Our House is Certainly Not in Paris

Our house is certainly not in Paris.

‘Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.'

— Edith Wharton

At home –
Pied de la Croix

This is our continuing story about renovating our petite maison in le Lot in south-west France. It traces the gentle unfolding of the days in the French countryside, for after the first two years on frenetic working vacances, when beaucoup travail – sheer hard work – was the order of the day, life has at last taken on a slightly slower rhythm in our petite village, Cuzance. We meet again our cast of French friends and make some new amis. Our efforts turn from restoring Pied de la Croix, to a sustained onslaught on the rambling, rustique jardin. Weeks are consumed by the madness of crazy paving while rare days of relaxation are overlaid by the somnolence of a French summer. The past and present merge as life in a rural village resonates with the braying of donkeys, the squealing of pigs and the daily promenade of villagers, some nearing a century, who have spent their entire life in Cuzance, witnesses to war and the rapid changes of the years.

As our return to Cuzance rushes towards us, I always have a vivid picture in my mind of our much-anticipated arrival. Despite the weariness of travel, and eagerness to rush inside to embrace our
petite maison
, I always pause on the threshold, to prolong my reunion with our beloved French home. I glance up above the door, to see the date – 1882 – encased in a stone-carved heart. The simply etched heart is a symbol of all that our beloved French home means to us: our love of France, and this year, the eve of the celebration of our long ago wedding in Istanbul, twenty-one years ago. The little heart represents all that is warm and loving within the walls of Pied de la Croix. There is no way possible that the truffle farmers who once lived here, could have ever imagined that one day, Australians from afar, would reunite each year with their old farmhouse.

Finally, after just a couple of years, our hearts changed from sinking to soaring, at our first sight of Pied de la Croix on our return. At last, the reunion with our little stone house was all that it should be. This year, there was no flapping tarpaulin covering the naked beams of the barn, no dead pigeon on the doorstep to greet us, and the grass was all beautifully mown. Inside, it was like a scene from a film; dust covers shrouding everything, ready to be whisked off and let life once again be breathed into our
petite maison
and begin another summer chapter in Cuzance. Once again too, despite the inherent history of living in one-hundred-year-old terraces in Sydney, this little house has a presence, a warmth – a strong beating heart that reaches out to enfold us.

What I especially love about our
petite maison
, is that it never gives off an air of sad neglect when we arrive and unlock the door. It never feels reproachful or abandoned. Instead, it has just been simply hibernating, waiting to wake up and share our happiness at being in France again.

Before we return for our third year, Gérard and Dominique Murat, the new friends we made last year from the village, again share the unfolding seasons with us. This time we are joyous when we open their email photos to see the soft pink blossoms of our orchard in bloom. Just like the enchanting photos of Pied de la Croix wrapped in sparkling white, pristine snow that they had sent the previous Christmas, it is a season that we will probably never see ourselves. This time, it is a season of renewal and to my astonishment and delight, the lush grass beneath the budding apricots and pears, is already starting to resemble a meadow. It is less than a year that it has started to be regularly mown and yet the transformation is already well underway. Another source of pleasure and relief. Jean-Claude Chanel, the first friend we made in our village, tells us in March, before their return to Cuzance, that it is getting warmer at last in Lyon. Nevertheless, a farmer friend in Cuzance, has told him that it still freezes there in the early morning. Finally though people are now taking off their coats and layers of clothes after a long, harsh winter, so now in the streets of Lyon you can see their heads and faces. I love the images that I share from afar of the changing seasons.

While it is our third summer in Cuzance, it is in fact only the second year that we have gone directly to our
petite maison
and yet it feels much longer. There is definitely a sense of true homecoming. Once again, it feels extraordinary to feel such a strong tug on the heart and such a palpable connection with a place, which in fact, we have only known such a short time. I think a sense of place and belonging is in the heart, as well as the bricks and mortar of Pied de la Croix. Yet this sense of belonging is baffling at times, for I can still barely speak a word of French...

I am determined at the outset of our third stay in our
petite maison
, that this time will not be a litany of lists. I am determined that our stay of a glorious two months will not be an endless account of days consumed by renovating. As I find myself getting older, I find myself slowing down. I find myself with an ever-growing desire not to spend my holiday working through the light-filled, long French summer days. I want to spend more time relaxing in the convivial company of our French friends; I want to explore the Lot more fully; I want to simply soak up the ambience and the pleasure of a summer spent in France. Time will tell.

In many ways, it is like returning to two homes. When we gather each year for the first time, on Jean-Claude and Françoise's terrace for an
apéritif
, and gaze at their glorious
jardin
, there is also a real sense of homecoming. Both Jean-Claude and Françoise will soon turn seventy, so we toast their forthcoming
anniversaire
and celebrate serendipitous friendship. We soak up the warmth, both of the summer evening and renewed camaraderie. And so, we are back again in our beloved Cuzance.

* * *

Some of you may be just joining us on our French adventure, so here's how it all started. For those of you continuing to share our Cuzance story, I hope you enjoy being reunited with our
petite maison
, Pied de la Croix, so named for the ‘foot of the cross' in our village, and coincidentally, also the name of the previous owners of our French farmhouse.

Not many people in Australia can say they live in a village. Nor are many fortunate enough to own
une petite maison
on the other side of the world. Owning a farmhouse in France is the stuff dreams are made of; well, most of the time.

Stuart and I live in a small village, Wombarra – one in a string of tiny towns dotted along the coastline of southern NSW. It is perched between the escarpment and the sea, and every day we see the ocean in all its wild and varying moods.

At night, there are often huge oil tankers on the horizon – their glistening lights like small islands – and trains flash across the bottom of the escarpment, their carriages shining like a string of jewels as they carry tired workers home from Sydney. We live in a coastal paradise.

But despite the peace and rugged beauty that surrounds us, there is a lure that grows stronger every year, taking us across the ocean to a place far removed.

For years, owning a house in France fell into the category of idle fantasy. But in 2010, the dream drew a little closer to reality when the Australian dollar suddenly soared. Suddenly, it became an affordable reality, and curious internet browsing, segued into booking a plane ticket.

Renovating has been the pattern of our married life, and we felt ready to embark on a project to buy a French farmhouse and bring it back to life – even if it meant working every hour under the sun on our annual
vacances
; and keep in mind, French summers mean very long hours of daylight... Armed with a shortlist of properties and a strict set of criteria, Stuart left Sydney for France, determined to find our piece of paradise on the other side of the world. I went to school each day and remained anxiously on standby, waiting for news of the unfolding adventure.

Two of our main criteria were that the house was not to be a on a road or near a farm, largely to avoid the invasion of
les mouches
and also because peace and quiet are things we cherish. This was based in fact from my notebook for a future holiday house, after renting one in the Dordogne the previous year. There was no way we could have possibly imagined at the time, that it would become, a mere six months later, the template for buying our own
petite maison
.

On our previous trip to France, we had stayed with a friend in the Pyrenees. But our hearts didn't resonate with the harsh landscape and atypical architecture. We felt we were in a foreign land and longed to return to the
département
with which we had both instantly connected – the hamlets, golden stone, towering limestone cliffs and walnut orchards of the Lot.

With just ten day's leave and a real estate agent who couldn't drive (surely the only one in the world!), Stuart traversed icy, treacherous roads to inspect ten houses in seven days. Many options were eliminated at a glance, and others just didn't fit the bill: right in the middle of town, too
grande
, too
petite
, too isolated, too dilapidated. The decision was huge; the responsibility was huge; Stuart had to get it right.