Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (2 page)

When he found Pied de la Croix in the village of Cuzance, it seemed just right – not too big, not too small, not too run down... It was utterly silent and looked absolutely enchanting, wrapped in a pristine quilt of snow, the pale golden sun of winter dancing on its ancient stone.

So it was, that after a mere two phone conversations, we agreed that Stuart should go ahead and buy our little house. Six months later, I was able to see it for myself. Strangely, it seemed to me at first, despite now having our own
petite maison
, Stuart thought it made sense to rent a house nearby for the first fortnight. It was in fact a much-needed respite from now renovating on both sides of the world. We drove together from nearby Puymule for our first inspection together. The damp and gloomy day echoed my sense of misgiving. The picturesque photos in the snow had not quite captured the renovating reality. A few days later, we were back – to start the sheer hard work with a vengeance.

On our very first morning at Pied de la Croix, we both had a further foreboding sense of, ‘What have we done?' Within a few hours, we were discussing whether we should put the house straight back on the market. It was not the idyllic rural farmhouse of our dreams: the traffic was constant and the flies were in abundance. What had happened to our key criteria of peace and quiet?

I was also totally overwhelmed by the amount of renovating required. A picturesque French
maison
it was not, and the land was so overgrown and neglected that we couldn't even walk around the grounds. The reality was so overwhelming that Stuart suggested I should steer clear of venturing upstairs to the attic and seeing it in all its years of neglect.

But we had no choice other than to accept our decision and push on. We had already spent a small fortune and were fully committed to at least turning it around and putting it back on the market in a renovated, desirable state.

Anyone who has ever renovated, knows that the sheer hard work involved, means however, that an indelible bond is created. So despite the despair and desperation we felt at times, and the punishing hours of intense hard work, we did fall in love with our now, much-loved Pied de la Croix.

For me, it was the act of stripping the wallpaper and discovering the ancient wooden beams that became a feature of our beautiful new
cuisine
. I felt a palpable sense of bonding with our French farmhouse – it seemed to emanate a sense of happiness to have life breathed back into it.

And then there was the joyous discovery that the huge volume of traffic was simply due to a temporary diversion from the
autoroute
to Paris. It was this that cemented our decision to stay.

I often look back and laugh about our first renovating trip. What was I thinking? I seemed to have packed for Parisian
soirees
. Fortunately, a new friend, Marie-France, gave me some blue overalls more suited to the task than anything in my suitcase.

Without a mirror in the house, it wasn't until I saw the photos upon our return to Australia, that I realised the extent of the rips in rather delicate places. No wonder I drew the attention of the parade of
artisans
we had coming through the property.

And then there were the roofers. I sent a postcard to the senior girls at my school, to let them know they hadn't lived until they saw the young French roofers, perched high on the barn, shirtless in the searing summer heat and dancing to music blaring from their radios. As for our elderly neighbours, I observed them each day, their devotion to each other palpable.

People are fascinated by the fact we have a house in the Lot, and often ask about the difficulties or challenges involved. Apart from the fact we can't simply go for a weekend, the only drawback for me is the interminable flight each year. There is, of course, also the matter of my very limited French (where is the time to learn?), but my tendency for the dramatic – and my ability to mime – seems to carry me through.

Bureaucratic matters such as setting up a French bank account have their difficulties, as does finding a gardener that is not
très cher
. But our friends in the village are always willing to help us out, and we have learned to manage things from afar – all via email – such as buying a Renault, installing a pool and arranging for the planting of lavender and shrubs in our
jardin
.

Each time we leave Cuzance, our
petite maison
sleeps quietly behind its wooden shutters. Our French dream is, at times, about questioning the sheer magnitude of such an undertaking. Yet it is more than balanced by the joy of creating another life in France – one we slip into seamlessly each time we return. And so, the adventure, and our other French life, continues.

French roses in full bloom.

Eight weeks before leaving, we book our train tickets from Gare d'Austerlitz to Brive-la-Gaillarde. It is always a source of amazement to me that we can print our tickets at home, all the way across the other side of the world. It is at this point each year that the countdown starts to become very real. I triumphantly email Jean-Claude to let him know our arrival time and hope that he will be able to pick us up. Meanwhile, Stuart has also been emailing him to sort out a better mobile phone deal. The year before, as we had not used our mobile throughout the previous twelve-month period, the number had lapsed. This caused huge dramas and dilemmas immediately upon our arrival, when we missed the train by a matter of a few minutes. With the disconnection of our number, we had no way of contacting Jean-Claude to let him know of our late arrival. As with many other French matters, we are determined to make our journey and arrival as smooth as they can possibly be this time.

It is only through the serendipity of our friendships and email communications that we are able to find out many things that would otherwise be virtually impossible. So it is that Jean-Claude had told us about a new
portable
phone deal that he had organised for Françoise rather than the outrageously
très cher
plan she had been on. He and Stuart exchange emails to sort a new Sim card and subsequent new number that will now be our permanent French contact.
Voila,
another piece of the jigsaw puzzle that is our French life, will soon be in place. Once again, it is
merci beaucoup
to Jean-Claude. However, things do not quite go to plan...

As seems to be inevitable, when it comes to us and mobiles, whichever country we are in, our attempts to set up a new plan, are not only complex but we seem to be thwarted at every turn...

