Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (13 page)

The next day we continue our combined onslaught in
le jardin
against the invading sea of weeds and brambles. A week of intermittent sun, interspersed with short, sharp showers, has meant that the weeds and grass have sprung up in front of our eyes. It is virtually impossible to hold the tide back. In only a week, the focus of my life, has narrowed down to our little Cuzance world.

All that matters now is the garden and my obsessive tendencies are in full force.

I waste too much time wandering round the vast expanse in search of my digging implement that I have flung down carelessly. I almost cry with frustration. My indispensable
jardin
tool now means more to me than my coveted pair of French boots.

I have lost precious time working and before long, the rain plummets down again and I am quickly saturated and driven inside. Our gardening clothes are soaked through and we have to wait for them to dry out before we can do any more work in the garden. Once again, I wonder what we were thinking. One set of work clothes each yet enough clothes for a month of Paris
soirees
. When we retreat to the house, there is now an ominous smell emanating from behind the fire grate. There is no way at all to see what is causing it, for it is impossible to even attempt to wrench the grate out. Thoughts of the suspected badger from
la cave
return. Or, possibly worse.

‘Light duties' in
le jardin

Last year, Monday mornings invariably meant a visit to the
Maire
. There were mountains of paperwork to be approved and signed off. There were heart-in-the-mouth moments and a huge sense of trepidation. The work on the roof was well underway but did not have the official sanction. Would the work on the roof have to stop? Would it take weeks and weeks to have the official stamp of approval? And, worst of all, would it be
fin
before our departure? Now it looks like there will be more bureaucratic moments in store.

After deciphering our solemn-looking
lettrès
from Cahors that required us to state whether
la grange
was now being inhabited after the addition of its
nouveau
slate roof, we receive yet another official
lettre
from the government
département
in Cahors. We need to provide verification that
la grange
is not a
nouveau maison.
How will we prove this and how will we provide the proof? We choose to shelve the intricacies of French bureaucracy for the moment. There is simply too much to do.

Meanwhile, Mondays start with continued efforts in
le jardin
to stem the tsunami of weeds engulfing our new plants. It is heartbreaking to see this happen in front of our very eyes and, indeed, in the blink of an eye. It has only been a matter of days after all that we planted them. To protect them, Stuart climbs the ladder to the storage space above the carport and the very handy bales of hay that have been left by the previous owner. Mulch in an instant. He tosses down bale after bale of crisp, dry hay. Little were we to know that this would prove to be a perfect source of propagation for another influx of choking weeds. So much to do and so little time.

We then gather rocks from the land to edge the beds. There are lumps of limestone everywhere; no garden supply centre is necessary when you live in Cuzance. The land provides all that we need. We utilise all that we can that we find. Even the old blue twine from the hay bales has a second life when it is used to tie up and train the grapevines.

This is recycling in its natural element. In fact, Stuart even remarks that he has not yet made one
bricolage
run. By the start of the second week last year he would have made at least five trips in this time. Freed from his endless work on
la cuisine
that consumed his life our previous summer, this time we are able to work side by side. While not as relentless – yet – in our efforts this year, for it would be impossible to sustain year after year, Brigitte from the village on her daily walk, does kindly enquire if we ever have time to simply
promenade
. I try to convey that we are certainly going to try to more often this year. While we are not completely consumed and driven by the desire to
rénovée
like previous years, nevertheless the days still ebb away. The difference is that this year we have found time for stolen hours under the spreading shade of the walnut tree.

While the inability to communicate with the outside world due to the failure of
la portable
is at times frustrating, nevertheless our lack of technology means that we are able to fully immerse ourselves in life in the country. At times however, the world beyond does bring a layer of responsibility and commitment to friends and family. On such occasions, I wander down to Jean-Claude's to check my email. I am an incongruous sight, walking through the village clutching my laptop, for in many ways, time has stood still in Cuzance and the outside world does not seem to intrude or impinge. It is something I particularly love, the immersion in my own special little world; a world where for a while you can divorce yourself from reality. While inevitably it laps at the edges of our rural backwater, I indulge myself in pretending it does not exist at all. We can dance to our own tune while we are here.

Stuart has gone to Souillac to play bridge with Françoise. A quick check of my email extends into a six-hour visit, ending with
la dinette
, for on their return, Françoise invites us to stay.
La dinette
, she tells me, is an informal, impromptu meal and casual invitation.

This is more flattering than an invitation to a
grand dîner
. There are five of us, as Patrick is still on
vacances
. We gather round their outside table, overlooking the upper terrace festooned with wisteria. As a Parisian landscape gardener of growing repute, Patrick has not been able to resist some vigorous pruning and training. He and Jean-Claude have differing views on landscaping and the generations sometimes collide.

For a simple meal, to us it is extremely impressive that there is still a procession of courses.
Saucisson
from the markets – a type of cold sausage, thinly sliced, this one infused with the regional walnuts – homemade
pain
, ragout,
fromage
and then homemade
crème glacée, chocolat
tart and orange sauce – remains from their splendid Sunday
déjeuner.
These are not quite the leftovers we are used to in our home. The meal is made especially memorable when Françoise declares that we are part of the family.

Our sense of acceptance and privilege to be so lovingly absorbed into our French life, is added to when Patrick offers us the use of his apartment in Paris when we return next year. It is like being offered the keys to the kingdom. There is no other phrase that exists with quite the same ring as, ‘An apartment in Paris.'

