Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (18 page)

The day starts slowly and in a haze. We were plied with
pastis
and wine the previous evening. I learnt something new from Gérard about the serving of
pastis
when he indicated one or two fingers as a measure. You lay your fingers sideways to indicate your preference. I chose one finger. Stuart invariably indicates
deux
. Gérard then inevitably pours an extra measure anyway. The trick is to keep topping up your
pastis
with extra water. Well, that is the intention at the outset of the
apéritif
hour.
Oh là là
, I think as I sweep the paving in a fog of late night
apéritifs
and heat
.
As Gérard had declared, what is a summer in Cuzance without
pastis
and barbecues? What indeed, I think as I move in slow motion.

Usually, like all French homes, we leave all the shutters closed to keep the heat at bay. Today I fling them open for John and Joe's arrival. The crisp, pure light floods in. Our
petite maison
gleams and shines, complete with a jug of my own roses. I am again filled in equal measure with pride and amazement at all that we have achieved in four short summers. I like to think that our little home is worthy of being featured in the French house magazine,
Maison Interiors
, with its eclectic assortment of
troc
and
vide-grenier
finds
.
My heart brims with happiness as my eye sweeps each room, all waiting in readiness for Stuart's return with John and Joe from Limoges airport.

Our
petite vacances
week with them could not be better timed. I don't think our physical boundaries could push through another five days as demanding as the last five have been. We have also been given the ominous warning from Jean-Claude that ‘dog days' are ahead. This is a term that we became only too familiar with last year, when day after day the temperature soared to over forty.

Our first evening as a family is all I hoped it would be. Through our emails, Joe and I had established a close bond. Our first meeting after twenty-one years cemented our relationship. To do so on our first evening was more than I could have hoped for.

The next morning, our
vide-grenier
outing to Estivals is a momentous occasion, for both Joe and Celeste accompany us. They have both been under strict instructions to be up early and ready or we will leave without them. Nothing stands in the way of our treasure quests, certainly not the penchant of teenagers for sleeping in. To our surprise, Celeste staggers up the road in time, and off we all set. The four of us happily spend a few hours wandering round the pretty village of Estivals, and Celeste is delighted to scoop up
petite bébé
clothes for Basile. The afternoon is spent in splendour, relaxing round
la piscine
. The family is gathered at last for a week of French summer.

A kayak trip is planned to start the
petite vacances
week on Monday, the day we usually resume our relentless
rénovation
. These are the early starts no-one seems to mind, for they are the exact opposite of our
beaucoup travail
weeks. It is a French, Australian and English boys' day out, as John, Joe and Stuart are to be joined by Maxime and Patrick — our new French family. Celeste, despite her fondness for sleeping in, decides to accompany them. The hours and hours of kayaking hold no allure for me at all. I plan an indulgent day reading and relaxing next to
la piscine
. This is my idea of nirvana.

I wish them all
bon voyage
. As I sit peacefully writing postcards at our French farmhouse table, I decide to take the rare opportunity of solitude to put on a face mask. I need to do something to dispel the clouds of dust that consume my days from working in
le jardin
. Lost in my own world, I am startled by a heavy knocking at the door. ‘
Sacré bleu
,' I fume; my cherished seclusion lasted only a few minutes. It is first thing Monday morning. Who on earth could it possibly be? Is there no end to the constant parade of
artisans
and
amis
who drop in?
Non
. Life could not possibly be more different to our working life at home.

This time it is two men who convey one word that I instantly seize on:
cadastre
. I have only managed to wipe off some of my mask in the few steps to the door. ‘
Pardon
,' I apologise several times for my unconventional, very un-French appearance. I dash to grab the dictionary. Of course, it is not in our
nouveau
bookcase where it should be. I rush around our
petite maison
, searching for it. It is still in my
le sac
from
dîner
on Friday night with Gérard and Dominique, for unlike at home, my dictionary usually accompanies me to dinner in France. It is like my favourite accessory.

The two men present a map of pools in our
commune
. Ours too must be measured and recorded for the local government
département
. The word
cadastre
, having being duly checked, shows me that it means a survey. It would seem that officialdom has found us, even buried in the country.

After inspecting and measuring
la piscine
, they give me a card with a website address that will show our pool in a month's time. It will be a strange experience, to eventually log on at home and see our
piscine
from the other side of the world.

An unexpected call from Dave at home is the next exciting interlude, then it's off to Jean-Claude's and Françoise's to meet
petite bébé
Basile. For a while I cradle
bébé
Basile all alone in their glorious
jardin
, while Bénédicte seizes the chance to use
la salle de bain
. What a moment to remember, holding a new French baby on a splendid summer's day, surrounded by a garden awash with bright beauty. The only cloud in my personal sky is that a
lapin
has dug up one of my new plants. Uncharitably, I urge the rabbits to feast upon Monsieur Chanteur's pines that are flourishing by the day, in their ever-so-strategic positions to completely block our
chambre
light and vista.

My afternoon of seclusion is broken by Dominique's arrival with a metal
pannier
over her arm to pick plums from our laden tree to make
prunier confiture.
However, if one more person asks me if I've made my own
confiture
from our fruit, I think I'll scream.
Bonjour
, I think. Look around you; look at the work to be done. Look at the scratches and gashes covering my hands, arms and legs. I am trying valiantly to restore two acres of wilderness. I have neither the time nor inclination to don an apron and make jam. Why would I when I can buy it at the markets? It again reminds me of the many times when Jean-Claude has suggested I should be whipping up
gâteaux
in
la cuisine
. While I bake at home, in the land of glorious
pâtisseries
and
boulangeries
, I see no earthly reason why I would engage in this pastime either.
Oh là là
, I fume silently on these occasions. It is not just our neighbour who could be deemed old-school at times.

