Читать книгу Our House is Definitely Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 18

No matter how early I rise, I always know that a day in Cuzance will be a huge one. I also know that invariably there’s an element of the unexpected. Who will visit? What tasks will be accomplished on today’s list? And, of course, what will we eat? Life is condensed to its basic elements in a Cuzance life: work, eat, relax, socialise and sleep. As always, in all we do, the weather plays a key role.

Despite my unwavering love affair with Paris, I muse that in every possible way, the relentless pressure to achieve endless sartorial chic would be overwhelming. As it is, when Stuart chooses stylish cardigans in his favourite shop in Brive, and selects a scarf to complete his ensemble, he asks the shop assistant to demonstrate how French men tie it in their inimitable, nonchalant way. He tells me this is how he has seen men in Paris wear their scarves.

To say I am astonished by his observations is an understatement. What a long way he’s come in his sense of style since our wedding two decades ago in Istanbul. In those long-ago days, he borrowed his wedding suit from one of the hospitality students he tutored at the English House Language School and wore his long hair tied back in a pony tail. It was the first time he had ever worn a suit in his life. And now, he’s emulating the élan of Parisian men. His desire to do so is confirmed when he’s flicking through a copy of Le Figaro and triumphantly points to a men’s scarf tied just so, with ever-so-casually contrived style. Oh là là, I think to myself. Reading Le Figaro is one of his favourite pastimes, usually with a pastis in hand.

When we promenade through the village on our way to apéritifs with Gérard and Dominique, we greet all the villagers we have come to know. Marinette, the matriarch of Cuzance, Monsieur and Madame Dal and, of course, the inimitable Monsieur Arnal. Even though he has sold his restaurant, Hotel Arnal, Jean-Claude has told us that it was part of the negotiation to eat his dîner there every day. Is it now just the dîner hour that he is present? Non. He stills stands proprietarily in the doorway of Hotel Arnal all day long. Perhaps it is because the name is still to change that he feels such an enduring attachment to it. The furthest he ventures is to sit at his customary table outside in the courtyard, where he watches the petite world of Cuzance pass by each day. As was his manner in previous years, he inquisitively probes us each time we walk past. Where are we going? When will we open la piscine? Each year, he is always immensely curious to know when we will have the grand opening of the pool. The fact that we don’t open it immediately on arrival seems to be a perpetual source of consternation to him. Clearly showing upon his face each time he queries us is his bemusement about the puzzling ways of foreigners. We shake our heads and tell him that for now we are still embarking on the serious and pressing business of rénovation. I wonder more and more frequently whether that word will ever leave my French life.

Everyone we encounter on our strolls is in agreement about the burgeoning heat. ‘Il fait chaud’, ‘it’s hot’, is a phrase I quickly learnt. Just a few days previously, when the days in Cuzance were draped in dampness and clinging particles of moisture, we were all deploring the absence of solei. It is the country, after all; the weather is a perennial topic of conversation. At home in Australia, we had just left the perpetually rolling song of the sea, crisp-pomme mornings, the soft caressing sunshine and clear blue skies of autumn clarity. Now in Cuzance, the sun is a perpetual bright burning presence. Like farm-fresh eggs cracked into a blanc ceramic bowl, the days are the yellow of bright yolks.

If I was in Paris, my thoughts would turn to renting a deck-chair in the Luxembourg Gardens to dream away the drowsy summer hours and days. The furthest I would venture would be to the most famous ice-cream shop in Paris, Berthillon, located on an island in the Seine: Île de la Cité/Île Saint Louis. Such is its reputation that travellers have been known to make it their first stop in Paris. I have heard people say that the raspberry glacée is like smelling a bunch of roses as you linger over its luscious taste. Imagine if the biggest decision of the day would be what delectable flavour to choose.

At the end of our first week, Stuart has returned to Brive yet again, and in a quick turn-around has made another troc visit. The trocs seems to be replacing the bricolage this year as his second home. He returns to tell me that delivery for our new bed and armoire will be très, très cher. Determined as ever to save euro wherever possible, he has a hasty déjeuner and heads back to Brive to pick up a hire truck that he has organised to do his own delivery with.

By late afternoon he is home again, this time with the furniture for our spare chambre. We try to unload quickly to return the truck, but I stumble under the weight of the armoire. Stuart has backed the truck up to the barn garage, and we leave the armoire tucked away until we can get some help from Gérard moving it into the house.

