L'amour Actually (5 page)

  A brisk walk to the village, Rocamour, was what was needed so I could buy myself a few provisions until I could sort out a car. I had told the estate agent that the rental property had to be within walking distance of a village with shops and about one and a half kilometres didn't seem that far. Grabbing a scarf to protect my pale English shoulders from the sun, which was surprisingly warm for April, and some more suitable, if less fashionable footwear – I'd made that mistake once already – I headed off in the direction of the road that Julien had shown me earlier.

  It was a new experience to be so carefree. No job to tie me down, no boss to nag at me to meet deadlines, no dreadful journey on the Tube while paunchy middle-aged men took advantage of the movement of the overcrowded train to cop a quick feel of my bum.

  St Amans de Pierrepoint was far smaller than I'd imagined and wasn't exactly the country idyll I had expected. To be honest it was a bit tatty and unkempt. Ten houses or so freckled the hillside, barns tumbling down in various stages of decay. Keeping watch over the hamlet was an old
manoir
that had definitely seen better days. It was a handsome house built of the same mellow pale stone as the other houses, but on a grander scale. There was a certain beautiful symmetry to it and its setting, amid an abundance of shrubs and fruit trees, was quite magical. It was a shame to see that the shutters were closed and it appeared that no one was living there. Apart from the stone it was quite unlike most of the other houses which looked like they had probably started out as one room, then gradually been extended over the centuries. I had heard that they used to build the houses with a space underneath to keep the livestock overnight; apparently, the heat of the animals' bodies would warm the room above. Call me pampered but I prefer central heating.

  Everything had a certain chaotic quality, sort of wild and undisciplined. Further down the lane a flock of hens pecked and scratched happily, their rich brown feathers reflecting the sun. I watched them for a few minutes. I'd never really liked chickens except roasted or in a nice korma, finding them a bit too like dinosaurs with feathers when you got close up. It was the eyes that got me. They followed you everywhere and seemed to look right into your soul.

  Strolling on down the road, I passed an old barn, half-ruined, with roof timbers exposed like an animal skeleton in the African bush. An old cart with only one wheel was resting in its dark interior, as if waiting for someone to come and hitch up a horse and take it out. Next to it, piles of wood were neatly stacked, old roof timbers by the look of it, and bizarrely, an old toilet painted with blue flowers. People would pay hundreds for that in Portobello Road, I thought to myself.

  I'd been so intent on inspecting the old barn that I'd hardly noticed the gap in the trees, which offered the most spectacular vista. I gasped. It was so beautiful. To one side, it was heavily wooded with scrub oak, thin trunks, like spiky fingers, poking up through the earth. To the other, newly planted wheat fields stretched as far as I could see and at the bottom, a little river flashed Morse code to me in the sunlight.

  On the opposite side of the valley was Rocamour, so named because of a huge rock that used to overhang an old picnic area where marriages were reputed to have taken place.

  I had read the story about the origins of the name on an expat website. Unfortunately, during one such marriage, the rock inexplicably parted company from the hillside which had cradled it for centuries and fell onto the wedding party, killing everyone. Their bodies remain to this day entombed beneath the rock, captured in time. Still, at least the bride would never have to worry about her husband forgetting their wedding anniversary.

  The village was what was known as a
bastide
, a fortified enclave built high on a hill so the local lord could keep an eye open for invaders, usually English ones, during the Hundred Years War. Judging by the number of British people reported to live in the area, it had clearly been a wasted effort.

  A lone tractor puffed its way up the hill burping out little clouds of smoke from its exhaust and a bit further over, I could make out a small figure hunched over rows of vines on terraces carved out of the hillside. I marched down the hill with a purposeful stride, reasoning that the sooner I got to the bottom, the sooner I could start up the other side to the village. I was dying to see what it was like and had tried to google it before I left, but apart from some historical stuff like the rock, I had no idea what to expect.

  I stopped briefly to pet a fat white pony that whickered softly as I passed. Limpid brown eyes peeped out from behind a long forelock and he reminded me of the ponies in the Norman Thelwell books that my gran kept in her toilet. I rubbed his soft pink nose and pulled up a handful of grass which he ate as if he hadn't been fed in months.

  'You little piglet,' I said, smiling. As I walked on down the hill, the pony followed me meekly, matching me stride for stride. As we reached the end of his paddock and he could follow me no more, he whinnied pathetically for me to come back and pet him again.

  'Later,' I called out to him, 'later.'

  Further down the lane I came to a beautifully maintained vegetable plot. Alan Titchmarsh would have been green with envy at the neat rows of plants. Along the far boundary, several rows of vines stood to attention basking in the sun that would shortly nurture their grapes. There were no houses nearby and I wondered who the plot belonged to. Whoever it was clearly spent a lot of time on it.

  At the bottom of the hill, I stopped on the little bridge and watched the river running beneath. Silver slivers darted about in the water and further downstream I caught sight of the brilliant rainbow plumage of a kingfisher waiting patiently for his moment to dive under the water for his lunch. I turned and leaned against the bridge, allowing the sun to fall on my face, warming me gently. Bliss! This time last week I would have been doing battle with the London crowds, like a salmon trying to swim upstream, getting my ankles kicked, deafened by the traffic, head pounding from the continuous honking of car horns. And now? I listened. Nothing, no thing. Not. A. Thing. Even the faint whirr of the tractor's engine had faded. For a London girl like me, it was quite disconcerting.

