Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (28 page)

At home, the weather impacts on my life only to the extent that I consider what to wear to work or whether my washing will dry. While our
rénovation
also continues at home without abate, I now persistently avoid it. Here, our whole country life revolves around the weather. For the first time in weeks we've had to eat our meals inside. Yes, we are not in Paris, where if it rains you may choose to wear your Guy Larouche trench coat. Here, it's whether the extremes of high temperatures or rain will hinder our working week. A day of torrential rain can be tantamount to disaster in our country life; it can mean a whole day lost paving or in
le jardin
.

It would seem that despite being buried in the country, a degree of vanity still prevails. So after an ‘emergency' dash back to Martel to the beautician, it will be back to the garden for me. However, it becomes even more evident that I need to imprint the days of the week in my mind, for despite my hasty tearing along the country roads to get to my appointment in time, I discover that I have confused the day. My appointment was the day before.

The hasty ‘dash' is another element of French life that, along with my bright ‘
Bonjours
', I seem to have definitely adopted in my
Australie
life. I am conscious, especially now that I have my own
petite
sports car, as I zoom along the breathtaking coastline with the top down, that I seem to have readily assimilated the French-style of driving. Of course, I always wear a scarf from my expanding collection, thrown on ever-so-casually. I even at times tie it around my hair, in true Princess Grace style. Life is in fact so crowded that no matter how early I get up to fit everything in, I still speed to school every day in my dashing sports cars. I feel as if I am a competitor in the Paris to Dakar rally. Since most competitors in this gruelling event are amateurs, I am quite sure that I stand a superb chance of gaining a place. As I zip and weave, dash and dart, foot pressed down to the pedal, Coldplay playing as loudly as possible in my car-cocooned world, I realise that Stuart may well be in for quite a surprise when we return to our French life.
Oui
, an unexpected competitor in his personal stakes in the Grand Prix he indulges in while driving on the
autoroutes
.

For days I've been declaring that I will lay the weed mat. At home, I am usually single-minded in my pursuits. Here, I get easily sidetracked once I venture outside. I create my own adventures. Focused solely on his paving, Stuart has no awareness of my, at times, risky pursuits.

I clamber like a goat and traverse the length of the high stone wall above my rosebed. I throw down and gather piles of more farm debris that have been tossed up there by past inhabitants of Pied de la Croix. More old shoes, more long strands of rusted wire and broken wine bottles. It is risky work as I have to step carefully among the loose rocks and edge my way gingerly along the crumbling wall. My idea of fun is when I next slither under the old oak tree on the
limite
that is being choked by brambles and old wire. The only way to extricate everything is to literally lie flat on the ground and peel away the wire. I discover enormous, moss-covered rocks that will be perfect to edge my new garden bed. Now, how to roll them out, considering that I am myself buried?

More than an adventure playground, my gardening is sometimes more like an extreme sport. Completely submerged under the oak, Stuart calls out from his concreting to let me know I sound like a goat, for all he can hear is a rustle in the undergrowth. Little does he know that I have just been behaving very much like a mountain goat. Shortly after, when I'm using my digger, Stuart remarks that I now sound like an archaeologist. And indeed, that's how I feel when I occasionally chance upon an ancient shard of patterned household tile or china.

My secateurs and pruning saw are my second-favourite weapons in my gardening arsenal. I have now devoted day upon day to my new garden bed, and to clearing the wall and boundary. I hope my roses reward me richly when the day comes to choose and plant them next summer.

I will go on the outing to Jarrige Espaces Vert with my mumma when she stays next summer. She will be on the verge of eighty, and it will be her second stay in our
petite maison.
The last time was three years ago, so the transformation she sees will be significant. Mumma has been a passionate gardener all her life and roses are her favourite
fleurs
. It will be a special occasion indeed, to choose and then plant them with love together. My glorious rose bed will be a tribute to her.

