Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (26 page)

I step out in the road and stop the truck driver. He announces, ‘Pont P.' I think, ‘
Bonjour
, yes I can see that on the side of your truck. Why else do you think I have stepped out into the road to stop you?'

Naturally, in the flurry I forget the word for ‘straight ahead' to direct him. I manage to stumble out, ‘
Tout droit, gauche
,' and, ‘
la grange
.' He takes off. I am left panting in the middle of the road.
Sacré bleu
again. He could have at least taken me with him.

I race after him. He has stopped again. Jocelyn and Michel are explaining to him who I am and where I live when I catch up, gasping out, ‘
Gauche, la grange
.' No-one takes any notice.

Glenn is waiting by the stone pillars to direct him in. Monsieur Pont P can't place everything in the barn like we wanted. Instead he uses his hydraulic hoist to manoeuvre the bags of concrete in front of
la grange
. We swing into action. Glenn carries all the concrete bags into the barn and then we cover the sand with
plastique
in case it rains. My black dress from Paris is streaked with dirt. I wonder yet again why I always choose to wear it on such inappropriate occasions. We close the heavy
la grange
doors and celebrate with a
bière
next to
la piscine
.

When we all meet up in Souillac for
dîner
there are lots of stories to trade. We discover that Stuart in fact received a number of calls from Monsieur Pont P. Renate explained to their French bridge counterparts that it was critical to have
le portable
on. It transpired that Monsieur Pont P had called Stuart at the precise moment I was careering through Cuzance. He told him he was on the road to Souillac and simply could not find our
petite maison
. No wonder I virtually had to run there as well. Amazingly, at the very moment Stuart was talking to Monsieur Pont P in the midst of the very grave game of bridge, he told me that he could hear my voice in the background. How well he knows me, for he also tells me that when he heard my panting voice, he also knew that I was, indeed, flapping wildly.

Despite Glenn and I speculating that they would be last in the competition, for the odds are presumably stacked against them on a number of counts in a foreign land — disruptive
portable
calls notwithstanding — they triumphantly tell us that they were actually third out of nine teams. Even more incredible is that after playing at the bridge club a year ago with Françoise, the players remembered Stuart.

We eat
dîner
alfresco, overlooking an ancient still-in-use water pump. A parade of containers is lined up in a row, and as dusk falls villagers emerge one by one to work the ancient handle. The strain of the heat of the day shows in Madame's weary face as she takes our order. The tables are crowded, mostly with locals. It is Friday night, after a day that soared to forty degrees. It is the third time we have eaten at Auberge du Puits and by now we feel like regulars. Once again we have taken delight in sharing one of our finds with friends and, even more so, the culinary pleasures of the blackboard menu that features produce both of our region and further afield.

If only all of life's decisions were reduced to such simplicity. What to choose tonight, knowing that the food will resonate with the customary French flair and finesse, the flavour and freshness comparable to none. Will it be
cassoulet
, a warming dish of duck and bean stew? From past experience I know this is hearty winter fare, preferably after a hard day as a farmer toiling in the fields. Or
moules
and
frites
? Mussels, with
baguette
dipped in the succulent sauce? No, a night like tonight, after the anxiety of awaiting our delivery and then pounding through the village in such an ignominious fashion, deserves only one choice. My best-loved dish of all:
bifteck
and
frites
. Steak, of course!

The image of a blackboard menu is another that resonates when I return to my other life. Tonight on offer is the usual eclectic array that we find at all the restaurants we discover. At the end of our long
dîner
that we have lingered over for hours in typical French fashion, we introduce our friends to the culinary delight of the home-made
tarte tatin
. There is a hush over the table as we all savour what must be one of the most truly delicious desserts in the world.

We return from Souillac to find cars already parked in front of our
maison
in readiness for the start of
Cuzance En Fête.
We wander down to listen to the Booze Band. Despite the late hour, the village square is full of people patiently waiting for them to start. We are all mystified by how an Irish punk band has come to perform in our
petite
village in the depths of the country.

We say, ‘
Bon soirée
,' to all those we know, including the assistant from Intermarché. There is no doubt she remembers us, for it is she who served us when our cash card didn't work. Jocelyn shares a laugh with me about my Pont P escapade. She remarks on my transformation, for I am now wearing a
chic
black and white
robe
. Once again, I am grateful that the villagers do not always see me in a state of utter dishevelment. Brigitte Dal, who must be in her seventies, looks positively radiant. I comment on her
nouveau coiffure
, for clearly she has been to the hairdresser, ready for the event of the year in Cuzance. She beams at me.

At nearly midnight, we sit on our
petite
porch, sipping a final
digestif
. Nature provides the most spectacular light show any of us have ever seen. We walk to the rise beyond our house to take in the full extraordinary display of jagged lightning that illuminates the stormy clouds.

After a very late
soirée
, we still all wake early to set off to a prized Saturday
vide-grenier.
It is a
magnifique
drive through farmland and scattered
châteaux
that showcases our
département
to Glenn and Renate, all with the trademark limestone cliffs as a dramatic backdrop. Saint-Céré is a movie director's dream. A statue of Canrobert, a Marcheral who was in charge of a battalion of the French Foreign Legion, dominates the town square. The square is surrounded by
cafés
under striped awnings, and
chic
shops nestled in the cobblestones of side streets. It is bordered by the Céré River, lined with pretty stone
maisons
and linked by wooden bridges to the town. The first patrons of the day are sipping their
espresso
, watching the world wake up. There is no evidence, however, of the
vide-grenier
, the start of the ten-
euro
competition that Glenn and I planned in
Australie
.

