Our House is Not in Paris (23 page)

I absolutely loved the sense of being away from the world. No internet, no newspapers, no phone — except occasionally on the
portable
, as the French call mobiles — essential for emergency calls to the
plombier
, who had still not come as promised three weeks ago. No sense of the outside world intruded at all, except for the French radio, both ours and the roofers', which they constantly played as a background rhythm to accompany their rhythmic laying of overlapping slate tiles.

My waking thoughts were always, ‘Another big day in France.' For no matter what had been planned, something else was sure to happen as well. I loved the unpredictability of wondering who would drop in today, who would I chat to, what treat would I choose today in the
patisserie
? A day in France without a delectable, melt-in-the-mouth pastry was a sad day indeed.

While thoughts of home and work and family and friends drifted in at times, I tried to consciously dispel them. It was all a part of pushing my everyday world away and completely immersing myself in the privilege of this, our other life. A life of hard, hard work for days on end, but also one of immense satisfaction.

Our first friends were due to stay tonight, Sylvie and her son Axel. In France, despite the long hours and relentless renovating, strangely, we had a far busier social life than at home. We felt privileged to have such close friends who shared their experiences and insights of life in France. If we didn't have them, we would have been mere tourists passing by. I knew that we would always be on the outside looking in. Their stories added layers and layers of riches to our own story that we were creating in Pied de la Croix in Cuzance.

While in the midst of renovating, life was a constant juggling act. One day, lunch was prepared on the pew next to the table, as it was too cluttered with the detritus of renovating for us to even attempt to use it, while the next meal was prepared on the sink. Items were constantly moved from place to place, and every day it was a constant matter of trying to remember where the plates were, where the breadboard was, and sometimes even where the box of food was. Oh yes, I had moved the teabags and other random items to the spare room while we perpetually moved the ladder and furniture back and forth, back and forth. Now, despite sanding and stripping our bedroom door, the undercoat of white to match the white of the sitting room still looked appalling — so it was off with the door. The door was taken out to the front porch to be stripped again. Undercoating it had made it look even more hideous than its original coat of ghastly green and brown. As was too often the way with renovating, what should have been a quick job turned into a laborious chore.

On the positive front, the little house had been transformed into a home in just a mere six weeks. While I knew how incredibly hard we'd worked, it still seemed miraculous. It had become a home to the extent that there were roses on the table, a tablecloth and treasures decorating the
armoire
in our bedroom and the two mantelpieces in the kitchen and sitting room. I marvelled at how much we had achieved and how inviting and attractive the
petite maison
now was. Yes, there was still a sink and stove in the sitting room, but
la cuisine
was a picture in its elegant, white-walled simplicity. The IKEA galley kitchen worked perfectly as a counterpoint to the long, dark wood dining table next to it, with its pew on one side and eclectic array of
vide-grenier
wicker chairs gathered round it.

One of my favourite things after each day was finally done was to lie on our bed with the shutters flung wide open, and, as the heat abated, gaze out at the soft blue evening sky. There is a huge spreading walnut tree opposite our window and, underneath it, Monsieur and Madame Chanteur frequently sit chatting softly away. It is their evening ritual and she is always wrapped up in her dressing-gown. One night, as I flung open the shutters, tightly shut in the day to keep the heat and flies out, I saw them wandering hand in hand across the freshly mown field next to their house. They rarely seemed to leave their home and I'd only glimpsed the occasional visitor, yet day after day they seldom leave each other's side. It seemed to me — observing them from afar — to be an enduring, epic love.

As our home grew around us each day, so too did all that having a proper home entails when it is no longer just a renovating site. Now that I had a washing machine in the cellar — a cause for great celebration — I could throw on another load in between trudging across to the far corner of our
jardin
with the laden wheelbarrow. As I worked in the ever-escalating heat, I mused yet again about how the term ‘garden' did not exactly capture what it was like at all. Instead of gardening, I decided that it was more apt to describe it as ‘restoring the land'. Right now, it remained a sea of rubble, weeds and rocks and grass that was becoming browner by the day.