We are puzzled though when Patrick reminds us that he made this offer when we met him the previous year. It is mystifying to both of us how we could have possibly forgotten such an exciting prospect, for after Cuzance, Paris is the only other place we would choose to be in our other French life.

As the heat builds up to a crescendo, so too do the flies who have taken up permanent residence in Pied de la Croix. Stuart sets to work in a frenzy of fly swatting. Like most other words I learn, it is in the context of necessity. So it is that
les mouches
is quickly added to my vocabulary. Like the weather,
les mouches
is a frequent word on our friends' lips. No discussion of international politics or worldwide events; no, in the country your world is narrowed down to the vagaries of the climate – ‘Will there be a storm tonight?', ‘Will it rain tomorrow?' and the marauding
mouches
.

Scattered throughout the countryside in our region, is an abundance of signs for
gîtes
and
ferme auberge.
There are rural
gîtes
and
gîtes
in
châteaux
, and then there are the signs that point down enticing rural lanes to
ferme auberge
. Like many other experiences, it is not until this year that we have time to experience one. We had often been told by Gérard and Dominique of their fondness each Cuzance summer to eat at a
ferme auberge
at least once a week. Today they are taking us to their favourite one, near Souillac. They represent the essence of all that is celebrated in French rural
cuisine
, farm-fresh food, grown, picked, cooked and served by the family in their
maison
. Each
département
in France is justifiably proud of its own regional produce. What all
départements
have in common is that food is an art form, a religion, the essence of existence. What French people choose to eat each day underpins the rhythm of their daily life.

As always in France, the drive is as much a part of the experience as the destination.

This one takes us past the well-remembered towering limestone cliffs, down winding narrow lanes and then, up a gravel drive to a large and picturesque house, covered with ivy and steps decorated with welcoming pots of crimson geraniums. It is set high on a hillside and has a sweeping view of the summer crops below, neat green fields of abundance.

In a
ferme auberge
, everyone gathers round one long table and everyone is served the same meal. There is no need for a menu although there is a choice in the main course.

This is not a meal for the height of summer for the food is rich and heavy. It is redolent of the fare prepared for true farm workers, when
déjeuner
is the main meal of the day to build you up for a solid afternoon's work in the fields. Now, as the tourist season starts in earnest, the lunchtime gathering of up to thirty people, can be a smorgasbord of nationalities. In the evenings it is even busier, when
dîner
is also served on the outside terrace and sixty people can be served in the course of an evening. All I can say, is that after a seven-course meal at night, they must roll home like a big bale of hay.

We are seated in the prime position, next to the window, overlooking the beds of yellow roses. The first course to arrive is a hearty vegetable soup, followed by
rillettes,

a thick, coarse type of
pâté
, served on crunchy, oven-fresh
pain
. Next, there is a choice between goose and roast lamb. Gérard is an aficionado of goose and heartily recommends it. Dominique and Stuart opt for fat, corn-fed goose and I choose soft pink, tender lamb. It seems to have jumped straight from the fields to my plate. We toast each other and promise to make an annual pilgrimage to
la ferme auberge.
There is a green salad and
fromage
followed by Gérard's absolute favourite dessert
, île flottante,
which literally means floating island
.
Despite our love affair with all that is a dessert in France,
île flottante
does not rank highly on our list. It is a strange concoction of meringue floating in an ever-so-sweet syrup. It is cloying and does not rate a look-in in our echelon of favourite French desserts. Gérard assures us that the
ferme auberge
one is utterly different. We remain to be convinced. I am even less sure when he says it is also known as ‘eggs in snow'. I am instead given a plate of
abricots
and walnuts. I discover I have made a mistake. They persuade me to try a mouthful, and I am swept away by its smooth lusciousness. Trust a Frenchman to be
au fait
with his desserts.

We head home thoroughly replete, through the pretty villages of Cresse and Gluges.

The
voiture
is swamped by the formidable rock walls and we hug the narrow road as it curves in right under the soaring cliffs. I breathe in tight in case we encounter another car. Somehow, I think this may make a difference. The Dordogne flows calmly next to us, kayaks flash past and kites wheel lazily overhead. We drive next to walnut groves, the trees as straight as silent sentinels, and as we go through the small village of Saint-Sozy, Gérard and Dominique point out La Terrace, a three star Michelin restaurant. Who would have thought that there was a Michelin star restaurant right on our doorstep? I later discover there are in fact six in our
département
.

The meal has been so big and hearty that all I want to do when we finally arrive home at four, is to curl up and sleep. However, I had started to paint the hallway opposite the bathroom in the morning. To pack it all up now and resume another day, represents as much work as simply getting on with it and finishing it. So I press on, until weariness overtakes me and Stuart steps in to finish, painting until late evening. Last year this was our normal daily template; we hope this is a one-off.

We wake to a freshly painted hallway; an effort well worth it. It frees us up to go the markets, have a hasty
café
and delectable
abricot hibou
before racing in to Brive before the twelve o'clock cut-off. By now, we know our way round so our buying trips are swifter and more successful. The find of the day at Carrefour
supermarché
is a
solde
whipper-snipper, essential for slashing through the long grass that is creeping ever-higher. As we leave, like a synchronised moment for a Carrefour ad, a man in an open-top Peugeot has a matching whipper-snipper propped on his back seat. He toots his horn, waves and we all smile. It's like a perfect script for happy French homeowners. As soon as we arrive home, Stuart puts it to work straight away and there is a wonderful transformation from a shabby farmyard appearance to freshly cropped grass in front of our
la grange
. It is ready just in time for Liz's arrival the next day.