Susan Cutsforth and her husband, Stuart, are 'ordinary' people living an extraordinary life. They both work full-time: one is a teacher librarian of thirty years, and the other, a middle-level clerk in the public service. But, as Susan recounts in <i>Our House is Not in Paris</i>, they own a holiday house in France – the other side of the world. And not only that, this <i>petite maison</i> required significant renovating, which they accomplished almost singlehandedly during their working holidays.<br /> <br /><i>Our House is Not in Paris</i> is a story of pushing boundaries, aiming high and, most of all, taking risks. With humour, poetry and insight, Susan's story shows that you can do more than simply dream: if you work hard, anything is possible.
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Susan Cutsforth. Our House is Not in Paris
Prologue
Our Arrival in Cuzance
Arriving in France
PART ONE. Falling in Love with France. All Things French are Fabulous
Solde!
Rennes and the Rented Car
The Loire Valley and the Chef
The Perfect Gîte
A Taste of Things to Come
PART TWO. Pied de la Croix. The Respite before the Renovating Reality
Getting Ready to Renovate
Meeting Jean-Claude
La Forge
The Essence of Cuzance
La Piscine
Trips to IKEA and the Trocs
Days of Renovating
The Madness of Foreigners
Life in the Village
Our ‘Secret’ Life
New French Friends
Real Estate and Technology
My Notebook and The Lists
Life at Home
The Holiday of Lists
The Desirability of Artisans
Is a Working Holiday a Holiday?
PART THREE. The Second Year in the Lot. The Eventful Return
Our Reunion with Pied de la Croix
Back in Cuzance
La Piscine — or, the Long-Distance Pool
Buying a Renault Scenic by Email
What We Mean by ‘Renovating’
The Lists — Again
Not Even a Week
The Roofers
The End of the First Week
The Joys of Renovating
Taking Care of Business — French Style
Chainsaws and Washing Machines
The End of June
Progress in Le Jardin
Precious Weekends and Vide-Greniers
Jean-Claude’s Stories
Mondays and Visits to the Mairie
The Markets in Martel
French Scouts on a Quest
The Grand Soirée
One of Our Best Days
Away from the World
The Daily Life of Juggling
Days out in France
French Elegance
Friends and Family
Week Five
Albert the Gardener
Bonne Famille Restaurant
The Search for a Gîte
Looking at Life with New Eyes
The Renovation Continues
The World Comes to You
John’s Arrival
Blue Sky at Last
Our Last Weekend
The Last Days
Home Again
Back to School
News from Wales
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Susan Cutsforth and her husband, Stuart, are 'ordinary' people living an extraordinary life. They both work full-time: one is a teacher librarian of thirty years, and the other, a middle-level clerk in the public service. But, as Susan recounts in Our House is Not in Paris, they own a holiday house in France - the other side of the world. And not only that, this petite maison required significant renovating, which they accomplished almost singlehandedly during their working holidays.
Our House is Not in Paris is a story of pushing boundaries, aiming high and, most of all, taking risks. With humour, poetry and insight, Susan's story shows that you can do more than simply dream: if you work hard, anything is possible.
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All that Stuart undertakes is always underpinned by meticulous research, even in a foreign country. When he returned from his fleeting trip, I was able to see our petite maison properly in all his photos. What struck me most of all was the golden winter light glowing on the stone of the old barn. Everything was coated in a fine dusting of pristine snow and combined with the ethereal quality of the light; it all seemed truly magical. Indeed, the quintessential romantic dream of owning a house in France. The other thing that most struck me was the inordinate number of outbuildings. As we pored over the photos together I kept asking, ‘What’s that?’ and Stuart very casually replied each time, ‘Oh, that’s another outbuilding.’ The most astonishing discovery was that we had our very own bread oven — a whole building in itself. Then there were the pigsties and the ancient, rundown orchard of walnut and fruit trees. The land itself was enormous and covered in brambles. Inside, the shots of the attic were hard to comprehend: piled with a lifetime of abandoned household items, though sadly no treasure. Stuart told me that it was such an utter mess that I shouldn’t even venture up to have a look when we were there together, but I couldn’t imagine not fully exploring my new home once I arrived.
Our shortlist was based on the list of requirements we had written when renting a house the previous year. At the time, this list was to be our criteria for future holiday houses to rent. There was no way we could have ever, in our wildest dreams, begun to imagine that, just a mere six months later, it would become our template for buying our own French home.