On his third trip for the day to Brive, I go with him, lured by the promise of a ‘real’ shopping trip and dîner there afterwards. It is, after all, the start of solde season, and in France no less.

This year I discovered that the ‘Gaillarde’ in Brive-la-Gaillarde stands for ‘bravery’ or ‘strength’. It may mean that it is just one of many bastide towns in France that is surrounded by city walls to ward off invaders from days long gone. As I wander the pretty cobbled streets, I always make a point of pausing to remember that during World War II, Brive-la-Gaillarde was a rural capital for the Résistance. It was where a number of clandestine information networks were based. I always reflect, too, on how I found out last summer that Pied de la Croix hid members of the Résistance and the elation it gave me to know that our petite maison played a role in the fight for freedom.

Like many towns, Brive-la-Gaillarde has an attractive medieval centre that abounds with shops and cafés. While we don’t often have the chance — when will the rénovation years end? — it is always a pleasurable experience to wander around and gaze at the chocolateries and their glistening displays, subside into an enticing wicker chair, sip espresso and watch the French world wander past. Perhaps a life of rénovation means I am more appreciative of these moments than if I was a tourist passing through.

It has been a truly successful first week, for not only have there been numerous trips to Brive for Stuart, but we have also had déjeuner at La Rocaille with Gérard, Dominique and Jean-Claude at the outset. Country fare is quite different to Parisian cuisine. All the produce is locally grown and the menus always feature the bountiful fresh produce of our département.

After yet another cool, cloudy start to the day, we gather with our friends for the first lunch of summer, and the sun bursts through in a blaze. We sit outside on the terrace under a striped umbrella, soaking up the view of green rolling hills crowned by the château on the horizon at Turenne. Entrée is cèpe pâté — delicately flavoured mushrooms. This is followed by d’agneau; lamb is another speciality of our region. The meal is complete with a delicate dessert of panna cotta, its smooth texture enlivened by the citrus tang of marmalade. Though Italian in origin, this dessert makes a frequent appearance on menus in France; indeed, they have assimilated it as one of their own. I am sure that Michelin chefs would deny its origins as other than the most authentic French dish. No doubt their creative interpretation of it has made it sublimely French.

We are both astonished that in the now intense warmth, Jean-Claude and Gérard share a bottle of rouge vin. Red wine and midday sun are sure to induce summer afternoon slumber. A siesta was not on the agenda, for it was off to Brive for yet another of our many shopping trips together. A petite carafe of rosé is quite sufficient for the ensuing four hours that consist of traipsing around the shops, armed with a list of household necessities. This time it’s covers for the outside chaise lounges, food from Carrefour and, most exciting of all, an automatic pool winder for the cover. Stuart ordered the oddly named ‘Droopi 2’ some weeks ago. To our relief, the box is waiting at Piscine Ambiance with ‘Reserve Cutsfort’ in bold, capital letters. Ah, the power of the internet, I think yet again. This purchase is our summer indulgence. No more struggling with the heavy cover that has to be ever-so-carefully lifted and precisely folded each time we want to use la piscine.

The prosaic items at Carrefour are the basic necessities to stock our petite maison again, as well as Tour de France T-shirts to take home as gifts for our friends who are looking after our petite Henri. The supermarché outing is enlivened by our, as always, avid examination of the extensive aisles of vin. Stuart was excited to discover a guide to the best value champagne in France in Le Figaro. We eagerly scan the staggering array and carefully select a few bottles. Real champagne, at extraordinarily affordable prices. We have, however, run out of time today for one of our other favourite summer outings: a visit to the trocs in search of second-hand treasure.

Since the next day is cool and cloudy, it’s off to Brive yet again. Fortified by a morning at the markets in Martel and an outing with Dominique to a second-hand-shop in nearby Cressensac, après-midi proves to be the perfect time to shop, for it is always much quieter than the morning rush. This time we select brightly coloured impatiens to decorate each side of the huge wooden la grange doors. A delicate pink fuchsia is chosen to plant next to our très joli steps. Truly, Pied de la Croix has been transformed in just a few years from a rénovation site to a home. Even better, this year there was no dead pigeon on the doorstep to greet our weary arrival, no mouse in the house, no flapping tarpaulin on la grange roof and no ominous lapin activity in le cave.