Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (14 page)

The work starts in earnest. It's off to Brive yet again for Stuart to start his Cuzance day. This time it's to hire a heavy-duty cutting tool. The
derrière
of
la grange
needs a channel cut across its width for drainage. This means cutting through the large crazy paving stones laid last summer. It was something we had discussed that needed to be done at the time — and in our haste, overlooked in our perpetual bid to simply always do as much as possible on our
rénovation vacances
. Now there is a thick band of bright green moss, evidence of where the heavy winter rain has gathered in our absence. The moss has crept under the barn door and taken up residence. The gathering pools of water and melted snow will cause the enormous old wooden doors to deteriorate even further. It is not a job I can possibly help with, so it's back to
le jardin
for me.

Unless there is a pre-determined agenda, like the hiring of a heavy-duty cutting machine in Brive, when Stuart wakes each day it is to a blank page. He simply waits for the story of each day to be written as it unfolds. Me, just like at home, as soon as I wake my day's chapter is already half-written. Always on waking I have an itinerary fully mapped out. I rarely deviate from the path I set myself each day. Stuart's days are full of an eclectic array of
rénovation
possibilities. Mine has just one item on the agenda:
les jardin
and the continuing call of the wild.

Stuart arrives home, bearing his cutting machine just in time for our regular second
petit déjeuner
. I had been on the verge, after several hours' hard labour, of succumbing to the stale
pain au chocolat
left over from the day before. If there is one thing you learn quickly in France, it is that pastries are destined to be eaten fresh on the day they are made by
artisan
bakers. Stuart is carrying a brown paper
sac
full of promise —
chausson aux pomme
— crisp, buttery pastry brimming with moist apple. It somewhat balances the shock of the cost of the equipment.

I return to my
jardin
onslaught in the burgeoning heat. I assiduously stay out of Stuart's way while he focuses on firing up his cutting machine. It sputters ominously. I hold my breath. We both remember only too well the dismal failure of last year's compacter, hired to flatten the yawning chasm of
castine
. Not only did the hire company not get back to us after we had booked it a week previously, which lost us a week's precious
rénovation
, when Stuart did finally pick it up, it simply refused to fire into life. A week's lost work translates to a year for us. The paving should have been
fini
last summer, and this year's project was meant to be the transformation of our dismal
salle de bain
. Next year there will be a frequent refrain when it comes to
rénovation
in our other life.

To our enormous collective relief, not only does the cutting machine work, but the back-breaking job goes far more smoothly than we could have possibly hoped for. The air is not even rent with cries of ‘
Merde!
' The job is in fact
fin
the very same day. This is unheard of in our French
rénovation
life. A huge satisfying tick is placed on the list.

By three, however, my back is breaking and the sun is scorching me. When a Mercedes convertible cruises past, I am more than ready to jump into the passenger seat and be whisked away to a yacht on the Riviera. We down tools and make time to relax under our beloved walnut tree, before heading for Turenne for
dîner
with Gérard and Dominique. Jean-Claude's grandchildren, Balthazar and Celeste, who live in Berlin, drop in to enjoy
la piscine
in the late afternoon. It is not something we ever expected in our other life, to supervise two French teenagers. Their laughter splashes across the orchard as they swim and play.

I especially like Celeste when she declares that she thinks I must be the
Direktor
of my
lycée
! Like a true teacher, I ask Balthazar to undertake a research task, for like teenage boys the world over he is seldom far from the computer. It is becoming increasingly evident that despite our love of being immersed in Cuzance country life, we need to be more connected with the world and its pressing demands. I ask him to go on the Free company website to see if he can find a 3G plan to go with our
portable
. I tell him I will reward him with a
glacée
next time he visits.

After their visit we set off to Le Vieux Sechoir, the old walnut drying house, which is now reincarnated as a country restaurant. What an evocative name, and what images it conjures up of another life once lived within the thick old stone walls of the restaurant. Much to our disappointment, despite it being a perfect summer's evening, Gérard and Dominique always prefer to eat inside. The
petite
garden at the front is decorated with pretty wrought iron tables placed perfectly under a large pear tree. It simply calls out to us, but it is not to be. Fortunately, when we were presented with the menu, Stuart's infinitely more sophisticated grasp of French rings alarm bells when he sees the word
pied
. Naturally, I don't associate it with the name of our house, even though I do in fact know that Pied de la Croix means quite literally ‘foot of the cross'. The two words
pied
and
porc
should have alerted me well before Gérard's explanation that
galette pied porc
means the ‘foot of the pig'
.
Unlike our
amis
, we are not at all excited about this menu delicacy and absolutely do not choose it for an
entrée
. We opt for the safe
salade
choice. The main course is a duo of duck —
confit
and
margret —
accompanied by
fois gras
. It is lavish and rich, especially late at night. Nevertheless, no-one can resist the selection of no less than six sumptuous desserts. Dominique and I choose
crème brûlée
, while Stuart and Gérard have
mousse au chocolat.
It is presented in an enormous white bowl. The rich mould of
mousse
, coated in cocoa, is swimming in a sea of
crème anglaise
. It is a truly extravagant indulgence.

I have noticed that music is never played in the many French restaurants we have been to. I assume that it would distract from the very serious business of eating in France; it is a form of culinary reverence. I have also observed that Gérard always avidly asks the waitress questions about the menu. It underpins that indeed
cuisine
is a form of religion for the French.

When we leave after a (fortunately, for there was a close call with a possible pig's foot) magnificent meal
,
the name of the restaurant is lit up against the ivy-encased wall. Groups of French
amis
are still lingering over their
digestifs
, enjoying the soft-as-silk summer air. We follow Gérard back along a secret country road. I am enormously relieved to avoid the tight twists and turns of the road we drove on to the restaurant. We plunge ever-further into the deep, dark night-time forest. Gérard takes an abrupt turn
droit
. There is not even a signpost. The
petite
road becomes ever narrower. Another unexpected
gauche
and now the trees join hands overhead. You can no longer see the stars. It was truly an adventurous return to our
petite maison
. We look forward to seeing the secret country road, that only locals know, in daylight. Whether we will ever be able to find it again is an altogether different matter.

