. There are significant stone farm houses dotted here and there, surrounded by rich green fields and bountiful orchards. The road plunges and dips through hamlets and woodlands, where the dappled sun plays with the shadows. One-way bridges open up to the sight of families, stopped by the roadside to picnic in farmers' fields. No matter how
petite
a hamlet is, a huge stone church is always the dominant feature, to bring the farming families together to both celebrate and mourn, just like the seasons, the passages of life. As we climb higher, panoramic views open up over toy land farms below in the verdant valleys.

Our meander takes us to Meyssac, where we encounter a
brocante
full of dealers and their expensive wares. The town is a stunning discovery for it is full of ornate
maisons
built from the same unique red stone as nearby Collonges-la-Rouge. Despite the dealers'
très cher
prices, it is always pleasurable to pore over expensive pieces of furniture, antique oil paintings and old, delicate porcelain. Some of the dealers have set out their furniture and other goods to resemble a
salon
. There are sofas and lights, fragile glass and art works. It must all take hours to set up and then dismantle at the end of each market. I marvel at their hard work and commitment, Sunday after Sunday each summer.

On our wending way home, we stop on a high, quiet country road to admire a
très belle maison
; it is the house, garden and setting of French fantasies. It is completely alone, sitting and dreaming in the soft sunshine, surrounded by expansive lush lawns and enormous elms. The tall black wrought iron gates are flung open and the broad gravel drive is flanked by profusely flowering pink hydrangeas. I venture just outside the gates and peep over the stone wall. Set on arise, it overlooks the pretty town of Turenne in the distance and in the nearby fields, fat white cows, a breed called Charolais, placidly graze. As we reluctantly drive away, I have sold Pied de la Croix in my mind and moved in. The utter silence of the complete rural landscape is palpable. It has tugged on my heartstrings and I know it will linger for a long time in my memory. It is indeed the idyllic French countryside and gracious home that dreams are made of.

For the fourth year, we declare our working holiday to be finished. Like an athlete at the final hurdle, I muster my remaining strength and put in a medal-winning performance. The very last day of our working
vacances
, I work away vigorously on my wall. The limbs of the fig tree spread so low to the ground that I am compelled to be like a gymnast; the difference is that my parallel bar is on the ground. I am forced to lie on the ground to stretch fully under it to reach the ubiquitous blackberry. While sprawled on the ground, I also have to take care not to be speared in the eye by a javelin-like piece of piercing blackberry. In an act of symbolism, to underscore that enough is enough, my ripped work shoes that have gaping holes, finally fall apart on the very last day. And so I throw my faithful work shoes away that have seen me through thick and thin for the past few summers.

There is still the
lavande
to cut back yet this is a delight not an arduous task, to fill my straw basket with graceful purple wands that have brought beauty to our Cuzance summer. I think about an email from Jean-Claude that filled in more gaps in my knowledge, for like most people, I thought that it was only Provence that was famous for its endless purple fields of lavender:

I have just come into a piece of information that will interest a landscape lover like you. In Martel, in the meadow below the XVIIIth century wall (next to the parking lot) they are now pulling down a derelict piece of equipment: an industrial lavender distillery that was built in the sixties for the lavender growers who were apparently quite numerous in the area; just imagine the fields around Cuzance all lavender blue! This practice went out of use at the end of the seventies … probably in favour of walnut trees! What a pity!

I simply cannot imagine our working rural landscape sweeping endlessly to the horizon in a mauve haze.

When we return home, in one of his emails Jean-Claude fills me in on events in the village that astonish me. He lets us know that someone running our local cooperative has been caught embezzling money. It revolves around leasing farm equipment to his cronies and not keeping proper records. While we may well walk past the people caught up in this scandal on one of our future
promenades
, it is likely that we will never know who they are. That is, unless Jean-Claude and Henriette happen to be accompanying us. Then he will delight in pointing out to us the members of our village who got caught up in the high drama of a court case centred on the apparently lucrative trade of leasing agricultural machinery. Now there's a possible retirement plan.

There are times when exhaustion dogs our every footstep and laps at the edges of our days. There are times when still we question the enormity of what we have taken on in a foreign land, for one short summer each year. Still however, an apartment in Paris does not truly tempt us. For when the day closes, and we relax with our
apéritifs
, gazing out over the orchard, we marvel at all that we have achieved in a mere four years. And despite the relentless, all-consuming, sheer
beaucoup travail
, there is not a hint of regret. It is our precious,
petite
corner of rural France and we embrace all that it has enriched our lives with.