Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (6 page)

To round off our responsibilities, we go to Jean-Claude's on a mission, to use his internet. Such is his endless kindness, that he lets us have his lengthy encryption code so we can use our own laptop. I've tried to use their computer on previous occasions but the different layout of the French keyboard means that my typing, never good at the best of times, is even more of a dismal failure than it normally is. It is a lengthy, tiresome afternoon of trying to connect with the world. It also proves to be true that if something seems too good to be true, then that is indeed the case. We finally log on and check why our new
portable
deal does not seem to be working. It would appear that our two
euro
a month plan does not have international access until the following year. And so, we are virtually cut off from the world for two months. Jean-Claude will be our conduit to the vast world beyond Cuzance. Truth be told, I love the sense of escaping from the world; buried in the country, reality seems to be another place altogether. We immerse ourselves in the slow pace of Cuzance village life.

Once technology is sorted in a fashion, we are able to relax over
apéritifs
. I am truly touched, when out of the blue, Françoise, tells me that she intends to whisk me away for a weekend to their apartment in Lyon. I had already gleaned from Jean-Claude in our previous chats, that it is quite grand. Now, when Françoise describes it to me, it seems even more so – parquetry floors, four
chambres
, study,
cuisine
, sitting room,
salle de bain
and a terrace. She tells me it is enormous and in the heart of Lyon. An invitation such as this is an honour. I simply can't wait. I don't have weekends away like this at home, let alone in France. While we spent several nights in Lyon, three years ago, the experience will be nothing compared to this insider's guide.

We leave in the early evening after another relaxing
apéritif
hour, this time, next to their
piscine,
soaking up the late summer sun and the beauty of their herbaceous border.

I always marvel at the grandeur of their
maison
and
jardin.
I am conscious too that it represents over twenty years of love and hard work
.
I know that our
petite
farmhouse and
rustique jardin
will never be quite on this magnificent scale. Just as we emerge from behind their high stone wall, we encounter Gérard, who we've not yet caught up with this year. He always reminds me of a big, friendly bear – with his shock of white hair and large frame. He's been out for a bike ride and invites us to go back and see Dominique. I plead
fatigue,
although their friendship is one we look forward enormously to rekindling each year. Seeing Gérard always warms my heart. Again, although I can't exchange as much conversation with him as I would like, he always makes me feel happy. He is perpetually beaming and the very essence of
bonhomie
. As Stuart says, ‘As happy as a butcher,' for who has ever met a grumpy butcher? Jet lag still lingers though and we know to accept means that the
apéritif
hour will be extended by several more
.

By the time Stuart serves
dîner,
I'm nearly falling asleep over my succulent pork chop and lettuce dressed with French mustard. I crawl into bed straight after
dîner
and indulge in one of my favourite Cuzance moments, gazing out at the verdant trees and pink-tinged sky. The moment is completed when the full moon bursts out from behind the soft puffy clouds. My reverie is broken when I see Jean-Claude striding past our
chambre
window. Though it's late evening, in his inimitable fashion, he has dropped in to check on the alarming activity in our cellar. Over our
apéritifs
, he had surmised that the digging and huge pile of dirt may be from a badger. He had even made a joke, ‘Don't be afraid to badger me about the badger.' He and Stuart set off to the damp, cold cellar with a torch to investigate. Jean-Claude concludes that the digging seems to be from a rabbit. I am astonished that such a huge mound of dirt could be from an excavating
lapin
. Jean-Claude disappears into the night and Stuart comes in to let me know that his booming voice has carried back through the quiet night as he informs Monsieur Arnal that we have a
lapin
problem in
le cave
. It would seem that the whole village now knows.

Such is the way of a
petite
village and it is part of what makes me love Cuzance.

It scarcely seems possible that only two years ago, on our very first morning, I fell off our air mattress in the room that would become our
la cuisine
the following year, and immediately started to pull down the ugly wooden lattice on our porch that served no purpose at all. We then launched into the debacle that was stripping the wallpaper off in our bedroom. Now, the start of our third working
vacances,
it seems to take me hours to start functioning properly, even with the kick-start of a couple of
espressos.
‘It can wait,' seems to be the new mantra of the day we have adopted. This time, there is still a glorious nine weeks stretching out in front of us. Little did we know, when time seemed to stretch endlessly, that we would not, in our usual fashion, reach our renovating target.

After just a few days in Cuzance, already the real world has rapidly receded. We are absorbed seamlessly into our special little French world. A world where the day holds infinite promise of what it may bring. A world where the day ends in a golden glow of summer light. As the day comes to a close, I rediscover the delight of lying in bed, before darkness descends, gazing at the soft green of the trees in the Chanteurs'
jardin
, crowned by their magnificent walnut.

I have learnt from Jean-Claude that Madame Chanteur is in hospital in La Rochelle.

They have been away for six weeks now. In such a short time, their meadow-like garden already has a sad air of neglect. I have bought with me a gift of a photo to give them. They are framed within their stone doorway and the love of at least fifty years of marriage shines from the soft, worn lines in their faces. I know without being told, that Madame Chanteur may never return home again. I know too that Monsieur Chanteur may well fade away shortly after. While I have only ever been able to exchange a few simple words with them, I took great joy in the past two years in observing them daily and seeing their great love and devotion from afar.