It has been a rewarding, happy day in the history we are creating in Pied de le Croix. As the day closes, gold hems the clouds.

Evenings out for
dîners
are a luxury in a
rénovation
life, for all our days start with the
solei
. The morning means that the
très cher
equipment has to be returned, so it's back to Brive for Stuart and back to
le jardin
for me. This is not a trip I will ever attempt solo; the roundabouts are far too choked with fast-moving traffic. I would find this a totally terrifying experience. Of course, Stuart embraces the challenge of the rapidly accelerating
voitures
and lanes that speedily merge in and out.

My morning instead starts with laboriously loading the wheelbarrow with concrete after removing it from Stuart's newly-created drainage channel. This is a task that I am more suited to than Grand Prix-type driving. Next, I scoop out all the gravel l carefully placed there the year before. In a
rénovation
life, there is nothing quite like re-visiting work that is long meant to be
fini
. Now that the paving has all been cut out, I dig and create a channel ready for the drainage to be laid. Once again, I bitterly bemoan that my nails are perpetually cracked and broken. There is little place for vanity, however, when you are far from Paris.

My morning's relentless hard labour is broken by a visit from Dominique. She has just been chatting to Monsieur Chanteur and has alarming news. The village is full of talk about gypsies in the area, apparently breaking into houses, including two nearby in the back lane. As is often the case, some nuances are at first lost in translation. I think that she is telling me there are snakes in the nearby
maisons
, for she mimes strangling her neck. She uses the word
serpent
, which I can only assume means snake. I back away in horror. Snakes are something I loathe. My fear of them is on par with attempting to brave driving on busy
autoroutes
in France. I have had too many close encounters with them, including discovering one curled up inside a rug when we lived next to a rainforest. I am permanently scarred by the experience, as I was home alone when I shook the rug out and it flew across the floor.

I warily eye the long grass I have just been merrily traipsing through.
Non
,
non
. It transpires that she means the gypsies are like serpents, as they move so stealthily.

Jean-Claude drops in and adds to the dire warnings. He tells me that it is critical to get bars added as soon as possible to our new bathroom window. It seems that he had not been alarmist after all when he had told us of the necessity for bars on our
nouveau fenêtre
. It would seem that the real world does at times intrude into our simple country life. The real snakes in the grass are in fact gypsies.

Mon dieu
, Stuart exclaims when I tell him on his return. The alarming news of lurking gypsies means just one thing to us — another task on the list that never diminishes. Now the bars on the window are a looming necessity.

Déjeuner fini
, it's back to work for us. Stuart to his channel, me to the land. I start to tackle the brambles. In the intervening year, my senses have foolishly failed to recall the essential technique for handling their rapacious thorns. Within mere minutes, my fingers are embedded with them and swell up painfully. I rapidly begin to resemble a human pincushion. Now it comes flooding back, albeit somewhat late. I recall my previous approach to win the battle of the brambles. I grasp the brambles with the secateurs, pull the long clawing tentacles towards me, and chop, chop, chop.

The sheer hard work is broken when
amis
drop in and while away the
après-midi
hours with us under the walnut tree. Even Monsieur Chanteur visits occasionally. He is no longer quite as formal and reserved. He does, however, still use formal address with everyone: Madame Cutsforth, Monsieur Cutsforth, even Monsieur Chanel, his closest friend in the village. At times, he wistfully and mournfully mentions his wife. He has started to smile again and even laugh.

Our rocky ground is unstable and quite unsuitable for our IKEA chairs. They rock and tip. One day, he nimbly — as he always moves, despite his advanced age — sets off in the afternoon heat and returns with four plastique
jardin
chairs for us to borrow when friends visit and stay. It is a measure of how far we have come in being accepted by old-school Monsieur Chanteur. However, there are dark clouds gathering on the horizon of our alliance.

Celeste joins us for many happy walnut tree hours, sometimes alone, sometimes with Jean-Claude and Henriette. Stuart teaches her to dive and he is pronounced to be very
sportif
.

On another day, Dominique drops in with a needle to extract the embedded, infected thorns from my fingers. She tells us the needle has to be sterilised. We find some matches and, in my clumsy fashion, I drop the hot needle. It plummets into the long grass and we all scrabble vainly in our search for it. It is, quite literally, like searching for a needle in a haystack.

At times, in our gatherings, there can be three languages flying round. It is Celeste, at just eleven, who is the translator for all. She chats away to Dominique in German and tells her she prefers Berlin to Paris. How could that be possible for one so young? I am altogether impressed with her sophistication when I am showing her my photos of Paris and she recognises the works of Rodin. It seems there are times when country conversation does stray beyond the weather and
les mouches —
just not very often.

Our hours outside extend longer and longer, for within our first fortnight the temperature more than doubles. We linger ever later in the twilight. Finally, after a whole fortnight since our reunion with Pied de la Croix, we manage a late evening
promenade
. It is just a short circuit, past Monsieur Chanteur's property and along the
petite
lane behind our maison. We discover that our stone wall is indeed crumbling and has tumbled down in several places. Urgent stone repair work is needed. Another list, for another day. For now, through a gap in the brambles and oaks, we see our
la grange
,
piscine
and
chaise lounges.
Even the chairs seem to be languidly reclining next to the pool in the fading soft embers of day's end. It is like a glimpse into someone else's life. It is like a photo from a magazine, when you draw in your breath and sigh in wonder. And I do.