Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (21 page)

Next, there is an enormous roar as the tilt tray swings up and a colossal mound of gravel flies out in a mountainous pile at the rear of
la grange
. There is a choking cloud of white gravel dust. The dust flies in billowing plumes across the garden. This performance is repeated half an hour later. One truck load wasn't enough for the mammoth task that awaits us. It now resembles an instant quarry site next to
la piscine
. I look at the mountains of gravel and feel utterly daunted. Stuart looks at the mountains of gravel and feels the exhilaration of an exciting new challenge. And therein, the difference lies.

And so, as the burning sun spills over the pool, we move wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow, ad infinitum. We work into the late evening, day after day. We rise early to start before the heat saps our strength. The sight of
castine
, the thought of it, discussing the width and length of where to place it round the pool; is the sole focus of our life. It would seem that the old days of relentless renovating toil are certainly back. Did I miss them? I think not.

Yes, back with a vengeance. For more days than I care to remember, we fall out of bed, and resume moving the piles of gravel that seem to barely diminish in size. The sheer size of the gravel pile is overwhelming. If I let myself think about it too carefully, I will simply not be able to go on. Just the mere thought of the magnitude of our task is exhausting in itself. So, I don't allow myself to think about it. I pick up the shovel, throw a pile in the wheelbarrow, and repeat the action, again and again.

We've been told that a heatwave is about to hit the south of France. The perfect definition of irony. A pool that we can't even use. It's like being in a desert with a mirage of water. We work from sun up to sun down. There is simply no respite. Now, just like the last two years of
renovation
in our
petite maison
, we also need to finish painting the spare
chambre
as well as Lydia and Erick are due to arrive – now in just one day. And this is a holiday, is the one constant thought that reverberates through my mind that is as numb as my work-weary, aching limbs. What we seem to have also overlooked in the frantic flurry of work, is that the paint fumes will still be lingering in the spare room.

Why does this always seem to happen when friends are due to stay?

By now, the summer sun scorches like a searing Australian summer. The masses of bright, white
castine
are blinding in the sharp, bright light. The walnut tree beckons, but it is not possible to retreat to its enticing shade. Instead, Stuart's excitement is complete to have two deliveries two days in a row. This is his idea of nirvana. Once again, it is not quite mine. Another massive truck manoeuvres gingerly through our precious stone pillars. It too misses them by a mere fraction. This one carries a cargo of Bavarian stone, crazy paving that will in the end drive us crazy with frustration. It is no coincidence that it is so named. The truck is also bearing bags of cement and another mountain to be painstakingly moved; this time one of sand. The truck has a hydraulic system that, despite its precarious consignment, levers the six pallets in six fluid movements.

As the heat soars, we start to get up at five – though it still only gives us a few hours before the sizzling sun forces us to seek sanctuary in the coolness of the house. And there, we do not rest. No, instead we paint. When we eventually return outside, raking the gravel does not quite have the Zen quality of meditatively raking smooth white pebbles in a Japanese garden.

Huge truck delivers sand and cement.

By the end of July, the tourist season is in full swing. In Martel, there is a discernible difference. There are both French tourists and visitors from a spectrum of other countries. If we get to the markets late after working, it is shoulder to shoulder at the stalls. At our favourite stall for aubergine, courgette and
tomates
, the middle-aged jolly couple now have their son working with them. He serves me – and despite the long queue and frenetic pace, Madame still has a moment to extend a warm ‘
Bonjour
' to me.

It is moments like these that I feel I belong. Later in our personal
renovation
season, Stuart is simply working too hard laying the paving to even come to the markets with me. It simply doesn't seem right that he has to miss sharing one of our favourite things to do while we are living our other life. It is times like these that I yet again have occasion to wonder, are we doing the right thing? My doubts crowd in and cloud my grand, glorious visions.

The tourist season means too that my longed-for weekend in Lyon with Françoise is postponed until the following year. Bénédicte, their youngest daughter, points out that all the shops will be shut for the hottest month of summer, when virtually all of France goes on
vacances
. As shopping was high on our agenda of planned activities, there seems little point in going. I am bitterly disappointed. How I longed for a break and the sights of Lyon, for the sight of
castine
is one I never want to see again
.
Once again too, I also muse about how everyone at home simply thinks we are having an absolutely marvellous holiday in France at our own little house. well, parts of it certainly are but I'm not sure what fraction of the whole constitutes a
vacances
in anyone's mind.

Gérard and Dominique are about to leave for
la plage
for a month. To say I am envious at the thought of relaxing at the beach for a month is the understatement of the year. How I long to run away and join them. We are invited to a farewell
dîner
. Last year when we joined them for an evening meal in their home, it was always a very formal affair.
Apéritifs
were served in their
salon
and the
amuse bouche
were always laid out ready on arrival. Unlike when we invite our
amis
for the
apéritif hour,
there was no casual sitting outside sipping our drinks and enjoying appetising snacks. Instead, there was always a formal sense of ritual and occasion, in what seems to us to be the rather formal French way.

