Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (17 page)

What brought us here? How did we arrive at this point in our lives? Sometimes, you lay awake asking yourself questions such as these. They're not always easy to answer, not in a simplistic, straightforward kind of way. Life and its journeys aren't all crisp and clear. Black and white. The grey, in-betweens have a lot to answer for. I have spent a lifetime getting to where I am now and I'll probably spend another one, deciding where I go next. Or maybe, my path is already decided for me. I'm unsure whether it's me who makes the decisions, or whether the decisions are written on a blue print in my subconscious-mind, which I follow obediently along the way.

I wake in the gentle glow of another sunrise in France; the warm, comforting arms of my love wrapped around me. His breath, soft on the hair of my neck, as he slumbers. I wonder whether he questions our existence here as much as I do. He is such a realist. So firm and steadfast. I don't think his mind rambles as much as mine and I know for certain, that he only believes in the here and now. I question the future, as much as the present and am nostalgic for the past.

After years in a foreign country, I miss my ‘home' and yet, I am positive that the moment I return there, I will be desperate for this life. I find myself in a predicament. Where do I really want to be?

My life here in
Treignac
is as perfect as it comes. I don't seek to find pure perfection as such. I know that a search for its existence is futile. I only seek the comfort of a peaceful, happy life. I cherish every moment that I spend in this blessed, beautiful land and know how truly fortunate I am to be here. I'm not lucky! I hate it when people tell you how lucky you are to live in such a wonderful place. It has nothing to do with luck.

Jean
and I left Australia on a whim. A well-deliberated vagary of sorts. We made brave or careless decisions, as some may see them, to leave well paid, secure places of employment, at a time when they were few and far between. We sold everything we had, to come here. We have no fortunes in bank accounts, no hidden stocks and bonds, no real estate to return to, no safety net to catch us should we plummet. We plunged head first into the total unknown and have never once looked back. That's one thing you must never do, if you intend on changing your life as dramatically as we have. As lunatic as it may seem, you must rush head and heart first, into your dream. Otherwise, it's likely you'll be overwhelmed and confused by morbid procrastination.

I've known friends and acquaintances who have dreamt for many years of doing things such as these. Departing on life-long dreams. Abandoning themselves to the other side. They will go to their graves, having never lived the life I have. I weep for them. They will never know the pure and utter joy of being totally out of control. The gut wrenching fear of not knowing what happens next but hoping with your entire being, that whatever it is, it will be okay.

I departed Sydney in a terrible state of health. I had suffered for many years with chronic fatigue syndrome and knew that I had to change my lifestyle and place of residence, if I was to regain any sense of normality. My treating physician had spoken of my need for clean, fresh, country air and a more organic, simple life. We had racked our minds for a do-able solution. A place where I would thrive and we would both feel content. Following our gut instincts and coming here, has not only saved my health but has opened my mind to an entirely fresh way of thinking. It challenges me almost every day. Sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally but always for the betterment of my spiritual growth and strength.

I'm having so much fun, and it's those everyday, commonplace dramas that make me laugh the most. How can all these crazy, wonderful things be happening to me? The simple answer is, I've chosen them. I have exactly what I deserve and what I have wished for. My life is as joyous or as mundane as I allow it to be.

Jean
stirs and I break from my early morning, subconscious reveries.

‘
Bonjour
Marisa,' he whispers, kissing me softly on the cheek and pulling me tighter into his embrace.

‘
Bonjour, mon amour
(Good morning my love). I was just thinking …'

‘Thinking? What about?' he yawns.

‘Oh the usual … life, the universe, the state of the nation …'

‘My God … it's a little early for that, isn't it? You'll wear yourself out.'

‘I suppose … I was wondering what happens next?'

‘Well, you turn over this way and I'll show you …,' he says, a seductive laugh leaving his lips.

‘A one-track mind … I didn't mean right now, here … in bed'

‘Oh, sorry
Chérie
(darling),' he smirks, tugging at straps of my satin nightdress.' I thought you did!'

‘No, I mean … what comes next? Where do we go from here? What happens when we've had enough? Will we ever have enough? Do we have to go back home?' I ramble.

