Last Tango in Toulouse (8 page)

If David was feeling unsettled by the move and his upended routine, he was soon about to feel a great deal worse. A week after arriving at the farm I abandoned him and went to France for a month. It was my first trip back since my glorious escape the previous year and it was to be the first time I would live in our village house. I planned to spend some time with Ethan and Lynne before they came back to Australia to have their baby, and to research and set up a walking tour around the villages in our region of France for the following year. I was filled with anticipation and excitement; somehow the joy associated with moving to a new home, especially my longed-for farm, had totally eluded me. My mind and heart were already in France and the rest seemed like a dream.

David looked totally crestfallen as I climbed on board the small plane at Bathurst airport that would connect me to my flight to Toulouse. In so many ways I was relieved to be escaping from the chaos of the move, although I had managed to find the energy to unpack the pots and pans and set up the kitchen, to arrange the small living room and to make our bedroom as cosy and comfortable as possible. The rest of our possessions, including innumerable boxes of books, magazines, journals, clothes, paintings and family photographs, were still piled up in all directions. In truth, I was leaving David in the midst of a terrible mess and with the routine of his daily life in total disarray. I should have felt a little guilty, but I didn't. I had discovered the most exhilarating sense of freedom when I headed off for France last time, and this time was no different.

When I first arrive in Frayssinet-le-Gelat, Ethan and Lynne are in the process of packing up to return to Australia, although they still have one week to go, which means we can socialise together and give them a rousing farewell. They have become a popular young couple in the community and the locals have really taken them to heart. Lynne looks quite beautiful even though she is still feeling quite fragile; she has colour in her cheeks and that glorious glow that accompanies a happy pregnancy. Ethan seems to have grown up a lot, which is natural given the independence gained by travelling and working in a foreign country, not to mention impending fatherhood. He is not at all concerned about the actual birth, having been around during all Miriam's labours, with the exception of little Gus's. However, both he and Lynne have had to make a huge adjustment in not only accepting but embracing the idea of having a child while they are still in their early twenties. By the time I get to France they are filled with excitement and anticipation and it's good to see them so positive and happy.

They have done a lot of work on the house, painting the upstairs bedroom a crisp, clean white and cleaning out the attic room and finishing the walls with a thick, white render. They have also nested, making the house cosy and comfortable despite the lack of smart furniture and flash kitchen appliances. It looks well loved and well lived in, which is a vast difference from when we first bought it last December.

Our house is situated smack bang against the main road, with a narrow footpath, barely 45 centimetres wide, separating the front shutters from the rumbling wheels of passing trucks. Originally, the road would have been a relatively narrow dirt track, but progress has meant that all the winding country roads have been widened to accommodate the large trucks that hurtle through every day except Sunday, when there is a moratorium on heavy vehicle traffic. I suspect this national regulation is as much to do with preserving the age-old custom of the large family lunch on Sunday, for the sake of the truck drivers and their families, as much as for the ensuing peace on the road. Knowing that wine is often liberally consumed at these lengthy Sunday repasts, having no trucks on the road is also probably a sensible safety precaution.

The house is tall and narrow, with shutters on all three levels. It is no more than nine metres wide and it shares a wall with a more substantial house on the corner block. The remaining three walls are at least a metre thick, having been built using the traditional method of local stone with a mud slurry mortar. Late in the nineteenth century the front and side of the house were covered in crepi, a dull grey concrete-like render that became fashionable when the villagers tired of the sight of stone. The crepi was considered a neat and sophisticated finish, although these
days it is deplored by new home owners who go to great lengths to chip away the render and reveal the gorgeous warm stonework that lies beneath.

Although the arched doorways that face the street still open, the main access is through a shuttered timber door on the side of the building. The large arched doors at the front are there because the house functioned as a shop over many generations, initially selling wooden agricultural baskets (trugs) that were made in the barn; in a later incarnation it was a hairdressing salon. There is evidence that the main downstairs room was once divided into two areas – the front portion being the shop and the back the living area for the family. This room would have been quite small, dominated by a huge stone fireplace, stone sink and a thick stone shelf used for food preparation. There would have been no space for any comfortable furniture, just a table and chairs; French families rarely had a sitting room or sofas. The constant cooking aromas and the warmth of the fire would have made the small room cosy and welcoming during winter, but unbearably hot and oppressive in summer when the July and August temperatures often hover for weeks in the high thirties.

The ceiling downstairs has been timber-lined, and my first inclination is to rip away the narrow boards to reveal the chunky timber beams that I am convinced are underneath. However, I am later discouraged by David, who feels it best to leave well enough alone. Uncovering anything unknown may lead to all sorts of disasters, not to mention the fact that the wiring and plumbing are all hidden inside this ceiling cavity. Heaven knows what we might find if we start ripping the room to pieces.

Some decades ago a back door was obviously excavated through the thick rear wall of the house, cutting the old stone
washing up sink in half, sadly. This door leads out to the small square courtyard between the house and the barn. Unlike the rest of the house, the back wall has never been rendered with crepi, and the bare stone gives us a pretty good idea of how the house will look when we have chipped away at the front and side walls.

The ground-level floor is timber, but unfortunately it's very badly executed, a combination of narrow chestnut boards and mock timber sheeting laid over compressed board. Goodness knows what happened to the original oak flooring – I can only guess that at some stage a decision was made to raise or lower the floor level, and the cheapest option was taken. There's a cut-out square just inside the front door that looks like a trapdoor and, sure enough, when we jemmy it up we discover a cellar, or ‘cave' as it's known in France, a must for any serious wine lover.