By early August, the clouds scud more frantically across the sky in their bid to sweep away dazzling summer days. The evenings become chillier and the dark cloak of night descends more quickly. The
maison
shutters fold inwards ever earlier to close out the day. Their heavy clunk to ward off the night chill is a prelude to the looming winter months, when we will have long departed. The weeks start to fly, like leaves twirling in a gust of wind.

Last year, every waking — and it seemed sleeping — thought was consumed by
castine
. No matter how many wheelbarrows full that I shovelled and moved, the towering mountain of gravel never seemed to diminish. This year, digging has taken over my life. By now I have been digging solidly for three weeks. Every day I declare that it will be my last. I have lost count of how many
sacs
and
brouette
loads of farm rubbish I have carted away. Along with digging my new bed, the strands of rusted wire wrap themselves around my thoughts, day in, day out.

The rock wall has crumbled severely. Although I have unearthed pile after pile of limestone rocks while digging, I cannot for the life of me lay them properly in the wall. This seems to be another specialist skill that I lack. Coincidentally, a pamphlet is delivered that is offering a day-long workshop on dry stone laying and building. Though I am very much in need of this skill for our life in the country, not for a minute am I tempted. Instead, I keep digging. I know, though, that if I spend much longer on this project I am highly likely to dig through to the proverbial Great Wall of China. Perhaps I should, to see that consummate achievement of dry stone wall.

At the outset of summer, when I grab my water bottle it is as hot as water poured straight from the kettle. By early August, however, the temperature has dropped by a massive twenty-five degrees. The rain becomes so steady and constant on some days that we are reluctantly forced to down tools. It is not until the sheets of icy rain beat upon our backs that we make this decision, particularly if it happens before the church clock strikes twelve. In our
rénovation
life, it's unheard of to stop before
déjeuner
.

Nevertheless, from his avid absorption in the weather channel, Stuart informs me that the Mediterranean Sea is twenty-five degrees. By now, my energy is at its lowest ebb. I let myself imagine floating on the warm, gentle waves, not a
jardin
implement in sight. With this thought, I drift away for a few hours. When I wake, the skies have cleared and Stuart has returned to work. He has spent the time placing the final pieces of paving along the side of
la piscine
, and sorted the remaining crazy paving onto just one pallet, down from our original six. It is these things that are a concrete measure of our progress and achievements.

After a reviving
espresso
, I tear into
les herbes
in the rain-softened soil. To round off my labour before
dîner
, I start to attack the brambles that tower above the stone wall, running from my new bed down to the back corner of
le jardin
. They are spreading and invading and engulfing. They too must be banished from my Cuzance kingdom.

It is, finally, a satisfying job that produces results. I grasp tentacles of blackberry with my secateurs; I cut, pull and drag towards me. Very soon I am surrounded by a satisfying pile of long strands, studded with ferocious thorns, ready to be hauled off to my ever-growing bonfire pile. I'm struck by the fact that my idea of fun may not quite be everyone's. This task requires fierce concentration, or I will either tumble from the high wall where I perch precariously, or be stabbed repeatedly by the rapacious thorns. Attacking blackberries is now my sole focus and means I am utterly absorbed in my Cuzance life. Thoughts of Paris are simply not part of it all.

To while away the many hours consumed by this task and the blackberry invasion, I mentally compose tips for the novice French gardener:

One: when there is only one wheelbarrow and it's needed for the more important job of concreting, train yourself to tiptoe out to
le jardin
at first light so that you can use it.

Two: wear
deux
pairs of gardening gloves. While cumbersome and unwieldy, thus rendering your fingers thick and clumsy, it prevents plunging needles into your fingers every night in your — often futile — attempts to extract thorns. This also has the added benefit that your hands no longer resemble a pin-cushion. In a country life, needles are by no means only for mending.

Three: to avoid endless cat-like scratches on your face when extricating blackberry strands, always use your secateurs to drag them away from the direction of your face, as the strands have an inherent fondness for it.

