Читать книгу Our House is Certainly Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 20

Life in Cuzance is stolen time. Each time spent there is a precious gift; one to clasp in your hands, treasure and marvel at the many layers of our lives that have bought us to this point. With little effort or planning, the hours and days fill themselves and overflow in to the next.

One of the very first things we do each year on our market visit to Martel, is to drop into the Tourisme Bureau to collect the season guide, Saison 2012 – Brocantes and Vide Greniers – Lot – Correze – Dordogne. It is a list of the vide greniers and brocantes in the Lot and surrounding départements of Correze and the Dordogne. We eagerly scan and highlight the markets we will visit. Each early Sunday morning is mapped out far in advance. I have the joy and anticipation of returning to our favourite vide greniers such as Turin and Gignac. I can already feel the feverish obsession to discover treasure sweep over me. One of our first this season will be in Blanat, near the famous town of Rocamadour, one that in the past yielded tantalising treasure.

We are off to a flying start in planning our treasure hunts but discover there is a long-standing rivalry between Cuzance and the nearby village of Gignac. It is a rivalry based on their annual vide grenier. Walking through the village one evening, we saw that posters had been put up to advertise the forthcoming Gignac vide grenier. By the next night, on our evening promenade, we noticed they had disappeared. It is the custom throughout the départements in vide grenier and brocante season, for brightly coloured posters to appear everywhere, several weeks in advance, so that people from nearby villages and towns will flock to their clear-out the attic markets. We eagerly look out for these posters and plan our Sunday outings based on them. What was going on in Gignac? Even friends such as Jean-Claude, who do not make it a habit to visit markets, had Gignac on their weekend itinerary. Had it been cancelled? A little investigating revealed that there was friendly rivalry between our village and Gignac – hence the mysterious disappearance of the posters. Of course this made us even more determined to visit the Gignac vide grenier, for we had heard from many people that it was a truly magnificent one. And when the day finally arrived, later in the vide grenier season, indeed it was.

There is always a tremendous feeling of early-Sunday morning excitement as you fly through the countryside to be among the first to explore the potential treasure. Often the markets are held in a farmer’s field and for one Sunday morning a year, it is utterly transformed. Row upon row of cars are all parked neatly in lines – often in an adjacent field. People tumble out of their voitures, consumed by the urge to be the first to fall upon coveted pieces of antiquity. And yet, tearing through the calm of an early Sunday morning, we are often mystified about how there can possibly be a vide grenier at the end of our country drive, for the winding lanes are quite empty and it seems impossible that the remote roads will lead to fulfilment. Yet indeed they do. We turn a corner and there, at a time when most are still enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning, is a field full of possibility. The air is often cool and damp, yet there is also a palpable air of those like us, caught up in the exhilaration of a treasure hunt.

Wednesday and Saturday mornings are allocated to the fresh produce market in Martel, that originated in the 12th century. The arching roof is a huge, self-supporting wooden construction and the space underneath springs to life on market days. The abundant fruit and vegetables are fresh from the farmers’ fields, literally picked only hours before, still glazed with early-morning dew drops. Once the market is fin in time for déjeuner, the only sense that there were hundreds of people lingering with their baskets over their arms, carefully choosing their produce, is perhaps a stray scrap of cabbage leaf, blowing in the light summer breeze.

Martel is a truly beautiful little town, that every single time we are there, I take pleasure in wandering around and gazing at its medieval past. There are lots of imposing doorways, beautiful arches, half-timber houses, wooden shutters and, of course, the towers. As you wind along the road from Cuzance, its seven towers give it a distinctive silhouette. It’s known locally as the town of the seven towers. While most of the towns in our region began as a religious centre or a military site, Martel sprang up because of its position at a crossroads for the Paris-Toulouse trade and as a route for carrying salt and wine. It is also close to the famous town of Rocamadour and was an important stopping place for pilgrims. The sense of history every single time I am there, seems to seep up through the very cobblestones. On market day, the square comes to life like a film set with all the actors in place, as they have been for hundreds of years. Tradition and ritual are part of everyday life in France.

Meanwhile, we are creating our own history and enduring imprint on Pied de la Croix. Once again, before our return, Jean-Claude’s attention to the details of our other life is touching and extraordinary.

This afternoon I had an appointment with a maçon for a quote for your bathroom window, but he could not make it; so it will be on Friday; to switch on the mains, the button is in the small shed at the back of your bedroom, isn’t it?

Your plantations have almost done nothing, due to the bad weather... and are outgrown by the weeds, except the catalpa which displays a single bud. Françoise is recovering from a bad cold caught in those freezing churches! She was wheezing until now like an old Ford T model! Concerning plantations, there is a surprise from me; but it is not doing better than the rest; so much for mysteries!

Love to you from JCC.

Jean-Claude’s remarkable attention to details means that he is following up something that I had actually forgotten about asking him to look into for me! The maçon for my bathroom window. I cannot even begin to predict the possible cost.