Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (28 page)

After just a few visits to
Auberge des 7 Tours
, it pleases us enormously to be greeted by the friendly
maitre de
. We sigh with pleasure and relief, as we slowly savour melon and prosciutto, followed by two of our favourites dishes, local duck and then walnut tart. On the outside terrace, under the trees festooned with twinkling lights, it is an enchanting place to be on a balmy summer night.

Darkness descends earlier each evening, edging towards autumn. The autumnal tones start to appear and the yellow and red leaves tumble and dance. Crunchy carpets of gold decorate the fields. Summer is closing its door on the countryside. As we go on a late walk, replete after a splendid
dîner
, the gloaming gathers around us. Silence envelops the village. We walk along the empty, silent roads on the knife-edge between light and the all-consuming darkness. The sky is streaked with banners of mauve and adorned with ethereal clouds.

By day however, huge white fluffy clouds hang suspended in the sky like fairy floss.

The heat soars yet again. It is the fourth time it has surged unbearably in our Cuzance summer. The mercury remains at forty for more days in succession than we can keep count of. We are told by our
amis
that the French call these ‘dog days'. For us, it is definitely not a dog's life, lying in the shade and panting, though truth be told that's all I long to do. The only time it is a true dog day is when we see Henriette on her daily
promenade
. Then our tails wag figuratively too.

Our new plantings of lavender and laurier droop with fatigue in the relentless heat.

Their leaves curl up in brown protest. As we trudge across
le jardin
with our heavy watering cans, I fervently whisper to them to survive the extremes of the elements in our absence. I find it hard to comprehend that the temperature has a span of sixty degrees in our
petite
village.

Almost overnight there is a sudden change in the evening light. An utterly golden radiance suffuses the village and all the stone
maisons.
An otherworldly quality seeps across the twilight fields. Meanwhile, throughout each day, my relationship with the paving continues to be a close one. Too intimate at times, for when I am especially weary – read always – it sometimes slips out of my grasp and leaves gashes down my legs. When the heat becomes simply too unbearable, I slip away for stolen time at Jean-Claude and Françoise's
piscine
. The respite is pure paradise. Despite the blanket of suffocating heat, Stuart and Jean-Louis continue their paving crusade. Like being given a prize for his endless sweat, quite literally, we are rewarded with an impromptu
dîner
invitation, a simple supper of omelette, salad and the most delicious mushrooms we have ever tasted. Françoise tells us that the
cepes
were picked and preserved by her friend Elizabette. We have long known about the revered
cepes
and their secret places, buried deep in the woods; so secret that one French person will never reveal the source of their precious mushrooms to another.

The fifteenth of August is a national religious holiday, the Assumption of Mary to Heaven. We too take the opportunity to have a holiday and head to St Chapelle Aux Saints to a mid-week
vide grenier
, one positively brimming with treasure. I rummage through piles of long-abandoned finery and my persistence once again pays off when I unearth scarves adorned with designer labels and the magical word ‘Paris'. We eat
déjeuner
at a wooden trestle table, one of many laid out in rows, expectant of a huge holiday crowd. In front of us there is a stand of one hundred soldier-straight poplar trees and a farmer demonstrates the wood-moving skills of his cart horse. There is an entranced audience and the children in the crowd are invited to work beside the farmer and his horse. As I watch, I hope that it inspires one of the young children to follow in his footsteps so that the traditions of the land live on.

Our departure date looms ever closer, and as always, we have set our goals too high.

We again moderate our aims and adjust our short list of what's critical to complete before we leave. Repairing the sagging, broken barn doors is high on the list. We have no desire the following summer to find another litter of French kittens has taken up residence in
la grange.
Meanwhile, plans are already being made for our return. Françoise has suggested that after our stay in Paris with Patrick, we go on the train straight to Lyon to stay with them. She already knows us very well, for she realises once we are ensconced in Cuzance, it's hard to leave, even for the delights of big-city lights.

The changing light at least means that we have to slightly adjust our working hours.

It means that we have
dîner
somewhat earlier rather than just before falling into bed, exhausted after another day's interminable toil.

We continue to work in temperatures that we would never contemplate working in at home. The days pass in a glimmer of a moment. It becomes more and more imperative to place some satisfying ticks on our final checklist. Progress is hindered when Jean-Louis cannot quite get the hang of how to correctly apply the concrete for the huge pavers or how to level them correctly. There is certainly more to laying paving than meets the eye, for these were tasks I simply couldn't grasp either. His methodical approach is perfect for fastidiously concreting the gaps between the pavers but it is becoming only too clear that we will certainly not be
fin
this summer.

I have a well-known propensity for tidying and cleaning. Sometimes it gets me in to trouble as I scoop things tidily away and out of sight. I realise just in time, that it may have been a bit more than a mere ‘Where is my... ?', that I have swept up a still-smouldering cigarette from the work site and put it in the rubbish, which consists of empty cement bags. And yes, cement bags are made of paper, and yes, to use the Australian summer cliché, it is tinder dry... The rubbish is piled up in the barn. I frantically – and surreptitiously – pour water over the flickering flames. I take care not to share this with Stuart. It has been a trying morning; the temperature is tipping forty; tempers are rising to match the mercury. All our dreams for
la grange
would have been literally up in smoke. It simply doesn't bear thinking of.

Scorching air is sweeping across Cuzance like an open oven door. The very air is hot to breathe. The washing dries virtually the moment I hang it out. Our energy levels are as frayed as the cuffs on my work shirt. There is no choice but to advance the
apéritif
hour. We eat sunshine-warm Quercy melon that gleams in golden crescents on our plates. The
glace
clinks in our antique glasses of pink-rose coloured
rosé
.

After
dîner,
Stuart browses through advertising catalogues. He shows me an astonishing
jardin
implement –
Dèsherbeur thermique
– a blowtorch to destroy weeds.