Four: do not be fooled in the markets by the plump appeal of seemingly luscious blackberries, nestling sweetly in their cardboard cartons. Their origin is nasty, vicious and will do anything in its power to prevent you exerting your will against its demise.

Five: in your endless trips across
le jardin
to your bonfire, do not be tempted to pile your wheelbarrow too high in the foolish thought that you will have fewer trips. This way disaster lies. One
lapin
hole and your load is upended all over the ground, forcing you to start again. The trekking backwards and forwards is so endless that it is impossible to keep count — so don't even try to.

Six: wear thick, protective clothing. Just like your gloves, double layers are highly recommended, for like your hands and face, the thorns will plunge into any inch of exposed skin like a heat-seeking missile. The eradication of blackberrieswill be unlike any other gardening experience you may have had.

Seven: be aware of getting carried away when clambering up stone walls in your relentless pursuit of invading blackberries. It is not until you pause and peer down that you realise you seem to have climbed as high as the Eiffel Tower. Climbing up is the easy part; getting back down can be somewhat trickier.

Eight: when you at last take the time to step back and assess your work, a magnificent stone wall may well be revealed. While ours has significantly subsided in places, the painstakingly revealed stretches of limestone wall are well worth the throbbing back and fingers that still seem to have somehow been stabbed by thorns. It is my Cuzance equivalent of conquering Everest.

Finally, vary assault tactics. Take your enemy by surprise. Use a front attack position for the initial assault on blackberries, followed by rear manoeuvres. Keep blackberries on their toes at all times and then go in for the kill. Drag, chop, dissect, spray. The final step in the battle plan is to forcefully spray the area with
les herbes
deterrent.

I am battered and bruised, scratched and sore, exhausted, but also exhilarated. Last but not least, avoid texting your friend at home to tell him what you are doing. Dave replies, ‘Get a goat or two. All your work will be done for you.' I let him know he should arrange to immediately have some express delivered.

All these setbacks can be easily avoided. This is a refined art that I have taught myself from bitter experience, having been attacked by the grasping, greedy claws of blackberries on more occasions than I like to recall. There is far more to French country life than a novice may ever assume; it is not always a romantic vision of endless
apéritifs
and champagne at sunset each day.

The endless
beaucoup travail
is finally over for another week. Saturday starts with domesticity. However, even the prosaic task of washing has an altogether different ring to it when you announce you are off to
le cave
to
à laver.
The mundane undertaking of hanging linen on the line even has a different air, for they are heavy French linen sheets embroidered with the sweeping curve of initials from a long-lost trousseau. After they have dried in the summer sun, they feel like puffs of cloud on the bed.

With the linen flapping, I take the opportunity to wander slowly round the garden. Two tiny rose bushes that I have recently saved from being smothered by blackberries are already yielding
petite
buds. As I make my way to the far back corner, the first hint of sun for days makes a fleeting appearance, as if deciding whether to finally grace our days again. I stand back and admire the wall that I have wrenched the blackberries away from. At last, it all seems to be taking shape — and there will truly be days to come when there is time to simply smell the roses.

It is not until we have been back for weeks that our Saturday market trip to Martel is leisurely and all that it should be. Instead of our usual frantic, hectic, rush, rush, rush, we are able for the first time to simply stroll. A stop at the
boulangerie
is our first priority. Since it is Saturday, the queue stretches even further out the door. Women emerge carrying glossy boxes tied with white shiny ribbon. Inside I know there will be sumptuous
chocolat gâteaux
or perhaps a tart adorned with fresh
fraise
.

Pastries and
pain
chosen, there is time today for an
espresso
. After waiting, we get a front table, a perfect vantage point to watch the French world saunter past, many with a
chien
accompanying them. Dogs seem to be able to go everywhere in France;
cafés
, restaurants, shops, banks, trains and even planes.