Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (19 page)

It is then the helicopters hover into sight. You know that soon the cyclists will appear along the Boulevard Louis Jean Malvy, the main street of Souillac, adorned in their bright jerseys. The floating helicopters move closer and lower. The anticipation builds in equal proportions to the incessant whir of the whizzing helicopter blades. The nearby bystanders tell us that the first cyclists will appear in two minutes. By now, there are six hovering helicopters. I jump up and down and vigorously wave my arms. I have worn the brightest dress in my wardrobe in my attempt to stand out in the sea of people.

I want to be spotted and seen by everyone at home who are avidly following the
Tour de France.

Before the cyclists shoot through Souillac, a cavalcade of
gendarme,
motorbikes and dark-coloured cars with deeply tinted windows appear. At the roundabout, on the pavement opposite us, there is also a significant cluster of
gendarme,
their swaggering sense of importance, plainly discernible. Clearly there is someone
très
important in the cavalcade. Then, only one hundred metres away, a swelling murmur of excitement in the crowd indicates that it is the
nouveau
President of France, François Hollande. We are told that he was born in Tuille, where the Tour will stop overnight before its final triumphant ride into Paris. There has been no mention of the President's appearance in any
journal.
It has been a closely guarded secret and is a surprise to all present. As we are so close when he steps out onto the sun-warmed pavement, vigilantly surrounded by a posse of black-suited, burly bodyguards, and the first cyclists appear in a blur of motion, I wonder if we will be pinpointed by a helicopter and beamed across the world.

Dominique and Gérard visit us after our exciting afternoon with an
apéritif
invitation and just before we head out again, Jean-Claude also visits to tell us that Henriette has just seen her first
Tour de France
. It certainly is a dog's life.

Life in Cuzance is a non-stop social whirl. In three weeks, we can count on less than one hand, the nights not shared with friends over endless
apéritifs
and
dîners
. Such constant
soirées
could not possibly be sustained at home while we work – and yes, also renovate. Is there no end to our renovating across the continents and oceans? In France, it's quite a challenge to find the time to do all that we want to do; visits to new places,
vide greniers
and
brocantes
, precious time with
amis
, and all the work that simply must still be done. It is just as well the daylight hours seem to stretch to infinity.

When we return to our other life, Jean-Claude and Françoise remain a constant presence.

There is simply no end to their continuous kindness. Our
petite maison
remains in the care of their loving hands. Emails wing their way across the miles bringing joyous news. The day before our twentieth anniversary, my Inbox announces ‘Furniture'. In my Monday morning bleary-eyed state before work, I think that like last year, some friends of theirs have some furniture for sale and he is kindly letting me know what is available.

No, it is far better than I could have anticipated. They have been involved from afar on a quest for us. The measurements have been provided and the cost determined – a different price from both of us; of course, mine has been higher than Stuart's and of course they both know that mine will prevail. They have found our longed-for cupboard!

YES! SENSATIONAL! We found in Sarlat the piece of furniture you wanted! It is awaiting you in the sitting-room of la petite maison and will fit quite properly the place you meant it for! It is made of cherry-wood, with a glass front and a drawer; it is certainly not one metre deep but will accommodate plenty of articles and books – and it cost 180 Euros (we had a rebate from 200); sorry, there's no bill since I paid cash in banknotes; sorry we can't send you a photo since both our cameras are out of order. In the same stand, Françoise found her Noël present – a Moustiers fountain.

It was the most challenging of quests. The
armoire
is to fit in the corner next to the fireplace in the
salon
. Its measurements are very precise for there is a cupboard attached to the wall above. The cupboard on the wall is hand-painted with bucolic scenes. The paint has been so thickly applied that it is impossible to open. I always contemplate it as a source of potential treasure. Within just a few months of our return, they have been successful where we failed. I am quite sure too that they have visited far more
brocantes
and
vide greniers
than they usually would, especially in such a short space of time.

Then there is more exciting news.

Yesterday afternoon I bought your two mûrier-platanes and planted them, and watered them thanks to Mr Chanteur's watering-cans and pond (he had left them for my use since he had sown grass by his pond; when I bought them they advised me to buy buttressing equipment (sorry I don't know how to say ‘tuteur' in English) so that the wind should not fell them. Also, as I had told you earlier, I bought two bags of earth for the one tree that is in the rock by the pool; so that the bill is steeper than you expected (of course I will leave the detailed shop's bill in la petite maison).

While we were delivering your furniture, Françoise saw that your bedroom shutters were not tightly closed so we went in again to close them. The wind is still blowing so that, in spite of the buttresses, the mûrier-platanes tend to lean into the wind – I am trying another way of buttressing them.

And so, through our email exchanges, Cuzance is always close.

We eat
dîner
at a seasonably yet unreasonably late hour. It is often so late that I simply fall into bed straight after eating. Despite how much we always seem to fit into every single day, the days still slip away like sand running through your fingers. The church bell tolls, the day moves on.

There are two days in a row when we wake with a palpable frisson of excitement.

A weekend that holds
trois vide greniers.
It is unheard of to have three treasure quests within the space of a single weekend. All is carefully plotted and planned. Thanks to Gérard and Dominique, who always read the local Lot
journal
,
La Dépêche
, we have been told that there are several not listed in our
Tourisme Bureau
guide: Theminettes, Saint-Felix and Betaille.