The weather was hugely changeable and unpredictable. Some days I was virtually passing out from the heat while working on the land. At times the heat was like a fierce wood stove. I felt encased by it, as though I were a loaf of
pain
, slowly baking. Some evenings stayed very hot until very late, oppressive and enveloping. Then, the next night, the sky would blacken ominously and thunder would crack the sky. Then the following day would be very cool with the heaviest rain we'd yet seen. When it eased, I would venture out to the garden yet again. It would be misty and cool, with a damp drizzle that steadily intensified. Before long, I would be completely soaked. Yet, just two days before, I was saturated with sweat and desperately needed a shower to revive. Now, I needed one to warm up.

I was annoyed by the rain, for, while urgently needed for the sun-parched soil, the cooler weather was far more conducive to hauling my interminable wheelbarrow loads. Despite the much cooler temperature, my heart still hammered and my lungs still heaved as I dragged huge tree branches right across the garden. Creating my incessant piles of branches and brambles was relatively easy compared to removing them. I'm not particularly strong physically, so I was perpetually amazed by the sheer size and weight of the tree branches that I dragged across to the towering pile I'd created almost singlehandedly. It must have been adrenaline that kept pushing me and urging me to work harder and faster to reach the goals that I set myself every day.

Despite the downpour, the roofers still arrived. Jean-Luc repeated with a warm smile my greeting to Poppy. ‘
Bonjour
, Poppy,' I would say every day now. I realised that it might not be quite respectful, yet it was the only name I knew him by and no-one seemed to mind that I'd adopted their affectionate nickname for him. Despite his age, he worked tirelessly. Poppy also always respectfully included me in his conversations with Stuart, though he would be fully aware that I could barely understand a word that was exchanged.

The roofers had waited the night before for us to return from Figeac to watch the Tour de France — the year Cadel Evans won. It had been to tell us the bad news about our huge stone cistern. We'd asked for new gutters and pipes for it to run off the barn roof so we could use the water from the rain. However, we were told that it was very worn and cracked and would burst if any water was directed into it. Even I could grasp the horror of a
grand problem
of a cistern cracking and spilling gallons and gallons of water, especially if it happened when we were back in Australia. It was simply not worth contemplating the consequences and what we would have possibly done from so far away. It would have been a straightforward matter for them to simply follow our request to place the gutters and downpipes where we thought they should have gone into the cistern.

I once again had cause to respect their commitment to their trade. Even more so as they had broken their cardinal hours of work and stayed late to tell us. I kept striving to adopt the artisans' way of life and working hours, with a proper lunch and proper break in the middle of the day, but somehow I never seemed to succeed.

My admiration increased even more the next day, for they had been to the home of the previous owner to discuss the cistern problem with him. He turned up in the pouring rain to convey to Stuart that the cracks in the cistern started years ago from the ice in winter. It had been damaged beyond repair over the years. He also told Stuart that the enormous tree planted in front of our little porch, which gives much-needed shade to the
petite maison
on hot summer days, was planted by his parents in honour of his birth sixty years ago. There had been many days when we had been very grateful for its shade — not just to eat our meals under (though swarmed by flies) but to work under as well. We'd used the space to sand old planks of wood retrieved from the barn roof and to strip the paint from our bedroom door.

It was also the setting for many
apéritifs
with Jean-Claude and other friends, both old and new. It was Jean-Claude, though, whom we shared most of the rhythms of our days with. He was our guide, mentor and friend. He advised, guided, suggested and worked alongside us at times. I also sensed at times a hint of wistfulness, for he saw in Stuart the young man he was. It was over twenty years ago that he embarked on his massive renovation project — about the same age Stuart is now. I think it is a large part of why he had taken us under his protective wing.

After we returned, Jean-Claude wrote to me in an email:

We can see you have finally overcome the post-Cuzance rush. We are always so happy to receive news from people we love and reciprocate our love for this tiny part of France. Indeed, we are preparing our winter return to the comforts and crowds of the city. I quite understand your satisfaction at Stuart's magnificent efforts in your Australian house and the satisfaction of the model housewife in having a dust-free home; I must say we had the same problem in Cuzance but they now make wonderful memories of times when we were still young, energetic and optimistic! I have to return to my elm, climb up it and use secateurs and saw, just like you this summer, except the tree is bigger and higher … and more slippery because of the rain that fell (at last) in autumn; but it's so nice to look at life from above in a beautiful spring temperature!

