Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (14 page)

‘I can't see how else he could have ended up with such a high rating. It's ludicrous. This place is unworthy of any rating in my books but
Monsieur
Pascal
rates as the most unqualified host you're bound to meet. Look, I'm going to call him and demand some towels. I'm freezing my butt off.'

‘Go-ahead darling, but please, try to stay calm.'

After explaining our complete and utter disappointment to the otherwise nonplussed
Monsieur
Pascal
, I closed myself in the bathroom and ran the hot water.

‘Here are your towels,
Chérie
… oh, and some soap … though I think you'll probably want to use your own. It's just some cheap stuff. Doesn't smell that nice.'

‘Bloody hell,' I swore. Thank goodness I always come prepared. Too bad if you don't.'

‘Oh … and by the way
Marisa
, he asked what time we wanted our breakfast delivered?'

‘Delivered? What do you mean … delivered?'

‘To the room. He said he brings it here.'

‘But there's nowhere to eat in here. Not even a little dining table. You're supposed to be served in a dining room when you go to a Bed and Breakfast…like we do at home.'

‘I know darling, but obviously that's not what happens here.'

‘We'll see about that.' I declared, now hot with rage. ‘We'll eat in the dining room if the last bloody thing I do!'

Jean
knew better than to contradict me when I was in such a mood, so he closed the bathroom door and left me to my own devices. I huffed and puffed like a Mallee bull under the steaming, hot water. This self-serving bastard wasn't going to get the better of me.

‘I'm going to drop in on our dear
Monsieur
Pascal
for just a minute
Jean
,' I said, as we approached the car.

‘Don't go getting all worked up
Marisa
. It won't do you any good.'

‘Don't worry … I'm just going to sort out the breakfast arrangements. I promise you I'll be quick.'

I rang the bell of the
Mas
and a softly spoken woman came to the door.

‘
Bonjour
Madame
. Can I speak to
Monsieur
Pascal
, please?'

‘
Bien Sûr, Madame. Un moment, s'il vous plait.
(Of course Madame. One moment please.)'

Monsieur
Pascal
approached the doorway hesitantly. He knows I'm mad, I thought.

‘
Monsieur
Pascal
, I have a problem with our breakfast arrangements.'

‘What's wrong now,
Madame
Raoul
?' he queried impatiently.

This man was really getting up my nose. And that wasn't a good place to be!

‘Well, firstly, I expected to stay in a
Mas
, which apparently, I'm not. Secondly, I would expect the very minimum of fresh towels, soap and heating for the price you charge. But, I will by no means and under no circumstances, eat my breakfast perched on my knees in my bedroom. It's outrageous. You are required by the standards set out in the manual of the ‘
Gîtes de France
' to serve us in a dining room, and that's where I want to and will … eat!'

‘But
Madame
, we never heat the dining room in winter, especially for just two people,' he replied, expecting that to be a good enough excuse.

‘Too bad. You are making false economies here,
Monsieur
Pascal
. Either you heat the dining room and serve us there, or we leave here and now, our full monies refunded'

‘Very well … very well,' he consented. ‘What time would you like breakfast?'

‘8.30am would be fine, thank you. I'm glad you see my point of view,' and with that, I turned and walked to the car, where
Jean
waited anxiously.

‘What the hell happened there? You looked pretty red faced.'

‘Red faced…that stupid hyena … he wouldn't know how to run a B&B if it jumped up and bit him. Anyway, after a bit of gentle persuasion, he has agreed to serve us breakfast in the dining room … he's even going to turn on the heater. Whoopee!'

‘Good girl
Marisa
. I'm proud of you. Bloody thieves, they don't deserve to earn a living. They'd steal your well-earned Francs and give you nothing in return.'

‘Enough of that, darling … I hear the bubbles of the
Kir Royals
calling … let's get out of here.'

The next morning, we awoke to a sun-soaked room and the sound of twittering birdsong. After a quick shower, we were both hungry for breakfast and made our way to the dining area at the far end of the unit complex. We had passed it the night before, so we knew exactly where to go.

We were surprised to see another couple already seated, as
Monsieur
Pascal
had led me to believe that we were the only two guests. We took a table in the sun and awaited
Monsieur
Pascal
's arrival.

‘He must be cooking or making coffee, I suppose.'

‘Look, here he comes now. Why is he carrying a camping thermos?' queried
Jean
. We both looked on in silence.

‘No … I don't believe it. He's serving those people with a thermos … not even a bloody coffee pot.'

