Our House is Not in Paris (7 page)

We had both read
The Caves of Perigord
by Martin Walker before our trip, and it added another layer of insight into the area surrounding Cuzance and the history that resonates in the French countryside. The nearby village of Cressensac was on the route of the German soldiers marching to Paris. Now, whenever we whiz along in our Renault, I imagine the drumming of soldiers' feet and the fear in the hearts of the villagers.

We also found a magnificent table and lots of other treasure, such as the
soufflet
(bellows) that Stuart, with his great eye for ‘transforming' pieces, thought would be a brilliant coffee table for the barn one day. On another trip, we stumbled across the absolutely perfect table and sideboard for the barn. While new, they look old and are made of oak and modelled on the style used in monasteries. While this was almost enough money for a car in itself, we couldn't resist it. We thought that, when the day came to search for furniture for the barn, it would be our benchmark and we'd never find anything like it again – so, that was our justification.

Another trip to IKEA took place during our three weeks of intensive renovating. It was yet another huge buying spree, but this time with all the measurements for the kitchen we'd chosen. Part of the planning had been to put Post-it notes up on the wall and move them around, trying to get the placement of everything right. Very fortunately, while everything was sitting ready in boxes for his first project the next year, Stuart found time to put one piece together. Just as well, as the top, which the catalogue had clearly stated should be included, was missing. He used all his mobile credit trying to sort it out with IKEA; without success. We then turned to Erick to check when he would be having another IKEA trip. Erick swung into action and went there to buy us the missing piece and made another round trip to deliver it to us — keeping in mind that it was their busy summer season, with numerous bookings and guests. Stuart was prepared to wait until the following year to get the missing piece but I felt that it might go out of stock. Thank goodness for Erick, especially when he made the delivery and also appeared with two cushions for us to use on our stone steps. That transformed our level of comfort to no end.

The long days continued but the hard work was immensely rewarding. Stuart's mornings were usually consumed by
bricolage
and
supermarché
trips, to the point that I actually did all the sanding of the beams and window and doorframes. I also rapidly developed new renovating skills, such as stripping paint off wood — very challenging indeed. One of my best memories was a Monday morning when Stuart was out and my first task was to take the wallpaper and plaster down. As I did, I uncovered some beautiful old wooden beams. It was a very exciting moment to carefully peel it all away and bring the old farmhouse back to life. It was also lovely to find out the old owners, who stayed in the house into their eighties, were both very much liked and respected in the village. Perhaps that's why there was such a warm feeling in the house, and it also felt that the
petite maison
itself felt happy being brought back to life.

On the last few days of our first trip, we started to frantically tackle the garden. A huge job was wrenching all the ivy and growth off the back of the barn. Meanwhile, I cleared some of the beds and unearthed some struggling little roses behind the barn. No trips to garden centres were needed, though; instant mulch was the hay stored on top of the carport while I just gathered moss-covered old rocks to edge my beds. Much to my horror, I encountered a snake while pruning the wisteria outside the barn. While not venomous, it was still hugely unnerving — especially as I've had more than my fair share of ‘close snake' encounters at home, including in our house! Who else has come home from work to the utter horror of discovering a snake curled up inside a rug? As if that wasn't terrifying enough, I'm sure that I am the only person in the world to go on holiday and then find, to their utter horror, a snake curled under the rim of the toilet. Mind you, I also gave up the offer of an afternoon relaxing by Jean-Claude and Françoise's pool to continue my feverish work. And so, on our very last day of frantic activity, a snake to taint our piece of paradise.

The days here are punctuated by the village church bells, marking the rhythm of the day in a markedly different way than at home. The bells start at seven and finish at ten. What is particularly lovely is that there is a longer pealing at midday to signal the downing of tools at the start of the oh-so-very civilised two-hour lunch break. This happens again at five to mark the end of the working day. Or, in our case, a glass of delicious French wine to revive us to continue working. Some nights we laboured so long and hard — and here we were in the land of the most phenomenal food imaginable — that often our evening meal was bread-on-the-run and another glass of rosé. Hard to believe looking back, but so frenetically where we working that it seemed simply too hard to prepare a meal.

Another delightful measure of each day is that, as the sacrosanct lunch hour approaches, the white vans of all the local tradesmen start whizzing by in search of the nearest village restaurant at which to relax and enjoy their lunch. Many times we would be working away and, if we glanced out the window while up a ladder or stripping wallpaper, we would see the scurrying convoy of white vans and know without checking that it was nearly time for lunch. Brigitte and Erick, who are from the south of France, told us the tradition was dying out there and it is now only prevalent in rural areas. Long live the two-hour lunch break, we say. Not that we were always able to take advantage of it, but the mere thought of it is one of the most enchanting aspects of a culture so very different to ours. And, oh, the days when we could enjoy it and go to a restaurant were special days indeed. The delight of
plat du jour
or the fixed-price three-course menu (which often included a glass of wine) never ceased to fill us with pleasure. Are there any more splendid words in the world than ‘
Bon appétit
'?

The end of the day can be measured too by a neighbour calling her cat. Again, no clocks were needed as, on the dot of 10pm, we would hear her call, ‘Pooki, Pooki,' — or something very similar. We have yet to see either our neighbour or her cat. On most evenings, too, someone nearby would play the piano, its sound drifting across the garden.

There were many times when I felt conscious that I was playing to perfection the role of a mad foreign woman tackling a massive renovation in a foreign county. Marie-France had given me a pair of traditional blue work overalls made of a strange light material and with a zip up the front. I knew they were ripped and becoming more so every day. Yet, without a mirror in our
petite maison
, I couldn't fully see nor fully realise the state they were in until I saw the photos when I got home. Let's just say I was mortified when I saw how terribly torn they were in completely unacceptable places. I was also not at all happy with Stuart for allowing me to dash out of the house to meet roofers and other artisans when they came to give us quotes. No wonder their eyes nearly dropped out of their heads.

