Читать книгу Our House is Certainly Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 16

Stuart’s promise of the past – which I had never quite believed – has proved to be true.

He reminds me that he had absolutely assured me, that each year the renovating and hard work would get easier. To my enormous surprise, it is indeed the case. Well, at least so far. It’s early days yet. At the start of our vacances, time seems to stretch to infinity.

However, our frantic, feverish renovating seems to have decidedly been replaced by domesticity. On day three, Stuart tackles the enormous pile of paperwork – voiture insurance, the Piscine Ambiance contract we need to renew each year for opening and closing the pool, and of course, the official Cahors letters. I start to unpack our suitcases.

It is telling in itself that after three whole nights, we’ve had no need of anything we packed.

Our tiny wardrobe is fitted into the wall of our chambre. It has handmade, dark wooden doors and is very small and narrow. I carefully apportion half the petite space to each of us. I then meticulously layer our clothes on the hangers. There is a trick to hanging everything properly; the coat hangers have to be ever so carefully placed at an angle. Who knew there was such an art form involved in hanging clothes so precisely?

Yet what do we wear each day in Cuzance? The very clothes that have stayed in Cuzance for a year. For two people who claim to rarely shop, it seems absurd to simply have so many. Just like the delight I take in unearthing our vide grenier finds to display and decorate, once again, I pull on my much loved, well-worn, faded green pantaloons, my soft-with-age blue and white striped top and my faded denim skirt. These clothes cost me only a few euro and must have been washed hundreds of times by their previous owners. They are my absolute favourites, for they are like meeting up with old friends.

And the rest of the time? We pull on our old, stained, ripped work clothes to labour day after day in le jardin.

My life is suddenly so domestic this year, that my notes for daily life consist of asking Françoise why the water stays in the washing machine compartment each time I wash, and what is the word for stain remover. A far cry indeed from just a year ago.

This however, although I don’t yet know it, is all about to rapidly change... It would seem I have a false sense of idyll.

In the short space of a year, it is hard to believe that our early days on arrival, have changed so dramatically. It is also a source of irony to me, that now our petite maison is no longer an empty, bare shell, waiting to be renovated and furnished, and the more Pied de la Croix becomes a home, the more there is to do before we can even start this year’s huge project outside. So it is not until day four, that the house is fully restored from its packed-away, boxed-up, dust-covered state. The books are out, the objets artfully displayed, and it is already such a home in every sense that every single item I go to reach for, whether it is in la cuisine or la salle de bain, that there is nothing I can’t find that I need. I even have a hairdryer in the bathroom. How times have changed indeed!

I feel a certain sense of pride in what we have achieved – and in a foreign country.

From just a sink and old wood stove as the entire kitchen in the first year, to a shiny new IKEA cuisine; a wall knocked down to create space, and the last vestige of the most recent rénovation in the 70s, the tartan wallpaper – all vanished. The toilet however, to my daily horror, remains a dark box, like a petite walk-in cupboard.

Such is our domestic devotion that we have even been to the car wash in Martel.

Domesticity reigns supreme in Cuzance. What I am already realising is that our packing up at the end of our vacances, will take just as long . And, let’s face it, there is a lot of work to get underway before that time arrives. What is also creeping into my thoughts is that perhaps we are simply avoiding what lies ahead. Nevertheless, there is no denying that this more low-key approach is certainly attractive – and indeed, seductive. No endless parade of artisans to ‘Bonjour’ and offer espresso to every day. No garden crowded in a sea of artisan trucks, no – for the moment anyway – phone calls to plombiers that are never returned. The days start now with a calmer rhythm.

We start our own Cuzance rhythm to reconnect fully once again with our French life. So, it’s off to the boulangerie in Martel for the first of what will be many weeks of indulgent treats. At only ten thirty the display of luscious pastries is almost depleted but we are more than delighted with our abricot hibou, savoured with an espresso at the café across the road. The pastry simply melts in our mouths, we breathe in deep sighs of utter contentment. The equivalent of our Danish pastry at home has this intriguing name as it means ‘owl’, named so for the fact that the two luscious pieces of apricot placed in its centre, represent the eyes of an owl. When we tell Gérard and Dominique about our latest boulangerie delight, they have not even heard of an abricot hibou. It is no small surprise to me that Dominique is not familiar with it . Someone as svelte as she is probably only ever steps inside a patisserie once a year for Noël celebrations.

