Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (18 page)

Filou
continues our guided tour, opening the door to a tiny but adorable, stone house built over two levels, which he explains is the
porcherie
. It is bordered by deep, cornflower-blue hydrangea and a rickety, wooden ladder leads to its lofty portal.

‘The Pig house,'
Jean
translates immediately.

‘Good, God! It's too gorgeous to be just for pigs. It would make a great little guesthouse … overlooking the new pool,' I suggest with vigour.

‘Hold your horses, Marisa … never mind the guests; we've had enough of those over the past eight years … the poor little piggies have to sleep somewhere,'
Jean
jokes.

‘Oh … and over there is the
four à pain
(bread oven),'
Filou
continues, indicating the furthest building of the group.

He leads us around the lower side of the
pêcherie
, towards the most delightful of structures. It bears a rotting thatched roof, in desperate need of replacement, but its solid, stonewalls are otherwise sound. It must be the largest, freestanding bread oven we've ever seen.

‘It was not a private oven as such, it was for the entire village to use in the olden days,' he explains, sliding its large, wooden door to one side. ‘They baked their loaves once a week and shared them out amongst the hamlet's inhabitants. It is now a heritage-listed monument. You may even be eligible for a government grant,' he adds.

‘Fantastic. And it still works?' I ask, poking my head into its cavernous interior.

‘
Bien
sûr
! We often cook Pizza and we roast chickens in it during the summer months. It works like a charm. Of course, I should have had it repaired years ago but I no longer have the courage to do so,' he admits sadly.

We haven't yet inspected the main farm building and I'm already head over heels in love. It may look like a heap of dirty stone and rubble to some, but to
Jean
and I, its restoration is already crystallizing in our mind's eye.

We stroll to our final destination, where
Filou
produces a massive set of hand-beaten keys, trying them one by one in the giant lock. He struggles to make them fit, admitting he hasn't visited in quite a while. The splintered, wooden doors of the main building are massive both in width and height, as they were built to accommodate the passage of a tractor rather than human visitors. Farm animals inhabited the lower levels of the dwelling, especially during calving and the colder winter months. It also housed the stacked hay bales and other farmyard tools. The human residents occupied only the very end of the building. Just a couple of small, easy to heat rooms over two levels. They say the massed heat from the housed cattle was enough to warm the living quarters on the coldest of winter days. The kitchen has the original flag stone floors, which have acquired a seamless patina from centuries of use and a substantially sized, stone fireplace stands proudly to one side. There are giant copper pots or ‘Chaudrons' left ‘in situ' on the hearth, just crying out for attention. There was never any plumbing as such, but the natural springs which criss-cross the property, poured freely into a large, stone vessel on the lower level kitchen then flowed via carved stone channels in the flagstone floors, to the exterior gardens.

Filou
pushes with all his force against the crumbling, timber doors sending plumes of dust and rotting hay into the air. We cover our faces with our cupped hands, waiting for the ancient dust to settle a little, before entering the cavernous interior.

We stand in utter amazement at the enormity of space opening before us. The thatched ceilings, or remains of, soar at the vertiginous height of twelve metres and the open floor space measures at least twenty-five metres in length.
Jean
and I search each other's eyes knowingly. This is to be our new project. This will undoubtedly be our next home.

We step carefully over rotting floorboards and creaking beams inspecting the space as best we can. A small wooden hatch on the opposite wall to the front entrance opens onto the garden and stunning countryside beyond. I perch by the opening and visualize vast panes of glass opening onto picturesque valleys and red sunsets.
Filou
suggests we take a closer look around and we appreciate his discretion in allowing us some private time to poke about.

We open two doors on the central level, one leads to a room, which was probably a bedroom for the entire family. It's of good proportions and I see it as a perfect second bedroom. The other door leads to a slightly smaller space with a delightful French window overlooking the gardens and valley below. The new bathroom and a
toilette
with a view … perfect.

Above us is a large loft area under the pointed roofline. We can't reach it, as there isn't a ladder tall enough, but on present observation, its size and height will be ample space for creating a romantic, attic bedroom hovering, mezzanine style, over the vast living spaces below.

