Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (22 page)

Hiring a compacter is yet another French exercise that proves to be both fascinating and frustrating; not in equal parts however. The frustration factor far outweighs the fascination of hiring equipment in a foreign land. Stuart sets off to Souillac on Saturday morning as soon as our friends leave on the long trip home to Belgium. He is headed for the machinery hire business that Jean-Claude has found for him in the local phone book. It is closed. An old woman pops out from the house next door just as he is leaving.

She indicates to Stuart that there is a phone number on the shop window and after discovering that he is not French, goes back inside to ring the owner for him.
Voila
– all is arranged for the hire the following week. He returns home, we resume work.

While clearing the land –
jardin
still remaining very much a euphemistic word – we decide that, just like people, there are good weeds and bad weeds. The tall fronds of delicate Queen Anne's lace add a meadow-like touch yet the brambles spread their tentacles ever further. They mock us and tear ferociously at our clothes and skin as we hack and attack.

Just after Lydia and Erick leave, the week-long fever pitch starts in readiness for our very own
vide grenier
. We have flown home before it the previous two years so we are elated to be here this year to take part in it. Every
commune
takes great pride in showcasing its villages in their annual market glory and all the associated events.

Just like in previous years, a tractor appears with three men on its tip-tray to attach a banner of fluttering flags to the roof of our
petite maison
. The other end is tied to a large
prunier
tree in
le jardin
across the road. Throughout the following week, the
commune
van makes its rounds each early evening, the megaphone loudly announcing the forthcoming festivities. In the afternoon, Paulette from the Hotel Arnal, makes a point of dropping in with two notices about village celebrations. I can translate some of it, such as the Friday night disco, but I need Stuart to also interpret what else we can possibly attend. I understand enough to know that I will certainly not be going to the disco.

When Jean-Claude visits later with Henriette, on one of his many daily
promenades
through the village with her, he tells us that we missed the
vide grenier
at Strenquels as it was on today, Saturday, not Sunday as we had thought. I literally stamp my foot in petulant annoyance. Perhaps the presence of two teenagers for several days in our
petite maison
has affected my behaviour. Jean-Claude finds my outrage so entertaining that he asks me to repeat my childish performance. Like a teenager, I refuse. We are dismayed that we confused the dates, for after all, our
vide grenier
outings are the jewel in the crown of our weeks. He leaves, still laughing about my amusing antics.

Next to drop in, just before their departure for their
la plage vacances,
is Gérard and Dominique. We show them the Cuzance pamphlets for a more accurate insight in to the village activities. One offers the opportunity to learn dry stone walling. I ask Stuart if he interested in learning this traditional skill. He gives me a look that succeeds in fully conveying he thinks I am quite simply mad. While words are not needed to elaborate upon his expression, to ensure that I fully grasp the foolishness of my suggestion, he points out that he actually has quite enough dry stone walling of his own to do, or words to that effect. The other notice is a free reading about the history of the omelette and famous black truffles of le Lot. How fascinating we think. Who knew that omelettes even had a history? Dominique tells us however, that even she would not be able to fully understand the talk as the regional patois would be so thick. It says, in part:
Nous vous conterons l'histoire de l'omelette et celle des origins du diamante noir.
I do know that this will also be an account of the famous black truffles for which our region is renown.

Once again, I wish Henriette would unearth some of this black gold, as it is known, on one of her visits. That would ensure the transformation of
la grange
.

Talk of truffles leads to two other stories. The first Gérard shares with us is the annual Cuzance
grand dîner,
held every November in a marquee. Five hundred people attend from the
commune
for the event is famous both for its truffles and value. Truffles are served with every course, even dessert, and there is endless champagne. The cost is only fifty
euro
a head. While this is expensive for many villagers and local farmers, he explains that elsewhere it would cost five hundred
euro
, a truly staggering amount of money. At the
dîner
just the year before, the soon-to-be President of France even attended as he was originally from the region. To think that our simple little rural village was graced by François Hollande. It is yet another insight that we would simply never have discovered without the stories shared by our French
amis
.

This is followed by another truffle tale, an exceptionally
magnifique dîner
at the restaurant of the famous chef, Alain Ducasse, in Provence. It is a restaurant that is so famous and exclusive that guests even fly in by helicopter simply to spend an evening dining there in sublime luxury. Gérard was invited there on one memorable occasion by his uncle. However, at the end of the exquisite meal, it is Gérard who is chosen to have
l'addition
presented to him. He tells us that he nearly choked with shock. The bill was
, très, très cher
. The cost was seven hundred
euro
for each person – and there were ten seated around the exclusive table. Fortunately for Gérard there had been an error in giving him
l'addition
. His rich uncle paid for everyone.
Ooh, la la
, we all think.

We love the sense of community spirit in Cuzance. It is both a celebration of life in the village today and an honouring of days long ago. Loud music emanates every now and then to remind the village of our much-anticipated
vide grenier
. The festivities cater for everyone of every age and we discover too that the
commune
of Cuzance gathers in the outlying scattered hamlets of Baladou, Rignac and Lagarrigue.

On the Sunday afternoon in the lead-up week to the most significant event in Cuzance's annual calendar, a group of
lycée
students visit every
maison
. They are all wearing white T-shirts with
j'aime
Cuzance emblazoned in red. The attractive, lively students are selling Tombola tickets for two
euro
each. The first prize is: ‘
1 Voyage de 4 jours pour de personnes de Espagne
'. How exciting. Even I know that it means a trip for two to Spain for four days. The second prize is: ‘
2 assiettes gourmande a la ferme de la Truffe'
. Once again I am pleased that I know exactly what the prize is, a dinner for two at the local gourmet farm restaurant that specialises in truffles. No one we know has ever been there for it is far too
très cher
.