Most mornings I was up before Stuart and, after my
petit déjeuner
of muesli and fresh strawberries from the markets, I would dash around le jardin with a pair of secateurs, trying to tackle anything in sight that I could possible manage by myself. I was very conscious that anyone watching would observe a truly demented person, randomly running around, pulling ivy off the barn wall one minute, the next tackling the ivy engulfing the silver birch, the next deadheading the roses. I knew what I was doing but couldn't seem to stop myself. I just wanted to make every single minute count and get as much done as possible in our limited, precious time. As soon as Stuart woke up I would dash back inside, make him a cup of tea and then tackle my next job in the little house. However, even the simple act of getting breakfast was challenging: our only surface, the table, was cluttered with packets of food, paperwork, tape measure, tools, notebook camera, pens, our two bowls, two mugs and some cutlery. One of our first purchases was a filter coffee machine, the type found in most French homes, as neither of us can function in the morning without our two cups of
café
. This was placed precariously next to the small kitchen sink. We were grateful to at least have a sink and basic bathroom. When you have to, it's amazing how you can get by without all the things you take for granted at home and how you can manage to juggle everything. I got it down to a fine art of having the water in the machine and the
café
in the filter ready to switch on as soon as I got up, and the two bowls we owned and the two spoons lined up ready for p
etit déjeuner
. Time, time, time … there simply was never enough of it.

As for where I found the reserves of energy for sixteen-hour days, I simply don't know, considering at home I'm often in bed by 8.30. Every single day I was fuelled by a burning desire to get as much done as possible. And as for the lists, well, our days were devoured by endless lists.

I thought that I would miss the relentless rolling of the surf that provides the backdrop to daily life at home and lulls us to sleep at night, yet the countryside in Cuzance has a rhythm all of its own. There are many magical moments, such as being up a ladder, brush laden with paint for the ancient walls that hungrily soak it up, then glancing out to see a squirrel scampering along the road and shooting up a tree opposite the kitchen doors. Or, on several summer Saturday afternoons, the clip-clopping of a horse-drawn carriage carrying a bride on her way to the village church. Then there was the jaw-dropping moment of disbelief when a tractor with a bucket containing two men just appeared to attach a string of flags to the gable on our house to signal the forthcoming village
brocante
. No words were exchanged at all and, while we were bitterly disappointed to miss our very own village
brocante
, we felt happy that in some small way we were a part of it.

There are already so many things that we now love about our house in such a short time. The beautiful, wide, old walnut floorboards that dip with age and the wear of thousands of steps trodden upon them. The fact that, as Jean-Claude, the bearer of many stories, told us, apparently Madame la Croix had stuffed old pieces of bread in the gaps to ward off the icy winter draughts. More modern evidence of a season we would never know is the newspaper jammed into the skirting boards and the sides of the stairs. The rounded steps as you enter our little house are a unique feature, as is the carved piece of curved stone over the door, bearing the date 1884, encased in a small stone-carved heart. The huge fire-blackened beams tell the story of generations of meals and a very faint hint of smoke still lingers in the air. There are few remnants of the garden but our dining table is now placed to look out over the trees in it. The humble old farmhouse resonates with a palpable warmth that many, far grander houses will never hold.

Another year had slipped through our fingers. While we longed to return, we were also mindful of not wishing our lives away in the intervening months and embracing all that was wonderful about living next to the ocean in our little village on the coast. With just four weeks to go before we left on our next trip, we found ourselves in yet another surreal situation of virtually buying a car over the internet — well, through a flurried exchange of emails. As good luck would have it yet again, in a way that seems too good to be true, Jean-Claude's friends were selling their Renault Scenic and wanted a decision by the weekend. Stuart had seen it briefly one evening just before a concert in a nearby village that he went to with Jean-Claude — so briefly, in fact, that he didn't even have a chance to drive it and it was virtually dark. It was just a fleeting glance. I'd not even seen it all. After hiring a car for the past two years, it definitely made more sense to buy a car that we would drive every year. The barn has a tiny stone garage so we would be able to tuck it away safely.

After just a short time deliberating, we erred on the side of convenience. While we love looking at houses, buying cars is not our thing at all. We have very little knowledge about the mechanics of cars and I was also dreading the thought of starting our holiday traipsing around car dealers. This decision would save valuable time, as it meant that, rather than the week we had allocated ourselves to searching for a car, we could actually relax for a few days after arriving and get a head start on installing the IKEA
cuisine
. It also meant not as much pressure to buy a car, with the clock ticking on the car we had planned to hire for just a week as we looked for a car to buy.

The night we received the email asking for our imminent decision about the car, there was also the first email in weeks from Piscine Ambiance. It simply stated that the concrete had been poured in the pool and politely requested the next payment. More cheques to be sent off to France to pay for our other life. It had become a life that I rarely discussed, for we seemed to be living a life far removed from everyday reality.

Having our little house added so much pleasure to our life at home as well. We spent countless hours talking about when we were there, what we did and who we met. Then there were the hours and hours talking about what we would do when we were there next time. It was so finely tuned that, for our next trip, we had arranged for Jean-Claude to pick us up at the station in Brive on our arrival from Paris, and we even stopped at a
supermarché
to buy some food. I have to say we felt fairly pleased with our planning and attention to all the small details. We were very close to hiring a car — down to such fine timing that we discovered the car hire company closed a mere ten minutes after our train arrived. Then the offer came in to buy the Renault. If we had paid for the hire care there would not have been a refund, so it all came down to the final ten minutes on a flight and all the connections, from the other side of the world!