It all started with Jean-Claude letting us know that he had found a fabulous deal with Free. Like Stuart, he too loves to shop around and get the best value for his
euro
. We could only agree that two
euro
a month was an extremely attractive option. All we had to do was let him know our bank account details and he would go ahead and sort it out for us. This way, he would send us a new SIM card, and
voila
, we would be able to contact everyone immediately on arrival. If this time something went awry and we missed a connection – like the train literally disappearing along the tracks before our very eyes like last year – we would at least be able to call him. Many emails later, we did get a new Sim but it was a very convoluted and protracted procedure. It involved Brigitte and Eric, friends from our first trip to France, entering the picture yet at the same time, leaving Jean-Claude partially in the dark about the problems we had encountered. We did not want to hurt his feelings, for he is always there to help us in any way possible, and yet, the arrangement was not going quite as smoothly as hoped.

The Sim card Jean-Claude sent us, had not been activated. It now had to be posted back to France, this time to our technologically savvy friends, Brigitte and Erick to activate. By the time Brigitte and Erick received it, the period to activate it had elapsed. With much stealth, we had to convey this to Jean-Claude without him being aware that we had to seek further assistance. In return, he gave us the privileged access to his email account. The only way to get a new password was to do so in his name as he had bought the Sim. His curiosity was certainly aroused, so I just pleaded my usual technological ignorance, which all who know me well, perfectly understand. Getting the new password involved Stuart navigating his way through the
portable
site in French. Meanwhile, all this had to be conveyed to Brigitte and Erick. This would be complex at the best of times, let alone trying to convey it simply for friends in a foreign country. After its third voyage across the oceans, our Sim card is definitely very well travelled.

I suppose however, it is a minor matter this year, compared to the significant role he assumed the previous year in buying our car by email and then the part he played when our long distance
piscine
was put in. Such is Jean-Claude's attention to detail, that when he replies after I let him know our arrival time, he tells me he will take us to Carrefour
supermarché
to buy some essential supplies on our way to Cuzance. He also lets me know that he has attempted to check the pipes in our cellar, as since the winter was so severe, many people have had serious problems with frozen pipes. Unfortunately he can't seem to find the right key, so it will be with a sense of trepidation, that we venture into the cellar ourselves to check on our first night. Will there be a flood or frozen wasteland? We already know that this year there will need to be a serious outlay of
euro
on the nasty
septique
problem as the smell is becoming ever-pervasive.

In what also seems to be developing as a recurring theme and the mirroring of our two lives on either side of the world, our weeks before departure are consumed by renovating chaos. Not only are we in the process of now getting prices from Jean-Claude for the
salle de bain
window in Cuzance, oh what a surprise, our bathroom at home is now on a fine timeline. Now why does that not surprise me too? Despite the fact that Stuart has been working on our bathroom for literally months, it is suddenly imperative to get it
fin
before we leave. I am adamant that I absolutely do not want to return to a renovating site. Are we not, after all, about to embark on renovating in our other life? And so, we have found a tiler, a huge concession for Stuart to outsource any renovating task at all.

However, the tiler seems to be having an inordinate number of days away from the site. Meanwhile, now here's yet another surprise, just like last year, with only weeks remaining, it's time to try to sell our car. Weeks pass without a single call. My stress level builds. Stuart, as always, remains implacably calm. As if this is not quite enough, with a matter of just a few weekends left, we organise to have a skip one weekend to get rid of all the bathroom debris. To add to all this, Stuart has two, all-day bridge competitions and we are still sourcing and pricing carpet for two bedrooms. The aim is to have all restored for our return from France. Quite frankly, it all seems absurdly ambitious. This would however, seem to be the opinion of only one of us...

Some weeks before our return, Stuart also announces that he will have to contact Piscine Ambiance to clean the pool to have it ready for our arrival. I let him know that I will email Albert to mow the grass as near as possible to our return date. Its freshly mown appearance will hopefully be a stunning juxtaposition to our other experiences on previous arrivals, of an overgrown, rambling, utterly neglected
jardin
. A part of us never ceases to marvel at the fact that we are making arrangements for the
piscine
and
jardin
. Ordinary people, an extraordinary life, is never far from my mind.

A month before we leave, winter hits us with all the mighty force of the season we are soon to escape. Cyclonic winds, powerful surging seas and deluge after deluge of driving rain beats upon the house. When the electricity is finally restored, I log on to my email and am transported to our small corner of France. Albert has sent photos of all his latest work in our
jardin
, including mowing swathes through the waist-high grass.

He tells me that rabbits have eaten two of the lavenders that he planted in spring. There is also sad news as one of our graceful silver birches has to be cut down or it will fall on our new barn roof. As the rain lashes the house and the wind roars ferociously, it's hard to conjure up summer days in France.

This year's plan is to get the paving well underway so we are no longer sitting in weeds, rocks and rubble. There is always a plan, whether it is our renovation at home or the long list of work in Cuzance. I discuss with Stuart whether I should get a quote from Albert to pave around the
piscine
or at least a quote to help him with the labour
.
Doing this will free up a considerable amount of Stuart's precious time. We already know from our vast renovating experiences, that a projected two-week plan to pave will in fact consume a month – no doubt in blistering heat.