Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (8 page)

Everyone we encounter on our strolls is in agreement about the burgeoning heat. ‘
Il fait chaud
', ‘it's hot', is a phrase I quickly learnt. Just a few days previously, when the days in Cuzance were draped in dampness and clinging particles of moisture, we were all deploring the absence of
solei
. It is the country, after all; the weather is a perennial topic of conversation. At home in Australia, we had just left the perpetually rolling song of the sea, crisp-
pomme
mornings, the soft caressing sunshine and clear blue skies of autumn clarity. Now in Cuzance, the sun is a perpetual bright burning presence. Like farm-fresh eggs cracked into a
blanc
ceramic bowl, the days are the yellow of bright yolks.

If I was in Paris, my thoughts would turn to renting a deck-chair in the Luxembourg Gardens to dream away the drowsy summer hours and days. The furthest I would venture would be to the most famous ice-cream shop in Paris, Berthillon, located on an island in the Seine: Île de la Cité/Île Saint Louis. Such is its reputation that travellers have been known to make it their first stop in Paris. I have heard people say that the raspberry
glacée
is like smelling a bunch of roses as you linger over its luscious taste. Imagine if the biggest decision of the day would be what delectable flavour to choose.

At the end of our first week, Stuart has returned to Brive yet again, and in a quick turn-around has made another
troc
visit. The
trocs
seems to be replacing the
bricolage
this year as his second home. He returns to tell me that delivery for our new bed and
armoire
will be
très
,
très cher
. Determined as ever to save
euro
wherever possible, he has a hasty
d
é
jeuner
and heads back to Brive to pick up a hire truck that he has organised to do his own delivery with.

By late afternoon he is home again, this time with the furniture for our spare
chambre
. We try to unload quickly to return the truck, but I stumble under the weight of the
armoire
. Stuart has backed the truck up to the barn garage, and we leave the
armoire
tucked away until we can get some help from Gérard moving it into the house.

On his third trip for the day to Brive, I go with him, lured by the promise of a ‘real' shopping trip and
dîner
there afterwards. It is, after all, the start of
solde
season, and in France no less.

This year I discovered that the ‘Gaillarde' in Brive-la-Gaillarde stands for ‘bravery' or ‘strength'. It may mean that it is just one of many
bastide
towns in France that is surrounded by city walls to ward off invaders from days long gone. As I wander the pretty cobbled streets, I always make a point of pausing to remember that during World War II, Brive-la-Gaillarde was a rural capital for the
Résistance.
It was where a number of clandestine information networks were based. I always reflect, too, on how I found out last summer that Pied de la Croix hid members of the
Résistance
and the elation it gave me to know that our
petite maison
played a role in the fight for freedom.

Like many towns, Brive-la-Gaillarde has an attractive medieval centre that abounds with shops and
cafés
. While we don't often have the chance — when will the
rénovation
years end? — it is always a pleasurable experience to wander around and gaze at the
chocolateries
and their glistening displays, subside into an enticing wicker chair, sip
espresso
and watch the French world wander past. Perhaps a life of
rénovation
means I am more appreciative of these moments than if I was a tourist passing through.

It has been a truly successful first week, for not only have there been numerous trips to Brive for Stuart, but we have also had
déjeuner
at La Rocaille with Gérard, Dominique and Jean-Claude at the outset. Country fare is quite different to Parisian
cuisine
. All the produce is locally grown and the menus always feature the bountiful fresh produce of our
département
.

After yet another cool, cloudy start to the day, we gather with our friends for the first lunch of summer, and the sun bursts through in a blaze. We sit outside on the terrace under a striped umbrella, soaking up the view of green rolling hills crowned by the
château
on the horizon at Turenne.
Entrée
is
cèpe pâté
— delicately flavoured mushrooms. This is followed by
d'agneau
; lamb is another speciality of our region. The meal is complete with a delicate dessert of panna cotta, its smooth texture enlivened by the citrus tang of marmalade. Though Italian in origin, this dessert makes a frequent appearance on menus in France; indeed, they have assimilated it as one of their own. I am sure that Michelin chefs would deny its origins as other than the most authentic French dish. No doubt their creative interpretation of it has made it sublimely French.

We are both astonished that in the now intense warmth, Jean-Claude and Gérard share a bottle of
rouge vin
. Red wine and midday sun are sure to induce summer afternoon slumber. A siesta was not on the agenda, for it was off to Brive for yet another of our many shopping trips together. A
petite
carafe of
rosé
is quite sufficient for the ensuing four hours that consist of traipsing around the shops, armed with a list of household necessities. This time it's covers for the outside
chaise lounges
, food from Carrefour and, most exciting of all, an automatic pool winder for the cover. Stuart ordered the oddly named ‘Droopi 2' some weeks ago. To our relief, the box is waiting at Piscine Ambiance with ‘
Reserve Cutsfort
' in bold, capital letters. Ah, the power of the internet, I think yet again. This purchase is our summer indulgence. No more struggling with the heavy cover that has to be ever-so-carefully lifted and precisely folded each time we want to use
la piscine
.

The prosaic items at Carrefour are the basic necessities to stock our
petite maison
again, as well as Tour de France T-shirts to take home as gifts for our friends who are looking after our
petit
e Henri. The s
upermarché
outing is enlivened by our, as always, avid examination of the extensive aisles of
vin
. Stuart was excited to discover a guide to the best value champagne in France in
Le Figaro
. We eagerly scan the staggering array and carefully select a few bottles. Real champagne, at extraordinarily affordable prices. We have, however, run out of time today for one of our other favourite summer outings: a visit to the
trocs
in search of second-hand treasure.

