Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (9 page)

My goodness, I think. Such lofty aspirations and such a strong political platform for our little rural village. It sounds more like the heated politics of Paris.

In order to make up my team I have strived to get a panel of the forces active in the commune, as many men as women; active people, farmers. I want my councillors to work for everybody's good. This notion is not just a rhetorical or electoral formula; it is a concept that has deep implications for me.

Jean-Claude loses no time in setting me straight on this political gambit: ‘Susan: this is anyway a necessity by law today.'

He continues to fill me in by sending information straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak — we are in the country, after all.

Right now the team is still in the process of gathering ideas in order to insure pertinent long-term projects. I do not want to resemble the people who are today in office since they are people of yesterday and are present only to accumulate financially profitable jobs. The mayor must show the way; our long-term projects will be rooted and programmed in the local reality of our land and we shall make sure they are furthered. I love Cuzance, I love my village. I will give life to a team which is able to work conjointly for the common good.

Quite frankly, I start to wonder if Jean-Claude is mistakenly quoting from the national
journal
,
Les Figaro
, for these ambitious sentiments seem to come directly from the heart of someone aspiring to be president of France.

However, all this pales into insignificance when I discover that in another rural village in France, chicken farmers threaten legal action over a defamatory porn film. All I can say to that is,
oh là là
. Imagine if such high drama took place in Cuzance. Our
petite
village would definitely be on the tourist trail.

This really dispels all notions of a quiet life in the country. It makes me think again of our notes about not buying a house near sheep because of the marauding
les mouches
. I feel that anyone contemplating buying a rural
petite maison
in France perhaps needs to add to their criteria: ‘Do not buy near a chicken farm'. It would certainly seem that whatever you are in the world, even buried in a
petite
rural enclave, you can't escape politics and drama.

While we have chosen to abandon our habit of setting the alarm for precious
vide-grenier
mornings, a quiver of excitement ebbs into our dreams and we still always wake as the first fingers of sunlight filter in. The tingling thrill of the quest soon holds us in its thrall once again. While the little house is already crammed with treasure from our previous early Sunday morning market forays, the lure of summer treasure searches is one that grips us in a passionate fever. Our
voiture
positively buzzes with our eager anticipation. It surges forward with a will of its own along the winding country lanes that still have threads of mist. The little car responds to our palpable sense of excitement, like an eager puppy straining at the leash. Once again, our own
vide-grenier
guide that we plan at the start of every summer also forms our personal exploration of our
département
and the surrounding ones. It leads us to tiny, tucked-away villages that we would never otherwise discover: Aubazine, Beauregard, Gabillou, Soturac.

All the villages display small, brightly coloured handmade signs along the roadside to show the way to their
vide-grenier
. The intermittent arrows, often almost buried in tall grass, point here right, there left. Despite their interspersed appearance, we often wonder as we whizz along the narrow, curving lanes, how a market can possibly appear when we seem to be utterly buried in the depths of the remote rural landscape. Along the way, we gasp at
châteaux
and exclaim as glimpses of soaring limestone cliffs perforate the dense forests. Le Dordogne suddenly appears, carrying kayakers; it is a shimmering expanse in the glistening early pearl light.

And then, the arrows stop.
Voilà
, a freshly mown farmer's field is already filling with fellow treasure hunters. Cazillac is a new one for us this year. Just the drive across the field makes the outing worthwhile, for a sweeping panorama stretches out before us of rolling hills, a tapestry of every hue of green, fields of fat, contented brown and white cows and expanses of tall corn waving in the breeze. It is like a real-life piece of exquisitely stitched embroidery; a wall hanging where the seams are the farmer's stone walls, the colours the brightest threads.

There are many tricks to the trade in the pursuit of summer treasure. I have acquired the skill of casting my eyes down, for far below stall level the best bargains are often to be found. This leads me to unearth superb tea-towels for a mere
euro
. Frequently they are of vintage quality and the scenes depicted are redolent of times long passed. They are far too pretty to ever be used, though. Was it only just a year or so ago I parted with four or five
euro
for an old tea-towel? Well, they were French linen, of course. I have since discovered that I can unearth better bargains.

I have also learnt the art of rummaging through baskets laden to the brim, and ancient overflowing leather suitcases that are placed on the ground. Another speciality I have developed is quite a knack for discovering scarves with designer names, such as Givenchy and Nina Ricci, gracefully decorating their corners. My favourite of the summer is a 1950s one depicting scenes of Monte Carlo. It is silky and colourful, embellished with all the highlights of this ultra-wealthy enclave: Le Casino, Le Palais, Le Jardin Exotique and Le Grand Prix de Monaco. Who was once wearing it and whisked along the cliffs of Monte Carlo in a sports car with the top down, the azure sea crashing below? When I toss it round my shoulders in what I Iike to imagine is an ever-so-nonchalant style, I am sure there is a lingering hint of ever-so-expensive exotic perfume from days long gone. I waft along in a cloud of perfumed dreams, utterly convinced that its owner was a glamorous fifties film star. Vintage clothes and accessories remain among my favourite things of all, no matter where I am in the world. I can lose myself in hours of daydreams, imagining who once owned them and what
soirées
their frocks floated through on a summer afternoon. Ah, ‘Made in Paris' the label declares, and I smile to myself in triumph as I swoop to scoop up such treasure.

