Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (14 page)

We mop and sweep and dust and clean in readiness. It will be the first time she will have seen
la cuisine
installed and all the furniture in place, for last year it was still very much a renovating site when she stayed. While we work hard, it is not at all the same as housework at home. Somehow, it feels more like cleaning and setting up a doll's house.

There is definitely still an air of novelty to carrying out everyday tasks in Pied de la Croix
.
I can only hope this always continues to be the case. I even pick sprigs of lavender from our new plants to adorn the table. It is like designing a stage set.

That's when it strikes me that it's like playing in a doll's house, for it's when I tidy and straighten and place and decorate, that I realise the layout of our
maison
is a perfect square shape. Perhaps that is why it is so perfectly pleasing. As you enter from the rounded steps that everyone admires and says are
très jollie
, you walk straight into
la salle
and
la cuisine
lies to the right, all open-plan now that we have knocked a wall down. It is quite unlike traditional French homes where the sitting room and kitchen are rarely all open and flooded with light. There are two
chambres
at the back with the
salle de bain
in the middle. The symmetry and squareness is echoed in details such as our new shining white porcelain sink. It all reminds me of longed-for childhood dollhouses or those I have peeped at in museums. Perhaps it is why I feel like I am simply playing house.

I am so happy that Pied de la Croix is flooded with light for none of our friends'
maisons
quite have this quality. It is an element from home that we cherish – bringing in the sky and light. I often pause in what I am doing to watch the sky in all its ever-changing moods and the trees bend and sway. When storms lash the house, our unusually large windows let you watch the tempest flare up and then wear itself out. The only sounds at night in the country are those of the farm animals settling down to sleep and nature in all its unpredictability and beauty. When the wind abates after a furious storm, our
petite maison
seems to sigh with contentment and relief.

Jean-Claude, Françoise and Patrick arrive for an early evening
apéritif
in
le jardin
with the softest, cutest, most adorable bundle I have ever seen, clasped in Françoise's arms.

I am so overcome by sheer excitement that I fail to even greet them properly with two kisses each, one on each cheek as is the custom each and every time we see them, so enraptured am I by the puppy and its entirely unexpected appearance.

She is called Ophelia – with the emphasis on the ‘H', as this is the letter all puppies born this year must have a name starting with. However, in the
voiture
on the journey home after going to choose her, they have changed her name to Henriette. They have called her this in tribute to our little Henri, far away on the other side of the world.

To say I am touched is an understatement. Gérard and Dominique pull up in their tiny green Twingo and join us at the table we have set up in the front garden outside
la grange
. The sun peeps through at the end of the day and a golden glow is cast upon our happy gathering. Henriette is passed from lap to lap and we all fall instantly in love with her.

It is Patrick's first visit to our
maison
this year, and ever the professional landscape gardener, he goes off to inspect our new plants. He returns alarmed. The hedge will be far too high, it will block the sun, we should have consulted him. ‘
Non
,
non
, Patrick, you are on
vacances
,' I assure him.

Then as always, for we are far from Paris after all, and
jardins
that are grand designs, the conversation turns to the two inevitable topics:
les mouches
and the weather. Jean-Claude shares his trick of dealing with the flies. He sucks them up with the vacuum nozzle from all the surfaces. This is particularly successful he tells us, if they are crawling and swarming on the flat surfaces of windows, where they have been attracted to the light. I later adopt this method myself and find it has a high hit-rate. It always strikes me as exceptionally odd that
les mouches
problem is ever so much worse here than at home.

I also always find it amusing too that we have such endless conversations on this topic, but then again, we are in rural France. There are no highbrow discussions about art and literature; yes, our house is certainly far from Paris. I wonder though how we will be able to contribute to conversations when we are indeed in Paris next year with Patrick and his friends. Time will tell. I expect though, not to hear the dreaded
mouches
word once.

Meanwhile, Stuart has rapidly taken on the characteristics of a mad man, consumed by his daily pursuit of flies. He swats them frantically, to no avail – we resort to hanging ugly strips of old-fashioned fly paper; we spray noxious fumes in a fury. finally, one night, he spots sneaky little
mouches
buzzing through the open vent for the old stove.

He stuffs it thoroughly with plastic bags.
Voila
, the next morning instead of getting up to a swarm of
mouches
; a veritable invasion, there are only one or two. The change to our sanity is both instant and remarkable. Such is daily life in Cuzance.

The swallows are now swooping in wide circles through the pale blue sky – surely a sign that at last summer is imminent. We have a slow, relaxed morning after our impromptu
dîner
party the evening before with Patrick and Liz. When Patrick had wandered back to Jean-Claude and Françoise's to tell them he would be staying for
dîner
after our
apéritifs,
he arrived bearing a plate of freshly baked
Rhum Baba
that Françoise had just whipped out of the oven. We fall upon the plate with glee. The spontaneous
dîner
party is complete. It is nights like these I treasure, gathered round our long wooden table, French wine flowing, laughter and conversation spilling out into the quiet country night. The hoot of owls is the only other sound to punctuate the stillness.

When I later thank Françoise for her delicious dessert, as on many other occasions, I cause much merriment with my pronunciation. I say
merci beaucoup
for the
Rhum Baba
, for this is the name I know the dessert by and think it is universally known as such. But no, in France it is called
Baba au Rhum.
Jean-Claude is so highly amused by this that he then often asks me afterwards to pronounce the dessert by the name I know.

Each time I say,
Rhum Baba,
he falls into fits of laughter. A small thing in itself but who would know there was a world of difference in the trifling difference of a dessert. I wonder what they call trifle?