I ask Jean-Claude if he has an address for them in La Rochelle so I can post the photo to them. He tells me that Monsieur Chanteur is of the old school and would not reveal his address or phone number. I can only feel that our neighbouring
maison
has an air of doom enveloping it. The Chanteurs have only lived there for a year and before that, Anne Barnes, the English woman I would surely have become friends with. Yet she had died tragically in Haiti while working for the United Nations, just shortly before her planned retirement. I feel a sense of uneasy trepidation for whoever else may live one day in the house next to us.

On just our third day, we are even more fully immersed in domestic duties. Stuart finally emerges, declaring he's more than ready for his
petite déjeuner
. It seems that he too has developed a penchant for
chocolat
muesli
.
We then launch into further domesticity; it's hard to believe that only two years have seen such a major change in our daily routine. The
voiture
is a disgrace; full of dry grass from the previous year from our rustique
jardin,
so Stuart sets to work to clean it. Meanwhile, I reacquaint myself again with the dials and knobs of my French washing machine. The birds sing, the sun shines and we have a real French home that is no longer just a renovating site.

Our new kitchen

At home, supermarket shopping is not one of our favourite pastimes. When I do the weekly grocery shop, I tend to virtually run down each aisle, sharply swing the trolley into the next and throw the always predictable items into the trolley at great speed. I never linger and I never select new items. I play a little game with myself and time my once-a-week grocery shop from parking the car, to leaving the car park.

Nevertheless, while in Cuzance, even this usually mundane task takes on a new ritual and new dimension. Our local Intermarche is on the outskirts of Martel. It is one of the few drives that I can manage alone. However, we usually go together to share another part of our French life. We already have our favourite French items and brands that we buy each week. We don't just like French butter – we love it! The one we always choose is in red and white checked wrapping while our favourite yoghurt is Bon Maman. There is a Bon Maman range of compote that we also buy in our village of Thirroul where we shop at home. I find this quite amazing the way our two lives sometimes connect.

Once we discovered the
chocolat mousse
with this label, well, that became virtually an essential purchase each week. The list of treats seems to be ever-increasing.

Each week we aim to sample a new cheese as well as try to remember the names of all the
fromage
we have liked before. As I wait at the deli counter, I silently practise the names of the ones I am going to ask for. Each customer waits ever so patiently.

We have certainly learnt though, just like the world over, never to shop on a Saturday morning, especially when tourist season is in full swing. Each customer is greeted in turn with a courteous, ‘
Bonjour Madame, bonjour Monsieur
.' No one is ever rushed. If a sample is required before buying, it is politely proffered. While our
supermarché
is relatively small, there are still enormous wheels of soft camembert and huge wedges of harder, tasty
fromage
. The women behind the counter are immaculate in their crisp white uniforms, hair neatly tucked beneath their starched white caps.

In the larger
supermarché
in Brive, there are enormous displays of fresh fish, with cool jets of moist air gently spraying them. It is to Carrefour we head when we need extra items for our
petite maison
, such as the little white wrought iron table and chairs for our porch. However, there are some surprises too in store sometimes when we shop.

Sometimes there are unexpected challenges in actually finding what we want. At times like these, logic does not come into play. On the rare occasions we need to buy
confiture
when our friends have not given us gifts of jam from their pantries, we have to remember that it is for
petite déjeuner
and so is on the shelves with the coffee, tea and sugar – because jam is what you eat for breakfast. Similarly,
apéritif
snacks initially proved to be baffling to find. Right; pretzels, chips and savoury biscuits are in the extensive alcohol aisle. There is in fact a sense of logic after all, for this is what you serve with a drink before
dîner
.

And then there is the wine. Like with many French customs, I try to learn by quietly observing. I watch as wine on the highest shelf is reached for and surmise it is for a special family occasion. I learn too, that just like anywhere, even in France, that the
rosé
on special is not necessarily the best available. Stuart also picks up a little trick for buying French wine. If the space on the shelf only has a couple of bottles left, he follows the lead of the French and scoops up the few remaining ones. He reasons that it must be a popular purchase to be virtually depleted and therefore, a wine worth buying. This technique certainly seems to work, for it has lead us to sample quite a few interesting bottles at a reasonable price. Well, perhaps more than a few...

Then there are the tubs and tubs of brightly coloured containers all lined up in the refrigerator section that present a staggering number of desserts. In this, the land of tantalising, sumptuous
patisserie
treats, it astonishes us that there is such a vast array of packaged desserts. When we have been invited to an informal dinner with friends, it is customary to serve a
crème caramel
or
île flottante
from the
supermarché
. We too, when friends stay, have sometimes adopted the custom and offer our beloved
chocolat mousse
.

It is truly so delicious that I'm tempted to carefully place it in a small glass dish and pass it off as my own.

A feature of our
supermarché
is that you have a discount card. However, like many other elements of life in France, its use is somewhat perplexing. We present it every time we shop, yet we never get a discount. This is very puzzling, particularly so when we buy our outside mosaic table and four chairs for a significantly reduced price. This leads Stuart to having a number of conversations at the information desk, in his attempts to find out how we activate our discount. finally, he understands that the card must always be presented at the outset of the transaction to receive the discount when you are paying. Next time we will do this. If it was up to me to glean how this works, clearly there would never be a discount for us. Oh yes, my French is still lamentable.