Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (9 page)

Apart from the neighbour's tractor, occasionally gathering hay, it is only the constant musical notes of birds that stir the peace and quiet. While I love Pied de la Croix, returning to our French home is always something of a jarring note. Although just a short walk, it is worlds removed. However, what I do need to remind myself, is that just three years ago when we first arrived, we couldn't even walk around our property.

Although I'm still dismayed by the profuse proliferation of weeds, it is already a far cry from my first glimpse of our new French home, on a cold damp day, one that definitely matched my mood. I remember only too vividly my utter sense of wondering what on earth we had done. Now at least in our absence, Albert has planted a border of lavender and photinia next to
la piscine.
Thanks too to my vigorous pruning efforts last year
,
the orchard is flourishing. As the days grow warmer, the walnut tree is a perfect place to escape from the afternoon heat. It is even more perfect when Stuart makes the trek back to our
petite maison
in front of
la grange
, and returns with afternoon tea on a tray.

Espresso
and
citron tarte,
under the spreading limbs of the eighty-year-old walnut tree; a slight breeze stirring the air. Life simply does not get much better than this moment on a languid French summer afternoon.

After over ten years of
rénovation
, I'm at last learning to adopt Stuart's philosophy, that it can all wait until another day. I've learnt too from his approach, that half the work is in the reflecting and planning. So, we take the opportunity on this stolen afternoon, to discuss the paving plans for
la piscine.
On his white plastic
chaise longue
– no French home is without them
–
he has a pile of house magazines gathered from
vide greniers
.

He pores over the pictures and explores the options. We pause to gaze at the golden stone of
la grange
and the immaculate new slate roof. While it took at least a week on our last working
vacances
to find the time to venture into the barn, this time we manage it on our third day. Though only a few steps from our
petite maison
, domesticity has consumed the daylight hours until now. While an absolute extravagance to even contemplate its conversion, it still remains at the pinnacle of our
rénovation
dreams.

Literally as we finish weighing up the merits of paving or decking round
la piscine
, Jean-Claude appears. I had only just said that once again we would need to get his help sourcing a concrete supplier and
voila
, he appears round the side of
la grange
. As with all our pursuits, he enthusiastically embraces our crazy paving plan and with just a brief interlude for a hasty Kronenbourg, he whisks Stuart off to the nearby village of Cressensac to start investigating prices and all the possibilities. Though on the verge of seventy, there is never any time to be lost where Jean-Claude is concerned. Perhaps indeed it is the very fact that seventy is looming means that he embraces each day with enormous delight and enthusiasm.

At home, through choice, my week day has life more or less an unvarying rhythm. I go to school, I return home, we walk Henri, tend to household tasks and the demands of daily life; renovate; friends on the weekends, family from afar in the holidays. In the early hours, as the day breaks and pink light floods the sky and sea, I write before going to work. A very simple life, a comforting sameness. In Cuzance our world is utterly different. In many ways, it mirrors our early renovating days in Sydney, more than a decade ago. We worked virtually every waking hour. As soon as we arrived home from work, we pulled on our renovating clothes. I learnt how to mix concrete; I ferried wheelbarrows of bricks from the front of our terrace house to the back; I loaded skip after skip with renovating debris. And, we lived without a kitchen for nine whole months. Yet somehow, we had huge reservoirs of energy. It meant that we went out frequently for dinner and despite the punishing labour and arduous hours, we found ourselves in a large circle of new friends. Moving to Sydney from Canberra was a new life in every possible way. Just like in Cuzance, friends dropped in frequently and often lent a hand.

So now it is too, many years later and on the other side of the world, that suddenly we also have a circle of new French friends who also drop in to check on our progress and invite us to
apéritifs
and
dîner
. The endless hours of summer sun, means that each and every day, holds any number of possibilities. That is one of my strongest memories when I return home to a more sedate, prosaic life. That on a morning when I wake in Cuzance, the day holds the promise that anything at all is possible.

Despite my utter lack of attempt to learn any French at all in the intervening year between my two lives, I utterly astonish myself when the few words and phrases I do know, surge back into my memory. On the morning I wake with the intent of writing my postcards I bought on our morning in Paris, my waking thought is that I have already assembled the sentence in my mind to go to
Le Bureau de Poste
. ‘Hello, three stamps for Australia please.' Later, as I stand in the queue – as is my habit on such occasions in a French shop – I rehearse the sentence in my head.
‘Bonjour, trois timbres pour l'Australie s'il vous plaît.'

And always as you leave, ‘
Merci beaucoup, au revoir,'
which conveys, ‘Thank you very much, have a nice day.' While my inflection is incorrect, nevertheless the woman on the counter in
Le Bureau de Poste
, graciously acknowledges my effort with a warm smile, and by the end of our summer, also greets me with a smile when I enter to buy
timbre
. Each customer in every shop I go to, is greeted with customary courtesy and is politely farewelled as they leave. These rituals never cease to please me.

After only a few nights, my body clock seems to have adjusted to being in a different hemisphere. Just like at home, I creep out of our
chambre
just before dawn
.
The tall, curved street lamps are still lit and the birds are only just starting to melodically greet the new day. The sky gradually softens and lightens and as I venture out, rabbits are bouncing through the grass, their white bob tails bright in the damp greyness. The neighbouring black cat emerges from one of our outbuildings and peers at me in surprise. It's welcome to sleep there I tell it, but you could at least be doing a better job with the mice.