Despite our best-laid plans of limiting ourselves to just one
vide-grenier
a day and heading to the nursery to buy more plants, for the second day in a row we abandon our plans. The fever of the treasure hunt has us firmly caught in its grip. So, off we set on another twenty-minute drive, past immaculate walnut groves, prosperous-looking
grande maisons
and delightful villages that are straight off a film-set, this time to Le Cave. On arrival, I immediately fall upon an enormous wooden bowl for five
euro
. Huge, heavy wooden bowls also seem to be becoming our forte, for just last summer we found one that caused heads to turn in envy as Stuart carried it exultantly homewards. Do we need another bowl? Absolutely not, but how could we possibly resist? Once again, I mentally place it on a significant sideboard in
la grange
of the future.

Our plans for
la grange
seem to play a bigger and bigger role each year in our dreams and discussions. Mind you, we still have no idea whatsoever of the potential cost. Stuart tells me that the plumbing alone would be prohibitive. After all, it would be two storeys, and in the design board in my imagination it has three upstairs
chambres
and two upstairs
salle de bain
. We will see. Isn't that what dreams are for? If not castles in the air, a French country barn is what my dreams are made of.

A simple Sunday outing turns into five hours altogether, for by now it's
déjeuner
time. We feel like locals as we decide to head to nearby Cresse and have lunch at a small, unpretentious
café
we discovered the previous summer. Who could resist
canard
and
frites
at a bargain price? The duck is piping hot and succulent; it simply falls away from the bone in its sweet moistness. We both agree that the quality of the food more than makes up for any charm the
café
itself may lack. It is an interesting fact that the
café
of our choice is located right on a busy road. Considering that we both cherish peace and quiet, our seeming predilection for roads is altogether curious.

Each summer we learn new things about our other life. We very quickly learnt to be on high alert after we enjoy
déjeuner
at a restaurant. After the two-hour lunch break, particularly on a weekday, as two o'clock approaches it becomes the critical hour on the roads. Drivers are in a frenzy to return to work on time. It is equally frenetic late on a Friday afternoon in the prequel to the weekend. Another word of caution — the same rule of the road we have learnt applies to the last ten-minute lead-up to the sacred lunch break. If in doubt about your ability to drive in France, I would advise you to eat at home.

We found this out the hard way and almost at our peril. The French tend to drive as if they are in a perpetual Formula 1 race. It's zero to over one hundred in three easy moves, successive swift clutch manoeuvres that are swifter than the swoop of a swallow's wing. They overtake on blind corners, on precipitous hills. Lack of vision is never an obstacle, not even in the driving rain. I catch my breath in fear every time I witness their dare-devil performances.

One time we are returning from one of our favourite restaurants in Les Quatre Route, and our first sublime lunch for the summer at Au Vieux Four. We are on the twisting, turning road back to Martel when a behemoth of a truck starts to bear down on us. He tails us for several heart-stopping minutes, clearly frantic to take off and accelerate past with ferocity — on a sharp corner, no less.
Oh là là
, we think. He overtakes in a rush of wind and we are left in his slipstream. These are the times when we wonder if we will make it home safely. Our little car rocks in the shudder that is left in his trail of vapour fumes. This is not a one-off experience. No wonder the
apéritif
hour is often advanced.

Le Dordogne

Rural markets

Summer descends overnight. In Cuzance, it seems to be as simple and quick as that. The long, lazy weekend afternoons spent reading and dozing under our walnut tree slip away like wisps of cloud in the bright blue sky. It is like a cerulean
chapeau
with floating ribbons of white to tie it. The first of the swallows appear, dipping and swooping in search of water.
La piscine
is still to be opened, even though the sun is now a throbbing pulse.

It has been five days since Stuart picked up his Droopi 2 and it is only on Saturday afternoon that he finally has a chance to open the
petite
box. Despite enquiring if it was
complet
when he collected it, it is not.
Non
,
non
. The essential element is missing — the electric winder. So much for not hauling the heavy pool cover off for the first huge clean. Another trip to Brive, we groan.

Now that the full surge of summer is upon us, so too the forceful growth in
la jardin
virtually unfolds before our eyes. While we are delighted by the rapid unfurling of
petite
leaves on the two grapevines gracing
la grange
,
le soleil
also accelerates the growth of
les herbes
. This is not a reason to rejoice.
Oh là là
, we bemoan. The weeds are back in full force. Their ferocious desire to conquer the land never abates. It will be sooner rather than later that I don my industrial-size
les herbes
spray bottle, sling it over one shoulder, stagger under the weight, and set off on my annual battle. It is a battle that I am quite determined to win. Let the duel commence, I declare with determined vehemence.