If that's the sort of product available to fight garden weeds, no wonder my battle against
les herbes
is a losing one. Nevertheless, I prudently decide that it would not be wise if I was let loose with a blowtorch in
le jardin
.

We have long declared that Sunday is supposed to be sacrosanct, our one day of compete rest. In previous years, despite our perpetual exhaustion, we never failed to set the alarm clock for our
vide grenier
quests. Now, our bodies are so in tune with getting up early to work, that even now on our second-last Sunday, we still tumble out of bed at the same time as squirrels start to scamper across the road in the fresh dawn light. We break our self-imposed rules and lay weed matting for several hours before heading to the stunning hilltop village of Turenne. It is a market we have visited in previous years and one we have come to love. The heat, almost but not quite, defeats our treasure hunt.

The find of the day – for there is usually one esteemed find that stands out from the crowd – is a
magnifique
large, hand-carved wooden bowl. Heads turn to look and admire it as Stuart carries it in his arms through the thronged market. We even hear admiring comments about our bowl, floating on the still air. Indeed, a true find, and worth traipsing through the enervating heat to discover.

By now, almost the end of August, the heat and weather seem to have a life of their own. It is the one constant; dominating daily conversations and dictating what we do and when. We know that at home everyone would find it hard to believe that a French summer can match, indeed at times surpass, the hottest of Australian days. When rain finally cascades, the leaves unfurl greedily to lap up the rain drops. Soft yellow light washes the orchard and the sunset-sky is smudged in a palette of pale red and pink.

We are not the only ones to escape to the solitude of country life in Cuzance. Indeed, quite a few Parisians have found their way to this quiet corner of rural France. Nearby, a couple from Paris are living in what was once a chicken slaughter house. They in fact fulfil the reputation of Parisians, for they are haughty and aloof. At times however, they are more like mad dogs and Englishmen for they labour in the unbearable heat during the middle of the day. There is not a murmur or stir in the rest of the village for all are slumbering and seeking refuge from the sun that burns like a fully fuelled furnace.

We watch askance as Monsieur Paris constructs a very strange lean-to structure, out of galvanised iron, at the rear of their
maison
. As for its purpose, we cannot possibly hazard a guess. Perhaps it is for more
poulet
. If so, we can only hope that it does not house a raucous rooster to disturb our serenity. The
maison
does not seem to have progressed much beyond its days as a
poulet
slaughter house, for outside is piled all manner of household flotsam and jetsam. As we walk past, we try to peep inside the ivy encased windows. We have been told that inside there is such a state of chaos that even the stuffing from the sofas is escaping, trying to join the
jardin
detritus.

Meanwhile as I muse on life in Paris, far away, I have progressed to sanding the doors and windows in readiness for a coat of thick varnish to ward off the icy tentacles of winter. No task is ever straightforward however. To sand and varnish the window over the original kitchen sink, I climb on the sink and precariously lean far out the window to sand the rickety old shutters. It proves to be yet another vantage point to watch the world go by. As always, I am only too aware that this type of
vacances
is not going to feature any time soon in a glossy holiday brochure.

Stuart is fond of saying when offering me another
apéritif
or
crème glacée,
that we are on holiday after all. I tend to look at him quizzically whenever he makes this statement. Certainly it is not the normal routine of home, but how it is normal in any sense of the word, to endlessly renovate on
vacances
is quite beyond me. I long for the day we will be
fin.
It is a day on a far distant horizon that I simply can't envisage. Roll on perpetual walnut-tree-days, I at times think mutinously.

There are moments when time itself stands still. Even as you're living it, savouring every moment, you already know that it is one of those rare enchanted evenings in your life that you will remember forever. At the height of the Cuzance summer, we have
dîner
next to Jean-Claude and Françoise's
la piscine,
overlooking the
jardin
at the peak of its seasonal beauty
.
In many ways it is like sitting in a garden at home, for there are bright blue agapanthus and vivid red hibiscus. There is an old wooden table on which Françoise has placed two elegant silver candelabra. The atmosphere is magical, for the soft flickering candle light is the prelude to the darkness that will soon creep across the garden. We dip in the pool and then have icy glasses of chilled
rosé
followed by a simple salad, freshly prepared from their immaculate vegetable
jardin
. The dessert is a truly exquisite confection that Françoise has conjured up in her enviable Michelin style: poached
abricots
, melted warm
chocolat
and
vanille crème glacée
.

As darkness descends,
la piscine
lights are switched on and the lights from the village church opposite, flood the still, evening garden. There is not a whisper of wind or a murmur in the soft summer air. Henriette is now the focal point of all our gatherings, and after just a few short weeks, no one can imagine life without all the joy she brings us. The herbaceous border of lavender, the bright splashes of petunia and the burst of orange bougainvillea; the sweeping lawn, the towering walnuts – all floodlit by the lights around the pool; creates a scene yet again straight from the studio of
Canal+
. Yet, for now, we are the ones living this moment, rather than characters observed and envied, with a director's call to ‘cut'. It is a tangible moment of pure pleasure, a distillation of time; the essence of which I try to consciously capture and preserve.

In just a few short hours though, I know that the shrill of the alarm will summon us to continue our relentless
rénovation
. For now, I savour it all, lean back in my striped director's chair, for in this brief moment, I am indeed the director of our own French vignette. I sip my wine, Henriette sound asleep at my feet.

In a decision that is unprecedented and a strangely uncharacteristic one for us, we decide to draw a line in the sand a week before leave. We have not reached our goal of finishing the paving yet unless we stop and have a proper break before returning home to work, we know that we'll still virtually have our tools in our hands when we are boarding the return flight. Enough is enough we declare in unison. This is a decision we make in complete harmony.