‘Don't look now, but it's our turn,'
Jean
joked.

‘
Bonjour
Monsieur et Madame
Raoul
. Lovely morning?'

‘
Bonjour
Monsieur
Pascal,' we replied, unimpressed with his false airs.

‘Would you like
thé ou café
with your breakfast?'

‘Café, I suppose. That is, if it's real coffee?' I asked, sarcastically.

‘
Bien sûr
, of course it is … I brewed it freshly this morning,' he replied annoyed by my stinging remark.

‘All right then. Coffee for two.'

He promptly turned and disappeared into what we supposed was the kitchen. We took this time to inspect our surroundings. It was a pleasant enough room, but lacked the warmth and charm of a true Bed and Breakfast. It was light and sunny and fortunately had an agreeable outlook, but apart from that, the interior was as thrilling as the adjoining, lacklustre studios and was absent of any personal touches or interior design.

‘Pretty ordinary, isn't it? It's slightly prettier than our studio, but compared to our place in
Treignac
…it's a dump.'

‘You're right. Though I'd still prefer to eat in here, than on my knees in the other room. He could do with your help in the interior decorating,
Chérie
.'

‘Thanks,' I blushed. ‘I must admit; give me twenty-four hours and a few thousand francs and I'd have this place looking like something out of …
Provence
. For example.'

‘Very funny
Marisa
. Though, you're right … oh, look … here comes our pretty thermos of coffee.'

We sat in dumbfounded silence as
Monsieur
Pascal
deftly laid a small, metal tray of pastries and bread on our table, accompanied by a tall, self-pouring thermos. Even the jams were shop bought. And the individually wrapped butters were cold and hard as chicken pellets.

Monsieur
Pascal
didn't wait around for comment or question. He disappeared the moment he finished serving us our meagre breakfast, and I use the word ‘serve' extremely loosely.

‘Did you notice how he took off in a rush? I think you really scared him yesterday.'

‘I darn well hope so. He deserves a swift kick as far as I'm concerned.'

‘This coffee isn't that bad … it's drinkable. And the bread and pastries are fresh, though they're nothing compared to
René's
.'

‘Yes, it lacks that “
Raoul
” touch. No wonder we do so well, even in the back-hills of sleepy
Corrèze
.'

‘No more talk of business or home, we're here to have a good time and I'm determined that's what's going to happen.
Bon appetit
!' said
Jean
, raising his non-descript coffee cup in salute.

‘
Bon appetit
, darling. To better days!'

‘To better days!'

The following days were spent rambling through sinuous country lanes and byways. We touched on the main tourist sites to satisfy our curiosity, then ventured off the main roads into tiny hamlets and over ancient stone bridges. We picnicked by dormant lavender fields and dined in quaint, family-run restaurants. We had wonderfully animated conversations with jolly restaurateurs, who were thrilled with our winter patronage and invited us to take digestives
en famille
, by the fireside.

Provence
showed us its quieter, true self. The façade of summer falsities gone, it was the real face of
Provence
that we discovered, under a pale winter sun.

The names of villages and hamlets reel through my mind.
Bonnieux, Gordes, Aix, St Rémy de Provence, St Paul de Vence
and one of my personal favourites,
Rousillon
.

Rousillon
is a tiny village of simplistic beauty and is surrounded by towering Cypress trees and rocky hills. It is within these same hills that
Rousillon
has found its fame over the centuries. They consist of the most incredible coloured earth, which is ground into age-old pigments, their potent powders used in paints or to colour the renders of villas and palaces alike.

I collected several paper bags of coloured earth myself, on the slippery, sandy slopes, determined to create a work of art for my own home back in
Treignac
. I would take my own little slice of ‘natural'
Provence
home with me, in all its ochre, yellow and cobalt splendour.

I instantly understood why we associate all things
Provençal
with ochre and earthy colours. These have been the shades and nuances of the
terroir
for time and memorial. The people have lived on these ochre-riddled grounds for centuries and our flamboyant 21st century designers haven't invented a thing.

Within days of our return to
Corrèze
, the much-maligned
Monsieur
Pascal
now closeted in the back corridors of my mind, I commenced work on my art project.