We are touched and delighted upon arrival – always sure to be precisely punctual, as the church bell strikes the hour, for this too is part of the protocol – to be told that this time it will be a family
dîner
. Once again, all the rules we have read about the formality of the French and the virtual impossibility of being accepted into their friendship circle, are broken. After
apéritifs,
Gérard serves our favourite meal of
canard
in their cosy
cuisine.
Just like Stuart, he too is the family chef
.
We bid fond farewells and make plans for
l'année prochaine
. Making such friends in such a short time is something we never expected, let alone
amis
to make plans with for the following year. Suddenly, life seems ever so much brighter. The
castine
pile will diminish with time; we will make time to spend under the walnut tree and we will be able to one day soon revel in the luxury of our
piscine
.

The following week passes in a haze of heat. My mind drifts to Dominique, soon to be relaxing at
la plage
. Now the alarm is not only set for
vide grenier
days. We are simply so exhausted we can no longer rely on waking early to set to work. And so, we set the alarm for every single day.
Castine
waits for no man, or indeed, woman. The sun has become so fierce and intense, that by now we are forced to stop by nine thirty every morning. On a normal
vacances
, this is the sort of time most people would wander out to start their day. Yet nothing is ever what I would deem to be normal about our days in Cuzance. In just four days, we have trundled countless wheelbarrow loads of
castine
and raked and raked it out over the rough ground to form a smooth base for the paving. Singlehanded, I have also unloaded three enormous crates of jagged-edged crazy paving. Each piece is tremendously heavy, especially as I reach the bottom of each pallet. Once again, I lift and stretch and heave and lug. The only way I can manage to manoeuvre each piece of heavy stone is to balance each one on my leg as I unpack it from the crate before I lay each one out on the grass around
la piscine
. It will be Stuart's job to then choose each piece to assemble our giant-size, outside jigsaw puzzle.

It becomes more and more difficult to balance each paving stone on my leg as I haul them out the crate. This becomes harder and harder the more I unpack and the lower the level gets in the crate. Balancing crazy paving against your leg is not to be recommended. They slip out of your grasp as you struggle with the sheer size and weight.

I have the corresponding, jagged-edged scars on my legs as an indelible reminder of my latest French summer.

The relentless pace is broken by the arrival of our Belgian
amis
. They arrive just in time too, before my spirits are broken – not to mention my back. Once again, I wonder how I possibly manage the unrelenting physical work. For two days as the heat hovers at forty, we picnic on the banks of the Dordogne and relax in the shade of the pine trees that border its edge. The distinctive towering limestone cliffs form an impressive backdrop to the smoothly gliding river, full of holiday makers kayaking. To my delight, there are groups of children kayaking, adorned with colourful Indian feather headdresses. The afternoons are spent luxuriating at Jean-Claude and Françoise's
la piscine;
a special place in the world for me; a place where the beauty and tranquility never cease to seep into me. After a month, our stolen picnic days seem less normal than our
renovation
routine.

Eleni at sixteen, is poised on the page that is turning from late adolescence to blossom into a stunning young woman. One moment, shy and awkward, the next, glimmers of future sophistication. First-year-at-university Jorn is serious and reserved.

He quietly watches and listens to everything. I catch expressions on his face that reveal how he truly thinks; that we are amusing simply for the very fact that we are Australian.

He is clearly bemused by the fact that we have chosen to renovate on the other side of the world in just a few short weeks every year. Like us, Lydia and Erick have wandered reluctantly into middle age. The bond of long-ago days, travelling together in Turkey, binds us all tightly together.

We eat late
dîners
at Pied de la Croix, the six of us gathered in
le jardin
under the lowering shadows. The sun slowly sinks in a blaze on the horizon and then a quarter slice of moon hangs in the clear country sky behind the pine trees.

On our last evening with Lydia and Erick, we eat our final
dîner
with them, a baked salmon that they have prepared for us all. We sit outside relaxing with our
apéritifs
and are waited on by Jorn and Eleni; it is like being in our own
jardin
restaurant. Just as we savour our last delicious mouthful, a storm rolls in – the thunder roars ceremoniously and the rain pours in heavy sheets. We frantically grab everything from the table and race inside for dessert. The freshness of the air is like the sweetest perfume imaginable.

The scorched, baked earth exudes an invigorating freshness. We scoop up morsels of
chocolat mousse
and watch the transformation of our little world. The smell flows in through the open windows. It is a smell that is like no other and one that city life never yields. It is a heady combination of dry earth that is rapidly revived, overlaid with the pungency of freshly mown hay, an undertone of farm yard manure and freshly awakened dry, crackling leaves that unfurl with new life.

Group meeting to discuss kayaking.

Despite friends staying, the
castine
still calls to me. I wake early and creep out of the slumbering house. The metallic tines of the rake, ting, ting, ting against the gravel. I develop a slow, steady rhythm. Rake the gravel out smoothly three times, lift the rake, repeat the process – over and over. The rain that has tumbled down overnight, as if on cue, has tamped down the gravel for us. It is perfect preparation for hiring a compacter.