  The road to Rocamour wound up on the opposite side of the valley so, checking both ways, I stepped out into the road. I had, of course, forgotten that in France they drive on the right so my look right, look left and look right again should have been reversed. As I stepped into the road, out of nowhere, a speeding car hove into view, the driver honking wildly when he saw me. Caught by surprise, I leapt backwards straight into the ditch behind me, a ditch which I painfully discovered was full of stinging nettles.

  'Ow, bugger, shit!' I shouted, trying to extricate myself without doing any further damage. Scrambling up the bank onto the side of the road, I sat down to rub my itchy legs. Country lore told me that wherever there are stinging nettles, there are dock leaves, but looking around there was nothing but recently mown grass. I sat for a minute, watching as blotchy patches appeared on my bare skin and cursed my luck at falling down two French ditches in one day.

  Bloody driver didn't even stop, I thought, as I pushed myself off the ground and nipped sharpishly across the road, making sure to look the right way this time, before continuing up the hill towards Rocamour. It was certainly much steeper than I'd thought and within minutes I was breathing heavily, feeling the sweat on my back. Stopping, I bent over, hands on knees, to try and catch my breath. So much for a gentle walk into the village each morning to buy freshly baked croissants! And so much for the expensive gym membership that I'd been forking out for the past two years. I continued on, thinking that I'd never felt more unfit in my life and by the time the final bend was in sight, my thighs were burning and my chest was on fire.

  I stopped again, pretending to admire the view, as a gaggle of noisy ramblers, most of them older than me by a good twenty years, strode past with no signs of flagging. Surely I should be fitter than this? With a final push, and determined not to be beaten by a bunch of Saga louts, I rounded the bend into the village.

A blue and white sign announced that I had finally reached Rocamour. On my left was the church that I had just been able to make out from my garden. It was bigger than I thought it would be, far too big for what seemed like such a small village. The clock appeared not to have moved for many years and was suspended in time at three thirty-five. Next to the church was a small
épicerie
. I'd check that out later but right now, I had more serious work to attend to.

  Across the square I saw the village café, its outdoor terrace shaded by scarlet awnings in sharp contrast to the bright green foliage of a huge lime tree. Tables were spread out in the shade, many of them already occupied and it obviously did a good lunchtime trade. Oh yes, this was much more like it. People!

  Choosing a table in the sun so I could catch a few more rays, I flopped down in a seat, completely exhausted. An elegant, perfectly coiffured waitress appeared at my side and looked me up and down with a slight whiff of distaste. I imagined how I must look; stung legs, beetroot-red face and hair looking like it hadn't had close contact with a grooming implement for some time. I flattened down my dress and tried to smooth my hair in a feeble attempt to make myself more presentable.
'Mademoiselle,'
asked the waitress imperiously,
'que désirez-vous?'
Désirez
? Desire? She must be asking what I wanted to drink.

  '
Un
beer?' I said hopefully. Alexandre Dumas, when he came to England to learn the language, had said that English is just French badly pronounced so I worked on the premise that 'beer', pronounced with a vaguely French accent, would do the trick. The waitress sniffed and turned on her heel, disappearing into the gloom of the interior of the café. I breathed a sigh of relief when she returned a few minutes later with a glass of ice-cool beer, condensation running down its sides.
'Trois euros, mademoiselle,'
she said placing a till receipt in front of me.

  Nearly three quid for a glass of beer? That's a bit steep, I thought, it's not even a pint. No wonder they don't binge drink in France! I rooted round in my purse and handed her the fifty-euro note. 'Sorry,' I apologised, 'it's all I have.'

  The waitress's glare was only marginally warmer than a nuclear winter as she flounced off into the bar, before returning a few minutes later with a small saucer piled high with euro coins.

  'Sorry, it's all
I
have,' she said with a sarcastic smile.

  I took the change without comment. Not much point upsetting her any more than I already seemed to have done. Sitting back, I contemplated my surroundings and fellow patrons of the Café du Midi. If I closed my eyes, I could almost be back home, there were so many English voices. Must be a popular spot with holidaymakers I thought, sipping on my ice-cold beer. Picking up the menu to see what was on offer, the prices seemed eye-wateringly high for a small village café. It was important to pace myself on the money front until I found a job, so eating here on a regular basis was definitely out for the moment.

  Opposite, the little village shop seemed to be in darkness. Funny, I thought, you'd think they'd be open to take advantage of all the lunchtime trade. A sign on the corner pointed to
La Poste
, the post office and another to a
quincaillerie
. I had no idea what that was and made a mental note to add it to my growing list of words to check out in my dictionary.

  Stretching out my stinging legs, I pulled my skirt up slightly in the hope that the sun might do something to disperse the ugly-looking white lumps that had spread across them from ankle to knee. I closed my eyes and tilted my face up towards the sun. A cold beer and sunshine in April. Heaven.

  
'Mince alors!'
exclaimed a male voice behind me. (I made a mental note to look that one up too). 'What has happened to you this time? Another accident? You are certainly accident lying down!'

  Julien! I scrabbled to pull my skirt down. Lying down... lying down? I was nonplussed.

  'Oh, accident prone. Accident prone, that's what you mean.' Google Translate had a lot to answer for.

  'Some lunatic Frenchman nearly ran me over and I had to jump out of his way. I ended up in a ditch... for the second time today. It's becoming something of a habit. No real harm done,' I continued, noticing his concerned look, 'just fell into a load of stinging nettles. Hurts like shit...
merde
,' I added.

  Julien smiled. I hadn't noticed the dimple in his left cheek before. It gave him an air of vulnerability that I found very attractive. To be honest, I found just about everything about him attractive.