I had noticed that every
Provençal
village and township we visited was adorned with the most delicately decorated sundials. They embellished the crumbling façades of homes and civic buildings alike and sat proudly on even the most modest of village squares. It was obvious that this ancient design of light and time was a culturally important symbol of the region. There were so many of them and their designs and colours varied with such enormity, that it made my choice a difficult one. In the end, I opted for a beautiful pattern that I found photographed in an architectural book. By adding some carefully chosen Latinate words, taken from an Italian love song I had learnt as a teenager, I managed to make the design, my very own.

A wide expanse of plastered wall in our formal lounge had remained sadly blank since our installation and I decided, with
Jean
's accord, to make this my giant, indoor canvas. I know that sundials are meant to be outdoors, for obvious reasons, but it seemed such a shame to paint this beauty where it would be battered by the elements and left to fade into obscurity.

It took me a week to pencil sketch the actual design onto the wall, as it was larger and more intricate than I had imagined. I then threw myself into the unknown realm of mixing a water-based paint using my collection of powdered earth and ochre. It was trial and error at first, but as I progressed, I felt that every new brush-stroke drew the gentle
Provençal
sunshine into the granite walled rooms of our home.

I'm no artist and my attempt was nowhere as refined as the stunning examples I had seen in
Provence
and yet, the completed work was everything I had wished for. I only hope that its powdered beauty will remain untouched for decades to come. I pray sincerely, that those who are blessed to dwell in this glorious home, in years to come, feel the same warmth emanate from its surface and allow it a life infinite.

‘Nel sole, Nel vento, Nel sorriso, Nel pianto'

‘In the sun, in the wind, in a smile, in a tear'

My favourite French party drinks

KIR

1 part
Crème de Cassis
liqueur 3 parts dry white wine

KIR ROYALE

1 part
Crème de Cassis
liqueur

3 parts Champagne or Dry sparkling wine (if really necessary!)

And in winter

CARDINALE

1 part
Crème de Cassis
Liqueur

3 parts Dry red wine

My passionate ‘
Francophonie
' most certainly stems from my strong, European heritage and the pride my parents instilled in me as a small child.

My Italian father and English mother immigrated to Australia, with their respective families, as young adults, post World War 2. They have resided in the family home for some 40 years now and are happily ensconced in their little corner of southern, beachside Sydney.

Fortunately, due to my tri-national birth rite, I reside in France under the officialdom of my Italian passport. This allows me to traverse borders on whim and equally, to hold a non-visa, long-term residency status on European soil. It's very handy but never ceases to bewilder the traffic
Gendarmes
when holding one of their regular car registration checks. I need only produce my French Residents Card with Birthplace, Sydney Australia, Nationality, Italian and place of residency, France to confuse them for the rest of the day. They inevitably wave me on as quickly as possible, no questions asked. Perhaps they imagine me as some local plant for Interpol or a female 007.

Regardless of how well rooted we become in our newly established home, my father, Saverio, constantly pesters
Jean
and I to return to our real ‘home' in Australia, but as I regularly remind him – ‘This, is our home now, Dad. I don't even have a bank account, let alone a home in Australia.'

This sentimental, Latin man rejects my excuses, advising me that, it's simply an extended holiday I'm on, and I should seriously think about getting back to normality. He just misses us dearly … that's the true dilemma.

My parents are avid and well-seasoned travellers, who return to their ancestral roots in old mother Europe whenever financially viable. We once travelled as a family, through France, when I was just fifteen years old. I remember it like it was yesterday.

We headed north from our home base in Italy, via the Alps and the
Rhône
valley, in a lavender-blue, 1950's
Citroën
2CV; those cute-as-a-button convertibles that epitomise quirky, French style and engineering. My cousin Rocco had lent it to us with the sole condition, that he was to accompany us, one way to Paris.

Unfortunately, what the French manufacturers fail to explain in their well-produced manuals, is, that as a
2CV
passenger you should never sit, for extended periods, in the centre of the back seat. Why? Because there's a bloody, great bar that runs under the vinyl and it prods you up the nether regions, every time the car hits even the most minor bump. As the youngest of our travelling party, I was destined to travel half way across the European continent with a very sore and bruised backside. It was a constant source of amusement to the rest of the family … but not for me. As much as I love my cousin, I was glad to see the back of him on our arrival in the French capital. Anyway, those days are long past and Mum and Dad have made the trip to Paris via Bangkok, their intention, to discover
Corrèze
. They are presently speeding down the
Nationale
20,
Jean
at the wheel of our
Citroën BX
, destination
Treignac-sur-Vézère
.

I'm excited and nervous all at once, wondering what they'll make of our adopted village and new provincial existence. Considering their life-long yearning for ‘
la dolce vita
', I'm positively certain they're going to love
Corrèze
, as dearly as we do.