Dominique tells me that when the walnuts turn brown in October, she will collect some from our tree and save them for us. By late afternoon, when the elated but exhausted kayakers return home, full of their tales of tall limestone cliffs and
magnifique châteaux
towering over the serene Dordogne, the fat black clouds of an impending summer storm chase the puffy white ones away. They have discovered me behind
la grange
on my
chaise lounge
, with
chocolat
from my afternoon
glacée
smeared unknowingly across my face, like a naughty child.

Thunder threatens, rolling and reverberating in crashing waves like cymbals. The sky becomes an ominous shadow of dark grey and black. A wind whips up; the orchard trees bend down toward the dry, crackling grass, their arms heavy with apples and pears. Sunburnt yellow leaves dance across the now equally yellow grass. Reluctantly, I pack away the
chaise lounges
and make a hasty retreat to the sanctuary of our strong stone
petite maison
, while the storm gathers pace and then lashes down in fury. The thunder beats a crescendo on our backs as we race inside.

Today has been a snapshot of life in Cuzance. So the summer rolls on in a symphony of bright blue days punctuated by sharp storm bursts,
artisans
,
apéritifs
, gatherings with
amis
,
vide-grenier
treasure and exquisite
cuisine
. After endless days of rain plummeting relentlessly and the wind ferociously whipping the eaves of our little house, I understand fully the meaning of ‘the calm after the storm'. Once we can venture out again into our own
petite
country setting, the earth is pungent with the freshness of a world that is renewed and washed clean.

We take advantage of John and Joe's visit to stroll along the myriad of lanes that criss-cross Cuzance. It is after a very late
dîner
in
le jardin
, and their week's stay coincides with the full moon shining on one side of our path while the sun sinks on the other. I take pleasure in sharing Joe's introduction to French country life. After a city and nightclub life, he surprises himself by how much he enjoys the remote rural landscape. Such is the charm of Cuzance that all are caught in its magical web.

Wandering past the illuminated stained glass windows of our village church, John scoops up an enticing bundle of grey and white fur.
Le chat
then follows us. The sweet kitten follows all the way home. It audaciously walks onto our
petite
porch
.
It winds itself around my legs as I sit on our
très joli
steps. I refuse to look at its adorable face. I will not fall in love with a kitten in a foreign land.
Non
,
non.
Memories of last year and the four
petite chat
born in our
la grange
manger swiftly return.

We close the night out and turn off all the lights in our
petite maison
. Not deterred in the slightest, the bold kitten jumps up onto the windowsill and peers in expectantly at us all.
Le chat
is your responsibility if it is still here in the morning, I tell John as I make my way to bed. He can take it home across the Channel if it takes up residence at Pied de la Croix.

On another evening as we set off on a
promenade
, there is a moment of cross-cultural confusion when I announce that I have broken my second pair of thongs in two weeks. Matters are further confused when I suggest that Joe should be wearing his for the walk. It is implied that they would be preferable to his thin-soled
espadrilles
for the uneven stony paths. I fail to notice his quizzical expression. It is only much later when we return, and I point out my abandoned thongs by the front door, that Joe feels comfortable about telling me that he had been rather disconcerted that I had apparently shared with him the dramas of my underwear. I had completely forgotten that the English call them flip-flops.

Another amusing moment of cross-cultural consternation is when I asked Joe if he wants to come to the nursery with me. As with many of our activities, it's always a mad dash against the clock. The three of them return from a shopping expedition to Martel to stock up on essential supplies. In John's case, this means bargain French
vin
from the bottom shelf. We change over like rally drivers as they pile out. I have a mere forty minutes to tentatively make my way for the first time, on the exceptionally winding road with hairpin corners, to the nursery in Les Quatre Route. When Joe is unsure of something I've said, he reflects on it for a while before checking exactly why it is that we're going to a children's nursery to buy plants. Of course. A nursery in England is where children are taken care of.

la plage and are giving me their cascading purple petunia to hang from
la grange
. Joe and I set off before
déjeuner
with the wheelbarrow to collect it from their
maison
on the other side of the village. There is not a murmur or movement in the midday heat, for all are already seated for the sacred lunch hour, except for Michel, who we encounter hurrying to lunch outside our village restaurant. The banner for our forthcoming
vide-grenier
proudly declares that it will be a three-day
fête
. I indicate to Michel that he must be excited about it, as I know he plays a key role in its annual organisation. I ask him if he will keep aside a ‘
Je t'aime
Cuzance' T-shirt for Joe, like the one I bought the previous year for our other nephew, Mitchell. In what is a touching gesture, he checks the label size inside Joe's T-shirt.

I was a bit anxious about disturbing Gérard and Dominique during the
déjeuner
hour, but as always, we are made welcome. Their cosy traditional
cuisine
has a tantalising smell from the garlic,
pomme
and aubergine that is simmering. Gérard, also the chef in their family, proudly displays many of his
cuisine objets
to Joe, such as a woven basket hanging high under the eaves, that has a pulley to lower it for the
légumes
that he stores in it. The old wooden boards hanging on the kitchen wall are also shown to us. I have always assumed these were ancient chopping boards. Dominique explains that in fact they were used in the past to wash clothes in the river. She tells us that she remembers using similar ones when she was five years old, to wash in the traditional way.