At the markets, I continue to pore over piles of old linen. Once again, there are exquisite hand embroidered pillowcases, each stitch in each seam a story of love and hope, for often such delicate pieces that have now found their way to the markets, were once part of a long-ago
trousseau
. I wander with my market basket, lingering to pick up and examine fascinating relics from the past: old paintings, battered tins, delicate china and pieces of ancient glass. There is simply too much to buy that holds the tantalising appeal of long ago days in France. Our
petite maison
is already full to the brim with treasure, even after such a short time. Now that would look lovely in the converted barn of the future, I find myself frequently thinking.

We end our outing by driving to Montcuq and have an
espresso
at an outside
café
with a sweeping view over the green hills and grey slate rooftops, before heading to the fresh produce markets. The nodding, dinner-plate size sunflowers add a burst of bright yellow to the lively scene. There are rows of lettuces, wilting in the warm sun.

An old woman scrutinises them; prodding, lifting, examining. The young stallholder grimaces at us and mumbles under her breath. Her impatient gestures transcend any language barriers, especially when she beckons her
maman
to serve the demanding elderly woman, with what will clearly be considerably more patience than she has on this sunny Saturday morning.

The afternoon is filled with delicious sunshine so we finally fling open all six doors of
la grange
. The light floods in and transforms the cavernous space. The threads of sunlight even penetrate the ancient, thick wooden rafters that arch high overhead like the inverted hull of an enormous old wooden fishing boat. The history and beauty of the barn seep through every stone. After not seeing it fully opened for a year, I fall in love with it all over again. I am enraptured and enchanted anew and consumed by the desire to transform it.

In a piece of accidental planning yet with serendipitous symmetry, we discover that the rear, far left door of what will be
la cuisine
one day
,
lines up exactly with the new lavender bed stretching neatly beyond in a pleasing straight row. As this is the first time we have ever opened this door, we feel tremendously pleased with the effect of our
jardin
design and the planting by Albert in our absence. Beyond, the graceful curves of the orchard trees, draw the eye.

The barn roof soars up by at least ten metres to the apex and
la grange
is about twenty metres long. There are enormous cream-coloured flagstones along one wall that one day can be carefully removed with a crowbar, to place in the
grand
entrance. I am always both pleased and quite amazed at how clear my vision is for the transformation from a cow barn to a magnificent
maison
. The
euros
to achieve this and the hard work and energy required are something I tend to conveniently gloss over...

The walls have all been painted white at some point in the one-hundred-and-seven year history of the barn. Though encrusted with dirt all these years later, and festooned with trailing swathes of cobwebs, just sweeping an old straw farm broom across the walls, removes the outer layer of grime. An initial quick clean leaves a prefect patina of white wash, every designer's dream. We have tried before to replicate this effect by experimenting with sanding and white paint on wood. It is impossible to ever achieve; only time and history and the life of a farm seem to create this in a natural state. Perhaps paint marketing teams should set up their creative design teams in old French barns. Or maybe not. Stilettos and old cow manure are not a perfect match.

We discuss and plan and dream. We know it will be
très cher
. What we also know is that it will be the
piece de résistance
of all our
rénovée
years. From Canberra, to Sydney, to our village on the south coast of New South Wales, an old French barn was never on our life itinerary, and yet, it always seems to be so perfectly right that life has led us to this unexpected place. Cuzance seems to have always found us rather than the other way round. And now that it has, it fills our imagination, hearts and hopes. Just like our
petite maison
was not that long ago, for now,
la grange
remains an empty shell, full of old farm debris, walnut husks and French kittens. Yet it exudes a tangible sense of warmth and extends an invitation to be transformed into a
magnifique maison
.

Road test

In the most absurd juxtaposition possible, I abandon my Saturday afternoon outfit of weed spraying ensemble, complete with a blue and white check tea-towel tied over my mouth, to hastily throw on a frock and straw
chapeau
. I run through the village to our church. There is a wedding and Françoise is singing in the choir. As a mark of respect to our friendship, I have promised to go.

The church bell clangs ceremoniously, for me, signalling alarm. Have I misunderstood the time to attend? I clutch my
chapeau
as I hastily make my way to the
Mairie
where all are gathered. In the upstairs window,
le Maire
can be glimpsed. I had forgotten that this is part of the French marriage ceremony, that first the bride and groom have an official service with the mayor of the village. There had been no need at all for my haste. The proceedings take almost an hour. To think, I could have put in an another hour's work in
le jardin
. finally, the formalities are completed and I follow the gathered wedding guests round the corner, to the church. I meet up with Dominique and we find a place to stand at the back of our tiny church. Colleagues of the bride and groom, who were not in the church, have been waiting patiently in a cluster outside for the ceremony to conclude.

They include members of the Brive-la-Gaillarde football team who the groom plays with. When the glowing couple finally emerge, they form an arch and toss a football to their just-married team member.

While inside, for what seems to us to be an interminable ritual, Dominique and I try repeatedly to catch Françoise's eye, in the choir at the front, to no avail. The ceremony is so long that we sink onto two cold stone steps tucked at the back of the church. We watch with amusement as a young woman, who arrives very late, tries to slip in unobtrusively. It is impossible on the slippery-smooth stone floor of the ancient church. She teeters precariously on impossibly high heels and her thin legs bend like a young giraffe's. Dominique and I whisper and giggle conspiratorially like school girls.