Jean
and I have a million and one things planned for their stay; their well-shoed feet won't touch the ground. And what's truly exciting is that they will be celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary on French soil. We couldn't possibly let such an auspicious occasion pass, without substantial celebration. But this calls for something exceptional.

A weekend at the romantic, 18th century
Chateau Chauvac
near
Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne
, is what I've concocted, after much deliberation and magazine browsing. I dearly hope my choice of venue and fabulous surprise sends them reeling. I've pre-booked and pre-paid the entire weekend, chilled
Möet et Chandon
and
très
romantique
, gourmet dinner inclusive. All they'll have to do is turn up on time and indulge.

In the meantime, there are places to visit and gossip to tell. Wine to drink, cheeses to devour. I've stocked the kitchen larder with every, local delicacy I can think of and our 13th century cellar is bursting at the seams with rare, aged wines and crated Champagnes. Not to mention the odd jar of
foie gras
and my own preserved mushrooms. I hope my Dad's cholesterol level is at a manageable level, because I'm positive it'll take a right pounding during their two-month stay.

This first week has been joyfully hectic and having close family around, has filled these ancient walls with more love than they have felt in decades. We spend our time talking about food, buying food, cooking food and eating … what else? Food! And as soon as we've finished, we start all over again.

Thank goodness for balmy, evening strolls by the river and busy market-day outings. We haven't ventured far as yet; there are oodles of time and they're still acclimatising themselves to the unfamiliar,
Corrèzien
timetable and dietary regime.

We take cooling aperitifs in our perfumed
Curé's
(Pastor's) garden, laughing over times past and dreaming over days to come. Mum and Dad appreciate the care and attention we have taken in creating this delightful walled garden. Years spent as florists back in a 1960s Kings Cross, have left them with a love of all things botanical.
I'm glad the wisteria is still in flower
, I contemplate, as its delicate perfume descends upon us from above.

In course of conversation, I promise my father, that one day we'll return to Australian shores, but for now, we feel at home in our little village and have no intention, of leaving in a hurry.

Our indulgent intake of food and wine these past days, has left us all feeling a trifle sluggish and Mum suggests a good, long power-walk would do the trick. Something to burn off those excess calories and make way for those yet to come.

Jean
and I know the perfect place. The Nordic ski tracks that pass through the high, mountain forests are the perfect destination for a relaxing, summer's walk. The tracks are well maintained and easy to travel on. They are not too steep and pass through shaded pine forests, whose sugary scent is delightfully potent on warmer days.

My mother, Anne, has only one hesitation … snakes. She is petrified of them and has read stories of the French countryside being riddled with venomous vipers, who as legend tells, will pursue unsuspecting hikers, if disturbed.

‘Mum, that's a load of old cod's wallop. There's no such thing as a snake that chases people.'

‘
Marisa
… that's not entirely true. Vipers have been known to chase and strike at people, when disturbed during mating season.'

‘Thanks
Jean
… you're a great help,' I muttered.

‘See I told you
Marisa
, I hope you're not taking us to a place full of snakes and creepy crawlies.'

‘Mum … please … of course we're not. I promise, we've never seen a snake since we've been here … cross my heart.'

‘You promise?'

‘C'mon Anna. If
Marisa
says she promises, then she means it. Don't be such a chicken,' Saverio insisted.

‘All right. As long as you can guarantee me that we won't see any snakes, I'm happy to go.'

‘Great. Then you and Dad should put on some good walking shoes and comfortable clothes. Oh, and you'll need a hat and sunglasses too. I'll make a thermos of tea …
Jean
will take his backpack with water, tea and biscuits.'

‘OK darly … we won't be long.'

‘Great … we'll wait for you by the car, let's say, in fifteen minutes … whenever you're ready.'

We headed off into the bright afternoon sun. It was a leisurely twenty-minute drive to the ski-fields over winding, vertiginous roads. The mountain air was fresh with the scent of pines and the dark forest green was cool and welcoming.

‘It's so lovely,' said Mum, forgetting her earlier hesitation of snakes and forest walks.

‘How I love the mountains and the greenness … and I can hear birds singing. You don't hear birds singing in Italy anymore … the hunters have shot every last one.'

‘That's terrible Dad. I guarantee you won't be disappointed here … they're everywhere.'