We love the fact that it is perfectly permissible to take your own petite déjeuner pastry to a café. Within just a few minutes, we see two people we know – Monsieur Arnal, the owner of the Hotel Arnal in our village, and Nigel, an English friend of Jean-Claude and Françoise. While my French has sadly not progressed at all in the past year, I do know enough to grasp that Monsieur Arnal is eager to know if I can now communicate with him more fully. I shake my head, ‘Non.’ It is a disappointment both to myself and him.

Then it’s off to Intermarche , to discover that the supermarché has considerably expanded in the past year. The fish display is much larger and has soft jets of water spraying the fresh poisson. Like all our supermarché visits, especially the first time back, it is the wine aisle that we linger in the longest. Most exciting of all is how affordable champagne is. We buy a bottle for Liz’s arrival the following week.

To round off our responsibilities, we go to Jean-Claude’s on a mission, to use his internet. Such is his endless kindness, that he lets us have his lengthy encryption code so we can use our own laptop. I’ve tried to use their computer on previous occasions but the different layout of the French keyboard means that my typing, never good at the best of times, is even more of a dismal failure than it normally is. It is a lengthy, tiresome afternoon of trying to connect with the world. It also proves to be true that if something seems too good to be true, then that is indeed the case. We finally log on and check why our new portable deal does not seem to be working. It would appear that our two euro a month plan does not have international access until the following year. And so, we are virtually cut off from the world for two months. Jean-Claude will be our conduit to the vast world beyond Cuzance. Truth be told, I love the sense of escaping from the world; buried in the country, reality seems to be another place altogether. We immerse ourselves in the slow pace of Cuzance village life.

Once technology is sorted in a fashion, we are able to relax over apéritifs. I am truly touched, when out of the blue, Françoise, tells me that she intends to whisk me away for a weekend to their apartment in Lyon. I had already gleaned from Jean-Claude in our previous chats, that it is quite grand. Now, when Françoise describes it to me, it seems even more so – parquetry floors, four chambres, study, cuisine, sitting room, salle de bain and a terrace. She tells me it is enormous and in the heart of Lyon. An invitation such as this is an honour. I simply can’t wait. I don’t have weekends away like this at home, let alone in France. While we spent several nights in Lyon, three years ago, the experience will be nothing compared to this insider’s guide.

We leave in the early evening after another relaxing apéritif hour, this time, next to their piscine, soaking up the late summer sun and the beauty of their herbaceous border.

I always marvel at the grandeur of their maison and jardin. I am conscious too that it represents over twenty years of love and hard work . I know that our petite farmhouse and rustique jardin will never be quite on this magnificent scale. Just as we emerge from behind their high stone wall, we encounter Gérard, who we’ve not yet caught up with this year. He always reminds me of a big, friendly bear – with his shock of white hair and large frame. He’s been out for a bike ride and invites us to go back and see Dominique. I plead fatigue, although their friendship is one we look forward enormously to rekindling each year. Seeing Gérard always warms my heart. Again, although I can’t exchange as much conversation with him as I would like, he always makes me feel happy. He is perpetually beaming and the very essence of bonhomie. As Stuart says, ‘As happy as a butcher,’ for who has ever met a grumpy butcher? Jet lag still lingers though and we know to accept means that the apéritif hour will be extended by several more .

By the time Stuart serves dîner, I’m nearly falling asleep over my succulent pork chop and lettuce dressed with French mustard. I crawl into bed straight after dîner and indulge in one of my favourite Cuzance moments, gazing out at the verdant trees and pink-tinged sky. The moment is completed when the full moon bursts out from behind the soft puffy clouds. My reverie is broken when I see Jean-Claude striding past our chambre window. Though it’s late evening, in his inimitable fashion, he has dropped in to check on the alarming activity in our cellar. Over our apéritifs, he had surmised that the digging and huge pile of dirt may be from a badger. He had even made a joke, ‘Don’t be afraid to badger me about the badger.’ He and Stuart set off to the damp, cold cellar with a torch to investigate. Jean-Claude concludes that the digging seems to be from a rabbit. I am astonished that such a huge mound of dirt could be from an excavating lapin. Jean-Claude disappears into the night and Stuart comes in to let me know that his booming voice has carried back through the quiet night as he informs Monsieur Arnal that we have a lapin problem in le cave. It would seem that the whole village now knows.

Such is the way of a petite village and it is part of what makes me love Cuzance.