‘Wow! You have been busy this morning, haven't you? All that before your first morning
café au lait
… I'm impressed and exhausted,' he jests.

‘Stop it. You're making fun of me as usual.'

‘Marisa, relax. You're always thinking too much of the future. Just worry about today, if you have to worry about something. You're happy, aren't you?'

‘Basically, yes … of course I am. I don't think I could find more happiness or better health elsewhere. I have everything I need …'

‘Well, in that case, stop worrying about what comes next. When it comes … we'll both know about it soon enough.'

‘You're right as usual. You're a pain, you know? Okay, I promise I'll try to relax.'

‘That's more like it … but right here, right now … your highly intelligent husband is desperate for his early morning, wake-up cuddle,' he smiles.

‘Oh … poor
Chérie
. We can't have that, can we? I might even manage to produce one of those, before my coffee … if you're lucky,' I whisper, grinning.

No sooner do I begin to contemplate changes and future resolutions, than fate mysteriously emerges from the depths of the universe, to punch me square on the nose. Almost eight years have slipped past, since we set out on this delirious odyssey and we have finally come to the realisation, that we no longer desire to serve the touring public or open our home to utter strangers.

It isn't as though we need to continue our modest business venture to maintain our financial well-being.
Jean
is happily ensconced at the local
Fondation Claude Pompidou
as a Children's social worker slash educator and there are a myriad of ways I could employ my time. My home based, English ‘mini school' has always remained in hot demand since day one and I'm sure I could extend myself further afield if necessary. Look for work in one of the larger towns, perhaps
Brive-la-Gaillarde
or even
Limoges
.

During the tourist seasons, I've managed to sell a few watercolour paintings through a local gallery and have been commissioned, to my total astonishment, to reproduce several village homes in all their architectural splendour. My parent-taught knowledge of floristry has also turned into a modest source of income. Blushing, village brides-to-be, often seek me out to create their bridal bouquets, or decorate the church pews. All in all, I'm rarely idle apart for short spells in winter, which are warmly welcomed.

If I can achieve all this and simultaneously run a thriving business, imagine what I might be capable of achieving with my diary free of imposed restraints.

It wasn't so long ago that I questioned myself about what the future held in store for us. I think, somewhere in the corridors of my mind, I had already become aware of my changing attitude towards our current manner of existence. I wasn't unhappy as such, but somewhat fed up with the day-in, day-out humdrum and obligation of running such a busy and challenging, little enterprise. The pressure and constant need to please others was wearing.

Eight years is a long time to be continually in the village spotlight. Always well groomed, cheerfully diplomatic and forever smiling, on a quasi-daily basis. Ask anyone who's ever been in this type of industry and they're fairly quick to admit how taxing it can be. There's no room for PMT, sciatic attacks or bad hair days. Also, in addition to the inevitable physical demands, my body has responded with reccurring health problems along the way. I have coped and battled through the rough periods but something eventually had to give. It was time to change before we became evil, self-deprecating individuals. Before this splendid little endeavour of ours became known as the French equivalent of ‘Fawlty Towers'.

Neither
Jean
nor I have ever been of the opinion that you stick with something just because it works. No, that's the easy way out and we wouldn't have journeyed all the way to rural France in the first instance, had that been our mindset.

As much as we have loved every deranged moment of running ‘
La Maison de la Coquille
', we have mutually conceded to call it a day. A chain of events has led us to this important conclusion and the most recent of these incidents, being the most crucial of them all.

Rumour has it, that the regional Managing Director of the
Electricité de France
or Electricity Commission is searching the rental market, for a rather large village abode. Between family and ‘tag-alongs', he needs at least four bedrooms and that size house doesn't often become available to lease in a small village such as
Treignac
. That said, we have discovered over the reputable village grapevine, that the Commission is renowned for its generosity in rents and appealing terms on leases of a long-term category.

Not only are they willing to pay a substantial rent, they also stipulate that they, as the contracted leaseholder, will maintain the building in a perfect state of repair, taking the usual worry away from the property owners. This has us seriously thinking. What if we simply rent out our village house to this gentleman and make a fresh start elsewhere? No more Bed & Breakfast. No more nosey, why-don't-you-mind-your-own-business ‘
villageois
'. A farmhouse on a little patch of land in the country seems like the optimum solution.