When we buy our tickets, we are also given a bright pink brochure – Cuzance
Fete Votive
2012. The weekend will be truly celebrated in style. Friday night starts with a
Soiree
–
entree gratuite
– a Rock Festival, followed by
concourse de Petanque –
a game of
boules
on Saturday afternoon with a
Bal Disco Vinyl
in the evening
.
Sunday of course is the culmination of the
commune
celebrations, with the finale on Sunday afternoon of a traditional dance display
.
The
vide grenier
is also a
Marche de produits regionaux,
so there will be local produce for sale
. Déjeuner
will be available and served in Marinette's walnut orchard. Truly, a weekend to look forward to.

Sunday afternoons are meant to be sacred. We have made a vow not to work, to enjoy a time of leisure like the rest of France. As I head to the walnut tree after
déjeuner
, book in hand, Stuart has not been able to resist the lure of
la grange
. It is his idea of an afternoon's recreation. I pause as I pass by, hesitate; torn by my desire to relax under my beloved tree and the desire to join in – sorting, cleaning, tidying; paring away the debris to discover the bones beneath. It is not a long battle. The lure of
la grange
wins.

We work side by side for a full afternoon. I replace raking
castine
with raking old, dry cow manure and the flotsam and jetsam of a working barn. We ferry out wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of dirt, manure and rubbish
.
We sort through the discarded farm implements, deciding what is treasure we will keep and what we will discard. Part of an old bellows and a large rectangular sieve for sifting grain are prized finds to be displayed on the walls, in the far-distant, future life of
la grange
. We unearth more enormous flagstones that one day will have to be carefully dug up and moved to the spacious, grand entrance. The dreams are taking shape.

We stretch and reach ever higher with our discarded barn brooms to bring down skeins of ancient cobwebs. The more we work, the more
la grange
yields in return. While cavernous, it is not a void. The space lends itself precisely to the placement of the rooms we imagine creating in the future. While enormous, it is not a cold, damp space. Just like restoring our
petite maison
, it too exudes a sense of warmth and lives happily lived in the past. There is an old wooden hook on the wall, smooth with age, that seems as if once long ago, a farmer's battered
chapeau
would have hung upon it. He would have placed his hat there as he bent to stoop over his twice-daily task of milking his cows. The straw is still strewn on the floor and in the cow mangers, and the ancient ghost of Monsieur de la Croix is a lingering, warm presence.

Most exciting to me of all our activities, is whisking the broom over the limestone wash on the walls and beams. As I sweep the broom rhythmically backwards and forwards, it crumbles and flakes, revealing a silky smooth finish. Once again I muse that the faded white wash is every designer's dream. It has a practical not decorative purpose however, in
la grange
, for it was used to repel
les mouches
. This makes perfect sense in a barn that was once used to milk cows.

It seems that like most of our other major life decisions, the conversion of
la grange
will be a fait accompli. Everything huge that we ever undertake seems to take on a life of its own. Our first significant car after a few years of marriage was meant to be on our dream list for a very long time. There are not many people I know who go to the fruit markets to buy bird seed for the parrots in their garden and return home with a classic (read old) BMW. And so it is that the decision to one day convert our barn seems to have been made when Stuart announces one morning, after inspecting his
castine,
that our new
la cuisine
in
la grange
will one day have a wonderful view of
la piscine
and the orchard. It will indeed be the
piece de résistance
of all our
renovation
years. Meanwhile, the hard work does not seem to be yielding the same results as in past renovating efforts, to balance the consumption of
pain
, rich
chocolat mousse
and delectable pastries.

The weeks start to fly in a haze of heat and hard work, broken by languorous moments in
le jardin
. The punishing hours of working in the pervasive heat are punctuated by
café
breaks and a daily parade of pastries. When the heat wave of late July passes, the summer light softens in the early evening and dances in gentle waves across the grass in the orchard. The tap, tap, tap of a woodpecker, impossible to glimpse, joins the chorus of the donkey braying in a nearby field.

In the large
jardin
opposite, where a young boy has played alone for weeks with his border collie, a young girl joins him for the summer
vacances
. They clamber up the
prunier
tree, wheel recklessly along the lanes on their bikes and race in a happy-go-lucky way across the land. Her plaits fly out behind her as they live a summer childhood of carefree abandon.

Most villages too have at least one eccentric old woman and Jean-Claude tells us about ours in Cuzance. She has been caught in the night stealing people's pots of vivid geraniums. Gérard and Dominique have the misfortune to live opposite her and her wild, barking
chien
. Whenever we visit, she peers out from behind her tall, straggling hedge. She spies furtively on all their comings and goings. Even from where we live, we hear her loud calls frequently echo through the village. Jean-Claude embellishes on the story in an email when we return home.

To bring water to your mill, I shall tell you about the story (or the part I know) of Thérèse Delpech who lives in front of the Murats. Once there was a problem with flower pots and I learnt through Mme Dal that Thérèse stole her flower pots and had been caught red-handed in the dead of night by a farmer who complained to Jean-Luc, the mayor, who in turn summoned Thérèse to the Mairie... and the following night, the geranium pots were back in place!

As you know, if you've been past the Murats' place, you are attacked, across the fence by two mad dogs belonging to Thérèse and, one day, the Murats got tired of it, and seeing Thérèse exciting the dogs against strangers... so that, from their bedroom window, they started barking back, to Thérèse's fury, who in turn, shouted back insults. Now, every time Gérard sees her, he repeats them, mimicking her voice, which does nothing to ensure peaceful surroundings in their part of the village! That is why you may have heard me welcoming the Murats in a growl, ‘Ah les connards!', for their greatest pleasure, since it is a standing joke between us and Gérard is quite a clown!