‘Look Anne, Saverio … this is the little village of
Bonnefond
. It's the last village before we reach the ski fields and it has a wonderful little café where we often go for hot chocolates in winter … see … just over there,' he pointed, from the open car window.

‘How sweet. What a quaint little building,' replied Mum.

We sat quietly contemplative for the short remainder of the drive, taking in the beauty of the wooded slopes.
Jean
finally pulled the Citroën onto a mossy verge in the shade and announced our arrival.

‘We're here … Everybody out.'

‘I'm looking forward to this … I really need the exercise after all that glorious, French food you've been stuffing us to the gills with,' Mum chided.

‘HA! HA! Don't worry Mum, we'll have you loosing so many calories, that you'll go home thinner than when you arrived.'

‘That's a little unlikely with what we've been consuming.'

‘Well, you can always diet,' I smirked.

‘Diet? In France? You have to be joking. If I get fat … I get fat. I'll diet when I get home.'

‘Don't worry Anna. You're just fine,' my father added chivalrously, patting her affectionately on the bottom.

‘Okay … if you're ready, it's this way,' pointed
Jean
, leading us to the track's gravelled edge.

We pottered along the stony track at a pleasant, steady pace. Our humours were high and the conversation spirited. We had so much to say between the four of us, that there wasn't a moment's peace on this otherwise, tranquil pathway. We were all so distracted by each other and the beautiful scenery, that none of us saw the shimmer of the fine, young viper as it slithered across our path. My mother's foot must have been within centimetres of stepping on it, when
Jean
suddenly yelled.

‘Anne! Look out!'

‘AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!' she screamed, as she leapt several feet into the air, her arms flaying in all directions.

‘Are you all right Mum?' I asked, dragging her back by the sleeve.

‘SSSSnake…,' she stammered. ‘You promised me, there were no snakes.'

‘My God Anna, you nearly trod on the damn thing,' Saverio yelled.

‘Well that's hardly my fault is it? The bloody thing came out of nowhere.'

‘Do something. Get rid of it
Jean
!' I screamed, knowing he was fearless of most reptiles, including snakes.

He broke a stick from a fallen branch and flicked the frightened reptile far into the bushes.

‘Did you kill it?' cried my mother frantically looking about.

‘No, I … yes, yes Anne … its dead and gone,' he lied, spying my desperate glances from the corner of his eye.

‘Good. I'm going home now,' she declared.

‘Mum, you can't go home yet we've only just arrived. Look … you saw a snake, but I promise that's it.
Jean
has attended to it, and we won't see anymore.'

‘
Marisa
, darling, if I remember correctly, that's exactly what you promised me earlier.'

‘Anna, Darly, come now … everything is fine.'

‘All right … I'll stay … but let me remind you, I almost stood on that bloody thing. It could have killed me.'

We all laughed, unable to hold it in any longer. She had jumped so high and screamed so loud; it's a wonder the snake hadn't died of a cardiac arrest.

‘You're all laughing at me …you nasty lot!'

‘C'mon Mum … it's funny when you think about it.'

‘You have a nasty sense of humour
Marisa
… you must get that from your father.'

She eventually calmed down and we headed off once more, chatting merrily as we went. Within minutes, the snake episode was old news and we had regained our comfortable rhythm.

It was only then, that the virtually impossible occurred. A thick, adult viper of wide girth and substantial length, slipped quickly from beneath a fallen log and headed straight for us.

My mother's scream pierced the alpine silence and she grabbed for my father with such force, that she almost sent him tumbling backwards over the path's edge and into the wavering grasses beyond.

‘My God! It's bigger than the last one. Are you trying to kill me out here?'

‘Sorry Mum … I can hardly believe it myself …
Jean
… quick do something,' I cried in desperation.

‘Keep still … all of you,'
Jean
ordered.

Jean
scrambled for a large, heavy stick and this time, to ensure our safety, belted the large, aggressive snake over the head. Its bulky body quivered for several minutes, then remained perfectly still in the centre of the track. Once sure it was dead,
Jean
carried the heavy reptile into the field beyond the dry-stone walls of the pathway, throwing the beast to its grassy grave.

My mother's nerves were shot. She would probably never trust us again, let alone venture from the front door of our village home for the rest of her stay. I shook my head in utter disbelief, at the absolute absurdity of the situation. What are the odds, you would stumble over one viper on a short, country walk, let alone two. And within virtually metres of each other. They must have been a billion to one. And of all people for this to happen to … it would have to be my fiercely, phobic Mother.