We quickly spread the word amongst our circle of friends and acquaintances that we're on the lookout for a farm, barn or country cottage on a small plot of land. It has to have character, be old enough to have inherited an
esprit
(soul) and sit within reasonable driving distance of the main village. We still want to be near enough to
Treignac
for convenience sake, but far enough away for total privacy. It's another challenge but what the heck. We've become the King and Queen of renovation and as word spreads, no one in the village seems that surprised by our latest idea.
Monsieur
Le Maire (the Mayor) has however, voiced his total disapproval of our departure from the village centre. What will become of
Treignac
without its famously run Bed and Breakfast,
La Maison de la Coquille
? We reply politely, that perhaps one of the other village residents should take up the relay. He is dismayed, shakes his head vigorously and replies, that no one could ever run another Bed and Breakfast like
Madame
Raoul
.

I'm touched and sincerely flattered by his demonstration of genuine respect but it doesn't change my mind. Nor
Jean
's for that matter. We are determined to move on and our dearest thoughts now revolve around the search for the ideal, rural retreat.

We spend long, pleasant afternoons, rambling over country lanes and wandering up abandoned driveways, hoping to venture across some hidden renovator's delight or crumpling treasure-trove. Something unique, something that screams out, ‘Save me! I'm yours!'

It's loads of fun and we thoroughly enjoy the hunt. They say, it's the thrill of the hunt that really matters and in our case I'd have to agree. We've always taken immense pleasure, from the search and rescue part of any project we've enlisted. The rest is simply consequential.
Jean
and I are self-proclaimed gluttons for punishment, as our nearest and dearest will gladly confirm. We don't care about the extent of renovating or restoration that needs to be done, as long as the bank account can stretch far enough and the eventual outcome is worth it. Of course, budget always plays a huge part in our choice of projects and we've often had to back away, due to lack of financial resources but this hasn't prevented us from becoming the original ‘empire-building' junkies. We thrive upon the simple idea, of breathing life into an abandoned pile of rubble, or seeing a challenging concept brought to fruition. We're never more consciously focused or avidly determined, than when there is change in the air. When people question our nomadic ways, I simply reply that it's in our blood.
Jean
grew up poor, dreaming of space and lands beyond his Parisian, concrete quadrangle and I am the daughter of generations of travellers and immigrants, so the rest is self-explanatory, as far as I'm concerned.

Monsieur ‘Le Boss
' of the EDF has inspected our home thoroughly and it fills his every requirement. He has three adult daughters, who travel to and fro between university bed-sits and home, so the number of bedrooms; all with their own facilities has him enchanted. He adores our eclectic style and the generous proportions of the living quarters. We agree upon an impressively generous rent and we sign the official documents. Now, all we need is to find somewhere to live. We have two months, so the search for our new home gains serious momentum.

No sooner does the village network take knowledge of our time-challenged quest than the first offer of a farm building reaches our ears. The local
téléphone arabe
or grape vine, is healthy and its harvest often fruitful. We are informed of a certain
Filou
of upper
Treignac
, who is the proud and sole heir, of a 17th century farmhouse in the
lieu-dit
or hamlet of
Mauranges
. This tiny, six- house, spot on the map, is just two and a half kilometres from
Treignac
, so fits our quest for convenient proximity perfectly. I search the local telephone directory and after a pleasant phone conversation, we arrange a
rendezvous
with
Monsieur
Filou
at a field just outside of town and adjacent to the sawmill. It's a generous plot of rich, volcanic earth, which serves as his little hobby farm. He grows rows of plump cabbages, whiling away the hours of his retirement days, his hands happily soiled with the rich, black earth. I'm intrigued by the lack of other vegetables in his patch and
Jean
explains that
soupe aux choux
or cabbage soup is an age-old favourite amongst the peasant farmers. It has always been a warm, staple addition to any
Corrèzien
farmer's diet and I can see by the extended belly of this smiling old soul, that he has indulged in many a hearty bowl, during his time.