As Stuart and I are having our morning
espresso
on our
petite
porch, Jean-Claude arrives bearing his beloved new bundle. Marinette, on her daily
promenade,
supported by her cane
,
stops to admire the adorable
la chien.
While I perch on our moss-covered, stone wall as we all chat, I hold Henriette as she snuggles up to me and falls asleep in my arms.

I carry her carefully inside to show Liz. The
salle de bain
is like a Turkish bathhouse.

I'm dismayed by the clouds of hot steam for Jean-Claude has just told me it is highly unlikely that the first
maçon ,
whose quote is now looking hugely attractive rather than in fact
très cher
, will also not be able to put our window in the bathroom this summer as I had hoped. He has left yet another message on the
maçon's portable
but tells me he is probably already on his summer
vacances. Ooh la la, maçons,
I fume silently
.
I well remember how the month of August is when virtually the whole of France is on
vacances
for the entire month. If you need anything done, it has to be organised far in advance of this sacrosanct summer
vacances
. We are about to have our friends from Belgium to stay, and then there will be six of us. I am anxious about how our decrepit, dark bathroom will cope – especially our
septique
and toilet in its tiny box. To call it a room would be generous.

Jean-Claude continues his morning of gloom. He is perturbed when he discovers that I have not signed and posted the
maçon's
quote to let him know I have accepted it.

This is a detail about French protocol that I have completely forgotten from the previous year when we had the roofers. I'm disconcerted as this will mean even further delays.

Thoughts of
maçons
are soon forgotten when Liz, Stuart and I set off to the picturesque village of Montvalent for
déjeuner
. It is again true that the journey is in equal pleasure to the destination. Sharp, curving bends that Stuart always has fun skilfully swerving round; glorious
châteaux
glimpsed from afar, sheltering under the edges of the chalky limestone cliffs; tiny churches with steeples piercing the sky; row upon marching row of perfectly aligned waving stalks of corn and vineyards, straight as railway tracks, stretching to the horizon. The smooth surface of the Dordogne glides beside us; the rural charm is picture-perfect; truly it is one of the most beautiful
départements
in all of France.

Once again, the restaurant has been recommended to us, and just like last year, it was Anne-Marie, our bank manager who told us about it. At home, we don't even know who our bank manager is. If it is anything like Bon Famille that she had also highly commended last year, we will be more than happy. She has told us that it is run by a young couple who started it the previous year. I always have high hopes that these rural restaurants are where chefs destined for the bright lights and enviable
cuisine
of Paris, are starting out. We are not disappointed. As always, we choose
menu du jour
. We are served succulent skewers of duck and peach, a superb combination of flavours, followed by pistachio
crème glacée
. The sun shines, life is good. As we are relaxing over our glasses of
rosé
, Gérard and Dominique call to invite us for
café
and
gâteau
for afternoon tea.

We manage to leave our leisurely lunch in time to dash into the
supermarché
on the way home.
Voila
, there is a
solde
mosaic table and chairs that will be just perfect for behind
la grange
when the paving is
fin
. It is always fortunate that we have such clear powers of imagination, for the paving is yet to even begin.

We walk through the village carrying a bowl of plums, freshly picked from our
prunier
tree, its branches so laden they are snapping off. A brief chat on the way with Monsieur Arnal, who remains oddly perplexed as to why after being back for so long we have still to remove the cover for
la piscine
. Surely he has other thoughts to occupy him? We gesture at the ever threatening grey clouds and tell him it is still far too cool.

We gather for
gâteau
round Gérard and Dominique's table in their cosy
la cuisine
.

When we visit them, there is always a sense of formality, for the table is always beautifully set in readiness and the
café
and cake is served ceremoniously. Dominique has been out to buy special
gâteaux
, a choice of
chocolat
or
fraise;
my hand always hovers when luscious chocolate or strawberry are both on offer. All our friends well know my weakness for French pastries. As guests, the choice is ours first. If only all of life's decisions were this simple;
chocolat
wins every time. The sense of protocol in the serving of afternoon tea is balanced by the laughter and jokes we share. I always try to remember to take my dictionary when we spend time with them but on the occasions I forget, we still chat like old friends, although we have only known each other just a couple of years. They too love the
vide greniers
and the following day we are all headed to Padirac. By now, they are very familiar with my bargain hunting ability, and Gérard never fails to ask if what I am wearing cost one
euro.
I have asked them to keep a look out for a
girouette,
for I am still sad that our weather vane mysteriously went missing when our barn roof was replaced. Despite all our enquiries, nobody claims to have any knowledge of it. Patrick later suggests we should go the
gendarme
about it. This is not one of his better ideas. I shudder to think how this would affect our standing in the village. Perhaps not.

We feel hugely honoured to be invited to Brigitte's sixtieth birthday celebration and to stay the night in their
chambre de hôte
in Villefranche de Rouergue. The day starts with an early morning expedition to Padirac, the first
vide grenier
we have been to that is also a
Marche fermier
. It means that instead of a quick dash to Martel on the way to buy our fresh produce, we can buy it there. As always, I have already put my eclectic list for my treasure quest in my large straw basket. Today we are searching for nut crackers, a candlestick, ice tongs, a chopping board, an English dictionary and of course, highly coveted old linen.

There is at last a glimmer of sun as the three of us set off early. It is Bastille Day and the day looks full of promise, as if the weather may at last break; perfect for Brigitte's party in the evening. For the past fortnight, the average daily temperature has been the same as at home in winter. Liz, fresh from Wales, tells us that England has had never-ending rain for months on end and there are widespread, record-breaking floods. We hope the rain doesn't wash over the Channel to our little corner of France.