Down a timber staircase and we discover the ground floor kitchen and large adjoining cellar and pantry space. Rotting timber shelves are piled high with empty preserve jars and dusty opened wine bottles. I suppose we'll inherit those as well. As we venture outside onto a grassy patio-like area, we find yet another timber door leading to a large, semi-subterranean room, spanning the entire width of the building. It's cool inside and I imagine it as the ideal summer sitting room. Once
Jean
has rebuilt that crumbling stonewall outside, it'll be fabulous. I'm already planning our first evening ‘al fresco', as I wander from space to space, garden room to garden room. The final interior space at the far end of the building has a larger double door, which intrigues us. Inside, we discover a magnificent stone trough, which was sculpted as a feed trough for the animals in winter. What a wonderful addition. I'll find a use for that, for certain.

Everything we discover, we love and as we wander back upstairs to
Filou
, we are in no doubt of our intentions.

‘How much are you asking for the property,
Filou
?'
Jean
enquires calmly, attempting to hide any glimmer of excitement in his voice.

‘Well, originally I asked one hundred and twenty … especially seeing those bastards wanted to bulldoze the entire thing and build some ugly, modern monstrosity in its place,
les salauds
… but now … if you were to promise me you would restore it, I will drop the price, to let's say … ninety.'

‘Uh hmm … ninety … thousand … Francs?'
Jean
repeated, his throat dry in utter disbelief.

‘
Oui … Je regrette
(I'm sorry) … but I refuse to go any lower,' he replied, proudly.

‘
Oui, bien sûr
… I was just a little surprised at the price,' said
Jean
, thinking old
Filou
would soon come to his senses and up the price by several tens of thousands.

‘
Oui, c'est vrai
(yes, it's true) … it's perhaps a little expensive considering its present condition but as I told you, it was my family home and I refuse to give it away,' he continued, visibly determined.

Little did he realise, that as far as
Jean
and I were concerned, that was exactly what he was doing. In our currency, at today's rate of exchange, it stood around $30,000 Australian dollars for the entire lot. Small but charming parcel of farmland, three soon-to-become-magnificent 17th century buildings and a Utopian view to boot. A complete 20th century steal.

‘We love it
Filou
, and we'd like to buy it. We promise we'll restore it … we'll try to retain its original charm as much as possible. Every stone will stay exactly where it is … well almost,' Jean declared sincerely.

‘Really … you'll buy it? You'll pay the full price?
Ca alors
! (Fancy that!)'
Filou
exclaimed, quite honestly surprised by our snap decision.

‘Let's shake on it,'
Jean
declared, hoping the old fellow wouldn't suddenly reconsider, leaving us heartbroken.

‘Done!'
Filou
cheered, smiling widely in sheer delight and grabbing
Jean
's hand in a solid shake. ‘You must come for
l'apéritif
to seal the deal, oh and meet the wife,
bien
sûr
(of course). We'll sign papers and the rest later. We'll discuss things over a little
Porto
or maybe a
Kir
. You like
Kir
, don't you?'

‘
Merci
beaucoup Filou
and yes, we like
Kir
very much,' I beamed, shaking his hand firmly then turning to hug
Jean
. As I stood wrapped in his arms, I stared wide-eyed at our latest acquisition.

‘You're very welcome,
Madame
Raoul
,' he giggled, his belly jiggling beneath his flannel shirt. ‘I'm happy my home will be in such good hands. It's a great comfort to me.'

‘I'm so glad,
Filou
. We'll take good care of it.'

‘Well, here we go again,'
Jean
whispered in my ear.

‘It's a doozie,' I answered, stepping carefully over the planked floors and just out of
Filou
's earshot, ‘People will think we're mad. It feels like we've only just got over the last project and this one is far more complicated as far as I can see. I'm a little concerned about a few of these walls. They seem ready to keel over at any moment.'

‘Not if I have my way. Don't worry
Marisa
… everything is going to be fine,'
Jean
said, cradling me reassuringly.

‘I can see the potential, for sure. It has so much character and the space is fantastic. I see a New York, loft-type conversion coming on,' I said dreamily, as my eyes surveyed the vast interiors.

‘I know exactly what you mean,
Chérie
. Mezzanines, loft bedrooms, split level living areas and skylights … lots of timber…so different to our
Treignac
house.'