He is a jolly, ruddy-faced man of the earth, as round as he is tall, with pure white hair and clear chestnut eyes. He greets us with a warm, steady handshake. The palms of his stocky hands are cracked and stained from years of farm labour but his inner gentleness emanates from every pore. He points his stubby finger towards a distant group of stone buildings, slumbering tranquilly on the facing, verdant slopes and flanked by a forest of ancient beech, chestnut and oak trees. The hamlet commands a stunning panorama over the fertile, emerald valleys and pasturelands below.

‘
Le Voilà
,' he says smiling. ‘
Mauranges
.'

‘Oh … it looks lovely from here. What a gorgeous spot,' I declare enthusiastically.

‘
C'est extrèmement joli
… it's extremely pretty. My property needs a lot of work though … everyone says I should just pull it down, but I can't bring myself to do it. The last young couple, who were interested in buying, told me of their plans to demolish the buildings and I couldn't go through with it. Maybe I'm an old fool … but it was my grandparent's farm … it's been in our family for three generations and I spent my childhood there. I have such good, strong memories of my youth. What happy times …' he explains, his nostalgia brimming from his now moist eyes.

I nod my head in sympathetic agreement.

‘We understand
Monsieur
. Some people have no appreciation or respect for the past,' I reply consolingly, drawing a warm response from his wrinkled face.

‘
Bon
! Let's go and take a closer look at my little property,' he replies smiling.

‘We'll follow you, if you like,'
Jean
adds.

‘
Allez
!' he grins in accord, taking to the wheel of his weather-beaten
Renault
utility.

In little more than two minutes, we climb the gently winding road and arrive at the hamlet's shaded entry. The narrow laneway curls its way past four or five charming, stone cottages, their autumnal gardens still brimming with flowers and large end-of-season vegetables. As the lane reaches a natural cul-de-sac, we encircle a giant chestnut tree, which marks the terminating point of the tiny
lieu-dit
.

A well-worn face pokes curiously from behind the curtains of a neighbouring window and we wave gaily in reply. Two scruffy haired farm-dogs, one with only three legs, bark momentarily at our passing but neither bothers to rise from their relaxed sprawl.

The farm in question occupies the parcel of land at the far end of the hamlet, providing it with perfect seclusion and privacy. No tourists or passing traffic up here, I think to myself, knowing instinctively that
Jean
is contemplating exactly the same subject.

Filou
leads us through a collapsing, chicken-wire gate, avoiding the main farm structure and onto the open paddock with its ancient orchard gardens. The views over the valley are spectacular and our hearts soar. In the distance are hillside plantations of Blue Spruce pines planted in perfect symmetry but surrounding the hamlet itself, are dense native forests, which must teem with mushrooms of all varieties, during the coming months. The emerald pastures below are inhabited by caramel-coloured,
Limousine
cows, whose large chocolate eyes follow our every move with curious suspicion.

The only remains of the abandoned orchard are a couple of gnarled apples trees, two enormous, wild cherry trees and a massive pair of flowering lindens, golden in the afternoon, autumn light. There are the remnants of dry-stone walls and a giant, stone pond of some description, which is void of water at present.

‘It's the old
pêcherie
,'
Filou
explains, leaning his stout figure over the edge of the sizable, circular pond.

‘What's a
pêcherie
?' I ask excitedly.

‘It's a giant fishpond … in our region it is used for breeding
Arc en ciel
trout (rainbow trout) and Canadian salmon. This
pêcherie
is spring fed … you just need to unblock the channel at one end,' he says, pointing to a small round gap in the base of the pond. ‘Block the opposite exit, give it a good clean and
voilà
! It also needs a little repairing as you can see; it's been here for at least two centuries, maybe more. You'll see, the water here is crystal clear, the finest you'll find. And
les poissons
(the fish) thrive in it. You'll never eat bought fish again.'

‘Sounds fabulous … an instant swimming pool!' I add with glee, ignoring the part about the fish breeding, rather imagining myself bathing in pure spring waters on a balmy summer's day before retiring to the shade of the nearby cherry tree for an afternoon siesta.

‘Steady on
Marisa
, we're not swimming yet',
Jean
replies; attempting to stifle my all too apparent excitement but my mind is already racing with endless possibilities.