Since the next day is cool and cloudy, it's off to Brive yet again. Fortified by a morning at the markets in Martel and an outing with Dominique to a second-hand-shop in nearby Cressensac,
après-midi
proves to be the perfect time to shop, for it is always much quieter than the morning rush. This time we select brightly coloured impatiens to decorate each side of the huge wooden
la grange
doors. A delicate pink fuchsia is chosen to plant next to our
très joli
steps. Truly, Pied de la Croix has been transformed in just a few years from a
rénovation
site to a home. Even better, this year there was no dead pigeon on the doorstep to greet our weary arrival, no mouse in the house, no flapping tarpaulin on
la grange
roof and no ominous
lapin
activity in
le cave.

I know that our unexpected strange foreign appearance in our
petite
rural village is fully accepted when the older inhabitants of Cuzance start to return my waves of greeting. It is not the French way at all, to lift your arm in a gesture of hello. And yet they start to. I have been determined from the outset to be as accepted as fully as possible. Indeed, I have heard of foreigners who have struggled for ten years to fit into life in their village and be acknowledged and accepted, to the point that they have moved to a different village altogether. Passing farmers, Madame Dal seated on her bench amidst her vivid pots of geraniums, Marinette in her
jardin
and, most significantly of all, the old-school Monsieur Chanteur seated in his wicker chair, reading
le journal
in the post-
dîner
hour. It has become more than just our cultural assimilation; it has become a cultural exchange.

However, this is not always the case for those passing through Cuzance. A lumbering, thundering truck passes perilously close to our
petite maison
. The passenger gazes at me incredulously. I am sweeping our
très joli
steps and he appears to be utterly mystified by the presence of an odd foreign woman outside an old French farmhouse. It is how I often feel when the
vacances
cavalcade starts and I am working in the front
jardin
. The curious glances indicate that I must seem like an exotic exhibit in a zoo. I do know that Dominique gardens in a pretty
robe
. Even after hours of hard work she looks immaculate. I would never, ever garden in a frock. I know that I always look the complete opposite of
chic
when I garden. The words ‘dragged through a hedge backwards' spring more than readily to mind. I remind myself that I am not simply planting out pretty
fleurs
.
Non
,
non
. Once again, I continue to engage in a mutinous game of tug-of-war in the ongoing battle of
les herbes
. I tug and wrestle and haul and heave. It is not a time to attempt to emulate French elegance.

Once we return home, we are frequently left pondering how it is possible that so much high drama and intrigue can possibly take place in such a
petite
village. I muse on the fact that despite there only being about 450 inhabitants, Cuzance does indeed reflect the world at large. On a small scale, the theft of pots of geraniums by the obligatory eccentric old woman, to an event that, according to Jean-Claude, is unparalleled in the history of the village.

We find out from his emails that the stakes are high in the bid to be
Maire
. We discover that a member of the Cuzance ‘governing' committee has defected and is running as a rival in the elections. Clearly, this is a source of consternation for the villagers. Which way will their loyalties lie? This may well cause a divisive split in the village. Perhaps it will be re-named Upper Cuzance and Lower Cuzance? The outcome of the election results will be very telling indeed.

So it transpires that J-Luc Laborie, the current mayor, has a rival, Monsieur Pipereau, the owner of Cuzance's
gîte.
One of his own councillors, Chantal Arnal, has defected to the opposition. As Jean-Claude says, ‘Imagine such a small village with two electoral lists — a historical feat!' He also tells me something else that I have long been curious about; that the name Cuzance comes from Latin: ‘There was probably a Roman (Cusius) whose “villa” was there.' He continues to inform us that:

As a first move in his campaign, it is easy for Pierre Pipereau to explain the fundamentals of his creed. ‘I simply want to change the village's governance. I shall be a full-time mayor, accessible to other people, and shunning any kind of patron system.' Pierre Pipereau is a man of character, available, always ready to help people and give them a helping hand for their projects. After jobs in many parts of France and the world, I have ended my active life as manager of the AFPA in Brive.

His electoral platform goes on to claim,

I have not totally given up active life. I am still responsible for missions of local development in the Préfets' entourage; I have been responsible for the Lot network to help young people to find jobs in the building industry for 10 years and I am responsible for inquests in villages for the PLU' — the Plan Local d'Urbanisme, that is, where you may build houses or factories.

Pierre Pipereau,

… claims to be the president and founder of Cuzance Patrimoine which is divided into five sections, such as country lanes, restoring small monuments and exhibitions. ‘I want to be a mayor that listens to his voters, to be active in the development of my village by taking advantage of its strong points, and put an end to its financial debts which are quite heavy.'

Again, Jean-Claude goes to great lengths to ensure I grasp the machinations of Cuzance politics, for he assures me that this is untrue. He tells me that Gérard Lacroix was the founder. I find this fascinating, as he was the man we bought our
petite maison
from. The plot thickens. I also find it extraordinary that such attention is given to so many facets of our village. Who could have ever possibly known that there was individual focus on country lanes? There seems to be far more to village life than meets the eye. Now I know what they are plotting and planning when I look out and see the lights in the
Maire
office burning late into the evening. I am quite sure that the passion of their discussions is further fuelled by a
digestif
or two.

Jean-Claude elaborates further in his extensive reporting of village affairs.

Pierre Pipereau is now gathering a pluridisciplinarian team. ‘I feel like working, unlike today's team, with councillors who are only present for visitors; who know their files, and are knowledgeable enough to further them. I shall resolutely commit myself to a policy of democratic participation within the village where my councillors will be active.'