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

When we arrive in Cuzance after four splendid nights in Paris, we are lucky enough to have the luxury of almost two glorious months at our petite maison. Though the sun rises at six and subsides in a soft glow at ten, there are simply never enough hours in the day to do all that we want to. Our body rhythms adjust quickly to the tempo of each unfurling day. We rise soon after le soleil does, when chattering birds also greet the new day. I retreat to bed each evening as their lyrical chorus sinks in synchronisation with the final splinters of sunlight. I like being in harmony with the ebb and flow of French rural life. This, I must confess, is the part of me that tends to put a romantic film over the realities of life. I am quite sure that if I had to rise before dawn and crack the ice on a well to draw water, or milk cows in the snow, my vision of country life would be altogether different.

For us, it is always a struggle to juggle the demands of rénovation, the desire to spend time with amis, the longed-for leisurely déjeuners that we dream of while far away — the ones that stretch indulgently for two luxurious hours — the necessity of shopping for all our rénovation needs (after four years the lists still loom large in our life) and, of course, the highly prized hours of relaxation under our much-loved walnut tree. Stuart whiles away his walnut-tree time by browsing through the luxury journal, Propriétés De France — Le Figaro. He tells me how many millions the extravagant, luxurious maisons and properties are in the Côte D’Azur, Provence and Paris. He informs me about the abundant number of chambres and salle de bain they have; which has a vineyard, how many acres some encompass, or a private marina or helipad. The price for each is denoted by the number of maison or châteaux symbols. There are one, two or three. Three châteaux indicate that the property is more than ten million euros. Oh là là, we constantly exclaim as he turns over the glossy pages.

Even more fascinating is when he tells me all about the unique arrangement for the buying of some apartments in Paris, an arrangement called en viager. Property is the one thing that Stuart loses himself in dreams about.

As always, the first week slips away in a flurry of frenetic activity; in and out, back and forth, here and there. By only our second weekend, we reassess how many vide-grenier we will be able to visit over the summer. The names of the villages flow like words in a French sonnet: Autoire, Bio, Catus, Cazals, Floriac, Glanes, Lanzac and Saint-Felix. This weekend there are twenty altogether to choose from in our département alone, let alone the two that border le Lot: Corrèze and Dordogne. This number in one weekend is unheard of. We are torn between all the choices and the lure of treasure that is sure to await. Even more unusual is that there are vide-grenier to go to on Saturday, for normally Sunday is the sacrosanct clear-out-the-attic day for each village every summer, no matter how petite it is. Our excitement knows no bounds.

After only a week, the temperature is already starting to soar. It has changed from just fourteen degrees on the day of arrival — and it is summer, after all — to the low thirties. As Stuart reads Le Figaro over petit déjeuner, he tells me that Paris in spring was like winter, with incessant rain and an utter absence of sun. Summer is predicted to be even more of a contrast.

This does not suit the plans we have made for our agenda at all. We have planned to tackle the next step in our crazy paving project in our third week. I’m predicting that in a superb stroke of irony, this is precisely when the mercury will truly start to rise.

For our second week, we have planned a two-night stay in a chambre d’hôte in Toulouse. This is not a mere tourist trip. Non. It’s been planned for many months to combine it with yet another visit to IKEA. Once again, I can’t imagine that IKEA features on the agenda for many other people on vacances. It will be our third IKEA trip in as many years — Bordeaux and now Toulouse. I’m thinking of writing a personal shopping guide to the IKEAs of France. No doubt it will be a best-seller. To ensure that it is, I will include a comprehensive IKEA cuisine guide. It still delights us that French IKEA offer menu du jour and vin. In my usual fanciful way, I imagine getting sponsorship for my shopping trips.

Irony is a word that often occurs to me in Cuzance. This is particularly so when I start my first serious foray in le jardin at the end of our first week. As I start to labour long and hard in our rambling rustique wilderness, I rant and rave at the ridiculous growth of les herbes. Why are the weeds so strong and healthy? So ferociously determined to flourish? In stark contrast, our carefully planted rows of laurier are languishing. As for the parallel row of photinia, planted by our second gardener who we have long suspected has no idea at all about gardening, they are dead. All dead.

All too quickly, my unorthodox style of gardening returns in full force. The only possible way to even try to wrench the tenacious les herbes out is to sit on the stony ground and apply all my might, which I hasten to add is not too mighty at the best of times. Baguette references once again come into play. Not the long-as-a-baguette-knife accident. Non. The tentacles of weeds descend into the rock-strewn ground, the length of a baguette. Their roots are almost invincible. Like in previous years, they jeer at me and mock my efforts. Despite my enormous determination, I simply cannot remove their intricate subterranean network. Their root system spreads under the ground like the Metro in Paris.

Meanwhile, Stuart is working on the spare chambre. He is efficiently and steadily finishing the skirting boards and conduit. While enormously reluctant to do so, I have to concede defeat in my battle against les herbes. I mark the invincible ones with cairns of stones — never in short supply on our limestone-riddled land — in readiness for the greater force of Stuart. Like many others frequently say, is there nothing he can’t do? It would appear not.