It is drizzling and cool on the very morning I was planning to start tidying the
jardin
in front of our
petite maison
, including wrenching out the year-old weeds that have sprung up in the cracks in the rounded front steps. Just like in previous years, we have to glean the weather report from people we encounter. Last year it was the roofers or Ann-Marie, our bank manager in Martel. This time it was Nigel, the day before, who told us the weather would turn cool and cloudy for the rest of the week. Right on cue, it changes. This does not suit my plans at all.

Thank goodness we had our precious afternoon under the walnut tree. We remember only too well the days we spent working in the searing heat last summer. The day Stuart and Erick spent twelve hours straight installing
la cuisine
when it was forty degrees. I also recall only too vividly that not only did I toil relentlessly in the blistering heat in
le jardin
, but also in the rain. There will be no such madness of foreigners this year, I resolutely remind myself. Another thing we have reminded ourselves this year is to make the most of the days that peel away from the early morning chill and unfold into days of glorious sunshine. It would seem that once again the seasons are confused and we need to adjust our
rénovation
plans to meteorological vagaries.

Though
petite
, Cuzance is an interesting amalgam of people and
maisons
. It's a true rural village. This is reinforced when we go for an evening walk – though usually very late – it's still uncannily light. The fact that we are surrounded by French farmers is evident in the hushed silence hanging over the freshly mown fields and groves of walnut trees. A young farmer wishes us ‘
Bon soiree
' as he comes out of his
maison
to draw his heavy shutters tightly closed so he can block out the last of the summer light and sleep before his early dawn rise.

We are lucky to be surrounded by an abundance of walking trails, with names such as ‘
Tour de Cuzance'
. We walk past the
Marie
and Hotel Arnal. Though only nine, not a soul stirs in our sleepy little village. We choose a trail on the outskirts that loops around the village and at the end of the walk, emerge at one of the many true working farms.

There are pieces of farm equipment scattered everywhere and several tractors to plough the fields and gather the summer hay. Like most French homes, it has an extensive vegetable garden where lettuce,
tomate
and cabbages flourish. A
petite chien
bounds towards us, wagging its tail vigorously. It has a friendly, endearing face, the sort of loving dog that you could simply scoop up and take home. As the day draws to a satisfying close, it's the time when rabbits race homewards through the fields. They certainly better not be heading to a burrow in our
la cave
.

On each of the six approaches to Cuzance, there are newly built
maisons
constructed from wood and with sloping roofs. They have been designed and built to blend with the centuries-old stone
maisons
. There is however, no mistaking the fact that we are in a rural landscape when the very distinctive farmyard odour periodically pervades our
jardin
.

There is also the raucous squealing of pigs, on cue, at feeding times, early in the morning and then in the evening. The full moon shines on us as we end another happy day in Cuzance; the only people in the empty night as we head home along the quiet lanes.

Rebuilding an old dry stone wall.

Today is market day. I'm not quite filled with the same sense of eager excitement that I am on
vide grenier
mornings but nevertheless, there is a feeling of anticipation about once again filling my basket with fresh produce. I don't think that I will ever lose my sense of joy each year at rediscovering all the things that we have come so quickly to love.

On Sunday afternoon, sauntering around Martel, the market square had emptied after the Sunday
déjeuner
gatherings. Now, on market day, it is bustling and lively. My secret hope is fulfilled when the middle-aged couple, both short, round and cheerful, whose stall we most frequented last year, recognise us and welcome us back. They must serve thousands of customers every year. To be remembered, truly makes me feel as if we belong.

When we return home, our basket is brimming. It is laden with more treats that we look forward to enjoying each year during our French summer. At the stall specialising in the walnuts of our region, we've bought
trois
products:
Noix Caramelisees
– their crunchy sweetness a perfect accompaniment with the
Apéritif Noix
we sip in small, delicate glasses after
dîner
, while the
Huile de Noix Vierge
will be used for salad dressing.

We also buy soap for gifts –
Savon Au Lait D'Anesse
– soap from donkeys. It's the first time I've ever seen it and I find it fascinating that soap is made from donkeys' milk. I am especially fond of donkeys and the soft braying of one that I occasionally hear from a neighbouring field. As we unpack our straw basket, we bury our noses in the tantalising aroma of the ruby red
fraise
. Inhaling the freshness of succulent strawberries, brings summer to life in our
cuisine
.

I'm starting to make small steps forward with my language skills, for when I write the
supermarché
lists, I write what we need in French:
beurre, sucrer
and
jus
: butter, sugar and juice. Stuart's first words when he got up were, ‘What will we have for
dîner
?'

I remind him that is precisely what French people think on waking, for I remember Martine telling me that when we stayed at her home in the Loire Valley. I suggest a roast chicken and write
poulet rosti
on my list. Food is definitely a religion in France. It is one we fervently embrace.

At home, everything we have bought and accumulated has a story attached to it, like when we lived in Newtown and there was an evolving element of recycling. Some of our street finds were fabulous, like the immaculate sixties Formica table I found one day in the alley behind our house. In France, the sense of an accompanying story is even stronger. The prosaic task of hanging out the washing on my makeshift line in the carport is made meaningful when I reach for the pegs. I've chosen to put them in a faded old battered tin that is punctured with tiny holes. Who once used it and for what purpose? I imagine it was a French child from long ago; grubby knees, torn shorts; searching in the long grass on
vacances
at his grandparents' farm; collecting insects and giving them holes to breathe, lost in the endless days of a childhood summer.