His last phrase metaphorically sums up life in Cuzance: looking at life from above in the beauty of spring.

Days out for us were, unfortunately, quite rare —
One day
, we would keep saying. One of the greatest joys of being in France was driving along the narrow, winding country lanes that link the little villages scattered everywhere. In just a few minutes, the landscape can alter quite dramatically. The towering limestone cliffs of the Lot are an impressive, distinctive feature, with rivers winding beneath them. There are signs along the river banks for canoeing, and Stuart had told me that on the trips he'd done with his brother, you could look up to see
chateaux
perched high on the cliffs that you wouldn't otherwise be able to see, and that you could pull up onto sandy little beaches for a quiet lunch. I'm sure one day he'll manage to talk me into going on a canoe trip with him. However, after our one and only memorable attempt to sea kayak together, I think that day is a long way off.

The times that we did find for drives through the countryside were an endless source of pleasure and enchantment. Every twist and turn in the narrow roads brings a new delight and vista. One minute there are intricately created ancient stone walls, covered with moss and that border the cow pastures; the next, the road opens up to swaying swathes of corn, and then, a slate-grey donkey grazing at peace. The names of the villages on old wooden signs have a rhythm like a poem: Ginouillac, Saint-Cere, Girac, Floirac, Salviac, Cressensac, Cazals, Montcuq, Vayrac. The herds of cows are a toffee-coloured brown or black and white that stand out in stark relief against the velvet green fields. The next moment, the narrow road will curve up a steep hill; the temperature drops dramatically and the graceful trees arch over like ballerinas to clasp hands in the middle.

The whir of cicadas by eleven marks the increasing temperature of the heat building for a summer's day in the French countryside. Then, in the early evening, the swooping swallows dart through the orange sky, dipping for an infinitesimal moment in the rippling water of the pool. The rabbits scurry through the fields and bound home, the church bells peal for the last time; another day is finished. A day to hold in your memory.

In France, where I was especially aware of trying to look my best, sadly the opposite was in fact usually the case. Torn nails from hacking branches and pulling tenacious weeds out of the stony ground; sweat and dirt-stained clothes. On more occasions than I'd like to count, I'd run down the road to the Hotel Arnal on a mission with yet another list of questions for Monsieur Arnal and to enlist his help. For example: how to find a
plombier
as the
septique
was at an unbearable point. On one occasion, there was a very helpful friendly Belgian couple sipping an
apéritif
under the shade of a tree when I appeared, panting and desperate. They kindly translated for me as I asked for Monsieur Arnal's help, and were intrigued to find out that, from across the other side of the world — and now just round the corner from the hotel — we were renovating our
petite maison
. Fascinated by such an undertaking (read: possibly mad), they asked if they could walk back with me and have a look. They were suitably impressed and, to our astonishment, the man announced that if they weren't leaving early the next day he would have spent a day helping us. Who knew? Maybe on their next travels through France, they might surprise us with a visit to see how we'd progressed in the years in between.

I'd also met any number of artisans in an utterly dishevelled state, when they had come to do work at Pied de la Croix. Fortunately for me, they seemed very nonplussed. I did check with Erick when we had to do an emergency dash to the
bricolage
whether I should quickly change out of my paint-stained clothes to look more respectable. I was surprised to find out that even in France it wasn't necessary. Perhaps, even in France, the very nature of
bricolages
meant that it was perfectly acceptable. When we renovated our terrace in Sydney, we would go for lunch in our renovating clothes. No-one would blink an eye, as Newtown was the most bohemian suburb in Sydney. I was sure, though, that eating out in France, dressed like that, would have been an altogether different matter. I was certainly not ever going to put it to the test. I'd already had more than my share of sartorial renovating embarrassment.