‘So we're here to stay then? Our second home in France already? Wait until I phone Mum and Dad with the news. They'll think we've taken to the
Absinthe
.'

‘Your Dad will probably cry. He'll think we're never going back to Australia.'

‘I know, I hate upsetting him but … well, maybe we're not. Maybe this is it, this time. We may never go back.'

‘Never say, never,
Chérie
.'

‘You're right. One chapter finishes … another begins. Who knows where this one will end.
Mauranges
… it's a lovely name, isn't it? Sounds like “more angels”, you know
anges
, angels,' I translated out loud.

‘Yes, I think we could do with a few angels around here. The odd saint wouldn't go astray either. Get a look at those walls. It might very well take some divine intervention to salvage them,'
Jean
laughed unperturbed.

‘Praying is one thing I do really well. I've had loads of practice over the years. You know, I've always thought I had a guardian angel … someone like my Gran. A presence of some description who watches over me but maybe these walls will be too much of a challenge even for my darling Granny, bless her Devonshire soul. I'll start praying for some French angels tonight. I promise.'

I would recall years later, my dear friend Daniel declaring he had never encountered such a crystalline, blue sky anywhere but in the high mountains of Nepal during one of his many treks. I often lay prostrate on the grass, staring wide-eyed into the perfect china-blue heavens above Mauranges, in pure wonderment. I love the way its crisp blue clashes against the waving heads of the vibrant, red opium poppies. To me, they represent the colours of France. Perhaps the gentle snowflakes, which will fall this coming winter, are the white, which separates them. Pure and pristine.

Searching the horizon, I experience a surge of relief and feel a great weight lift from me. The expanse of splendid countryside, which sprawls beneath me, draws my eyes beyond and into oblivion. My soul soars.

No more do I constantly gaze upon the granite stone walls of the village square or rejoice at the sound of the chapel bells as they toll the hour.

Instead, I waken to birdsong and whispering wind, the ‘Ee-aw' of a grey donkey in the neighbouring paddock. The golden hue of sunrise bouncing off the blue-grey needles of the pine trees. This is the peace I craved. To lose myself, just a while, in the enveloping gentleness, of this magnificent country.

No regrets. Sublime memories. Unfolding destinies.

The delightful village of
Treignac-sur-Vézère
is located in the
Limousin
region of France, in the upper valley of the Vézère River, in the
Département
of
Corrèze
.

It is situated 60 km southeast of
Limoges
and 40 km north of
Tulle
. It has approximately 1,520 permanent inhabitants but its numbers swell over the summer months.

Treignac
is the gateway to the
Monédières
, the southernmost part of the
Limousin
Mountains with a maximum elevation of 919m at the
Puy de la Monédière
.

The
Vézère
River, which runs through
Treignac
, is renowned for its raging waters, which are used to produce hydro-electricity. Also due to its man-made lakes and dams, it has become a popular spot for water sports and was the chosen site for the 2000 World Championships in River Canoe and Kayak. National competitions are held yearly at this site and draw huge crowds.

Treignac
's houses are made of local granite and roofed with black slates taken from the quarry of
Travassac
. The village is a member of the association ‘
Les plus beaux village de France
' or ‘The most beautiful villages in France'.

The first medieval settlement in
Treignac
dates back to 800AD. A fortress was built around 1000AD on a spur dominating a meander of the
Vézère River
.

A wall with three gates,
La Porte Chabirande
, being the only one to survive into modern times, surrounded the village that developed near the castle.

Treignac
was an important trading place, which received municipal rights in 1284. The Gothic Bridge on the
Vézère
River was built in the 15th century and probably replaced an older Roman Bridge.

The castle and domain of
Treignac
belonged to the local
Comborn
family but were transferred in the beginning of the 16th century to the
Pompadour
family.

In 1626,
Phillipe de Pompadour, Baron de Treignac
, ordered the building of
Notre Dame de la Paix Chapel
, which stands on the
Place de la Mairie
. The chapel is famous for its twisted (
tors
) bell-tower. There are only 81 such bell-towers in Europe, 38 being in France.

‘trina ostia trina suburbia trina castella'

‘Three gates three suburbs three castles'