We head to the
Office de Tourisme
to enquire. It starts at two. We have never known a market not to start when the day does. To counter our disappointment, we stroll the cobbled streets, admiring the architecture, which is quite different to our region. It is not the limestone construction of le Lot but more of an Elizabethan style, as the houses have wooden cross-beams on their exteriors. It is another splendid photo opportunity; wooden windows framed with lace curtains and hanging baskets of
fleurs
.

We decide to head to nearby Loubressac for lunch, to a restaurant we well remember from our stay at nearby Puymule four years previously. Stuart recalls the way and he drives up the winding hillside. The sides drop away to reveal a valley of hamlets enfolded in the lee of the hills. The trees arch gracefully and grasp each other's limbs over the road, while flickering sunlight dapples our drive. It is always his ambition to arrive just before twelve to try to get the best possible table — and invariably he does. The tiny picture-perfect Loubressac, with stone-built
maisons
, is perched on a hilltop and has a
très
bien
view over the panoramic valley.

As always, perusing the menu is a reverential affair. If food was a god, it would reign supreme in France. Will it be Salad Nicoise, featuring tuna, boiled eggs,
tomate
and lettuce? This is a perfect light
déjeuner
option. Perhaps instead the tastier choice of
Confit de Canard
? Perhaps duck cooked in its own fat, accompanied by heart-warming duck-fat-fried potatoes? Despite how saturated in fat this may sound, it is a superb dish. And, of course, there is never any debate whether dessert will be an option. The way a glass of wine with your meal in France is virtually a national law, life is simply not worth living without a French dessert. What to choose today? No hesitation here at all; French lemon tart for four, a sweet concluding note.

I tiptoe into a church after lunch and, finding myself unexpectedly alone, linger to absorb the serenity. I sit in a wicker chair, one in a row of twenty placed in readiness for Sunday morning prayers, in a staunch Catholic land. The ceiling soars; the rich dark-blue vault is faded, but painted stars still peep out to shine on the decorative walls and saints below. Shards of light from the stained glass windows fall upon the flagstones, worn by centuries of worship. For a
petite
village, it is ornate and opulent. It gives me a glimpse into the role of religion over the centuries, for just a few moments of quiet contemplation suffuses me with a sense of peace. I light a candle in appreciation of my life. I watch the votive burning brightly and then leave it steadily burning as I make my way back out into the bright light. As I leave, I glance to my right where the heroic figure of Joan of Arc stands.

It is my second moving church experience of the day. In Saint-Céré I was also tempted by the open door of a church as I found myself alone in our wanderings. Inside, I came across a tiny old woman arranging vases of
fleurs
in readiness for Mass. I admired the magnificent long stems of hydrangea, deducing that they were from her own
jardin
, for just the other day when I had been visiting Françoise, also a devotee of the church, she was picking her splendid roses to adorn the village church.

Madame Flore de Bolliere was joined by an equally small, bent-over-with-age friend. It was clearly a task they have devoted themselves to for years and years, working side by side in the sort of amiable silence that only grows from decades of friendship. Women like them are the backbones of their
communes
, living their entire life there through the cycles of marriage, children and grandchildren. Madame de Bolliere was keen to point out to me the statue of St Fleur, a female saint of flowers. It is touching that a saint of
fleurs
watches over these women, who are now the guardians of the flowers in their village church. These are the memories that linger and resonate.

After our exploration of Loubressac, our tour leads us to another of the One Hundred Most Beautiful Villages of France — Autoire — and the drive takes us through the type of rural landscape that is all you remember most fondly when you are far from France. Tumbledown
pigeonnier
from which the pigeons once used in
cuisine
have long flown, creamy-coloured cows grazing in the long lush grass and mown fields rolling to infinity in their endless burnished gold.

We return to Saint-Céré for the
vide-grenier
. It is a bitter disappointment, for it is tiny and laid out in a car park, where by now the heat bounces off the asphalt and hits you with the full force of its searing intensity. I am sapped by the heat. My usual fervour has deserted me. I wander round in a desultory manner, my heart not in it. The quest is off to a very lack-lustre start, for neither Glenn nor I find a single item. He and I have long planned our competition. We will each have ten
euros
to stretch as far as possible on eclectic items for our
petite maison
. There will be no
robe
or
chapeau
purchases for me. Our finds are to be judged by Stuart and Renate. The identity of the buyer must not be discernible in any way. I know that Glenn is keen to find a set of decorative deer antlers, a strange yet common find at country markets. Even stranger are those that have been crafted into salad servers — complete with the hide still adorning them. If he presents us with such a find, I already plan to banish them to
le cave.

Our own
vide-grenier
in the morning had better be brimming with treasure. I have a slight advantage, for despite my still dismal French I discover that Glenn doesn't even know the simple phrase, ‘
Combien est-il s'il vous plaît
?' to ask the price. I feel momentarily jubilant about what seems to be my distinct advantage. However, the problem remains that while I know how to enquire about the price, I am still baffled by the response. Perhaps it's a level playing field after all.

We head home for a much needed few hours next to
la piscine.
The heat in itself is enough to deplete your energy
.
How we ever manage to work so hard and so relentlessly in such searing temperatures is at times hard to believe. The clink-clink of a
boules
game in the lane behind is the only sound to stir the blanket of heat. Then at six, in the prelude to the evening's Maxi-Disco, music flares up from the village square. It is an absurdly discordant sound in the otherwise hushed French summer landscape. The regular-as-clockwork pigs' feeding frenzy at seven is even more high-pitched than usual. Their squealing seems to be a competitive battle with the steady thrum of disco music. It is definitely not a Parisian evening on the banks of the Seine. The sun dips its brush in its glorious palette for the day's final wash of gold.