A handsomely curved timber stairway leads to the next floor, which consists of a small landing with a traditional window and shutters and two quite large but extremely plain bedrooms. The one facing the street has two windows, while the bedroom overlooking the courtyard has one window and a deep stone sink that no doubt served as the family bathroom in times gone by. Once again the floors are of chestnut and the boards are narrow, but fortunately it's all in good condition and quite authentic for the period of the house. This is the level I find most captivating.

The top level is reached on curved rickety stairs that are badly in need of replacement. There's plenty of headroom to the roof, but the beams are extraordinarily heavy and low – you have to duck your head to get from one area to the next. As usual, my first instinct is to remove the beams, but again expert advice indicates that this would be structural madness. The four thick
stone walls are tied together by these massive beams and we would have to undertake major engineering work to create full headroom in the attic. I decide that we will think about it at a later stage and concentrate now on the two lower levels. Getting them comfortable and pretty will cost as much as we have in our limited budget.

The gravelled courtyard is backed by a two-storey stone barn, which for me is the most appealing part of the entire property. The door to the barn is original oak with heavy metal hinges, still very handsome and solid. Inside the darkness of the barn, which has no plumbing or electricity, there is the potential to create the most wonderful extra bedroom and bathroom, and perhaps even an office if I ever decide to spend a year in France writing another book. The first time I stood inside the barn I contemplated what it might have been used for at various times – perhaps chickens and a cow, or even a couple of pigs. The concept of living in such close proximity to large animals in a confined space is fairly revolting, but it was probably the norm in villages like this for centuries.

The least attractive aspect of the house is the bathroom, added along the back wall probably thirty years ago. It is an ugly concrete-block corridor that has been rendered on the outside with stucco and badly tiled on the inside. It's gloomy, damp and cold, and definitely needs rethinking if we are to make the house comfortable for long-term visits.

In spite of its shortcomings, the house is quite livable in a basic way, and we were lucky enough to buy it with all the furniture and furnishings thrown in by its former English owners. Although we plan to gradually replace everything, it is handy not to have to go out and buy items like vacuum cleaners,
clothes dryers and tables and chairs. When we first move in all we require is some basic linen. There is no central heating, which locals insist is essential if you plan to stay in France for a full year, but there is a fully functional cast-iron Godin slow-combustion stove in the fireplace, which I light almost immediately after we arrive.

Ignoring the fine details and the work that has to be done some time in the future, the house has an innately charming atmosphere and an appeal that is very plain, very French and very rural. At home I would never contemplate buying a house on a main road, but somehow in this French village it feels perfect. All the houses that adjoin the main intersection and the square that surrounds the Romanesque Church are in the same position as us, right on the road, and it's as though we share the same living situation. Our neighbours on the high side are M and Mme Thomas, an elderly couple with a house clad in drab grey crepi just like ours. Their daughter and son-in-law live in the adjoining house, with two teenage sons who travel each day into Prayssac by bus to the high school. The Thomases have a walled garden just up the road, overflowing with produce and flowers. There are fruiting trees and vines, neat rows of lettuce and various greens, and in summer enough tomatoes to feed the two families all year round. Climbing roses and clematis drip from the stone walls surrounding the garden, and hidden at the back of the house is a modern swimming pool for summer dipping.

Within a day of my return my diary is filled with a series of catching-up lunches and dinners and I realise that I am bound to fall back into my bad old habits – lingering lunches at Mme Murat's, hazy afternoon sleeps to recover, followed by
equally filling evening meals in the company of friends. Not the healthiest of lifestyles, but one that I can't help but enjoy. I wonder, if I were living here full-time would I be a little more circumspect? Cut back the socialising and lead a more balanced and sensible life? Jock doesn't, and I fear that I would probably be just like him. Heaven help my waistline!

I still can't believe it's ten months since I was last here. I am so excited to come back and renew my many good friendships, the connections that bound me during my first visit and helped convince me that I should make France a permanent part of my life. My first friend in the Lot was Jock, a retired journalist and larger-than-life character in every sense of the phrase. When I wrote about my adventures in rural France I described Jock as the ‘King of Grunge' because of his dishevelled appearance and penchant for red wine, the dregs of which often decorate the front of his shirt. My picture of his appearance and lifestyle draws roars of recognition from all who know him, but Jock steadfastly refuses to acknowledge this unanimous public perception. An advance copy of the book arrives a few days after my return and, after reading it, he lets me off lightly.

‘I told you that you could say whatever you wanted about me, as long as it wasn't the truth. And because I am not the drunken, noisy slob you have portrayed in your book, I can't possibly take offence.'

Thank heavens for his self-deprecating sense of humour. Jock generally refuses to acknowledge reality and drifts through life with a blind optimist's adoration of his much loved little patch of the world. Perhaps he's indicative of men in general, who cannot really see themselves as dispassionately as the rest of the world (especially women) see them. A medical survey carried
out a few years ago tested individual perceptions about weight and appearance. Most men, no matter what their size and shape, had a view of themselves as being quite slim and in good shape. They looked at their peers and commented on how they had ‘aged' but couldn't actually see themselves as being in the same boat. Women, on the other hand, no matter how slender, complained of looking unattractive and of being overweight. They worried at the first sign of aging and generally had a critical view of themselves.