Our House is Not in Paris (2 page)

Even before our first evening, all did not bode well for what by now seemed to have been a very impetuous and romantic decision.

Pied de la Croix is just forty minutes away from Puymule, the
petite
hamlet where we had rented our holiday house during our first fortnight in France, when we had a ‘proper' holiday. Then we launched into our renovation and off we went to Cuzance together for the first time. It was a Monday morning — and not the happiest of occasions, as we had anticipated. The grass was very overgrown and the day was cool and damp. The house simply looked very old and rundown; my overwhelming impression was how much work it required. It was by no means a picturesque country cottage. Instead, it had been half-rendered at some point so that the lovely old stone was half-covered in cement. The grounds were so overgrown that it was hard to even wander around — the brambles caught on our clothes and, to tell the truth, it was all rather dismal and overwhelming. Even Stuart wondered what he had done … and, it's not like him at all to feel that way. He absolutely doesn't believe in looking back or having regrets. However, the weather certainly coloured our emotions, and the enormity of what we had actually done hit home. We are by no means the first to buy a house in France as a holiday house — many other Australians do that. But, here's the difference: most people usually pay and outsource all the hard work.

We returned the next day to meet our Australian friend Dave at our village restaurant; he had flown in that morning to Limoges and hired a car. We had lunch and marvelled at the fact that we were all together in Cuzance. This was after recovering from the amusement of Dave turning up in his less-than-attractive hired Kangoo. It was like a big box on wheels; only the windows identified it as a van. Then all three of us were off to inspect our house, a two-minute walk from the restaurant. I had managed to hastily confide in Dave that Stuart and I had had one of the worst arguments of our entire marriage the night before, after we had seen our little house together for the first time and been overcome by the reality of what we had done. However, the sun was now shining and it all looked much brighter. Coincidentally, it had been Dave who took our
Sold
sign photos at Austinmer the weekend after we sold our house and, now, here he was in France, able to take another photo on the steps of our
petite maison
.

Despite my initial misgivings after my first viewing, clouded by the damp and gloomy day, my innate urge to renovate immediately swung into action. While Stuart had talked me through the photos on his return and explained where he thought the kitchen could be located, it was clear to me that the room next to where the old stove and sink were would, in fact, be a better space to create a kitchen. I remember being sufficiently entranced that I even tentatively peeled a piece of the 1960s wallpaper off the room that I imagined would be the kitchen, just to see what lay beneath. And, so it would seem that there was an element of immediate bonding with the little farmhouse despite my very real feelings of
Oh, what have we done!
, I could certainly already see in my mind just how we could transform it. Similarly, Stuart had tried to prepare me, but it would be a long time — well, will it be ever? — before I could come to terms with the toilet being like a very small cupboard: no window and very, very
petite
indeed. The bathroom, while a decent size, didn't have a window, either. I was hopeful we could cut through the stone. Maybe there had been an original one we could resurrect?

After first meeting Jean-Claude Chanel from the village and telling him about how difficult I found it to have a bathroom without a window, in his usual fashion, he investigated straight away. Somehow he was able to find out, from one of his numerous sources in the village, that at some point in the history of the little house there had had been a donkey stable attached to the outside of the bathroom wall. Unfortunately, the thickness of the stone meant that it would be hugely difficult to cut through, not to mention prohibitively expensive, so it looked like my bathroom would remain window-less.

I was entranced, too, by the width and rich dark colour of the walnut floorboards, as Stuart had told me I would be, while the heavy wooden shutters on all the windows were another typical French touch. I was also enchanted by the smooth curve of the stone step inside the front door, hollowed out by generations of French footsteps. So despite my misgivings, once we left to return to Puymule I was picturing just how we could transform it all and yet retain its charm. And I knew that our footsteps would now add to the patina of time and the story that lay wrapped inside the walls of Pied de la Croix.

With the sun shining on our second viewing, things were definitely looking brighter. There was, however, a huge shock to come later; one that nearly saw the end of the dream before it had even really begun. The traffic …

Before I get to that moment of utter devastation, why was it that we didn't go straight to Cuzance and our own
petite maison
? After the usual exhausting flight from Sydney, we arrived in Lyon to pick up our car that Stuart had organised to hire for the following six weeks. Mind you, this was after waiting an additional two hours at the airport, as, yes, our luggage was lost. Just what we needed after the interminable flight. As we arrived to collect our car I noticed a magnificent, sporty-looking car. In fact, much to my delight, it turned out be ours as Stuart had arranged it as a surprise. Amazingly enough, I had my camera ready to capture the moment. A brand new Citroën — it had only been on the market a week and it was absolutely superb. Everywhere we drove in France it attracted a lot of attention, and people even came up to us to enquire about it. It was all quite extraordinary to be foreigners with such a deluxe car.

Despite being exhausted from our flight, we couldn't get the keys to our apartment in Lyon until 6pm. So we had to wander around for quite a few hours in the damp and drizzle to simply fill in the time. Fortunately, the apartment turned out to be great, newly renovated, with a marvellous view of Lyon — especially the assorted rooftops — and a cathedral on the horizon. Luckily, our luggage arrived at 9pm, just as I was about to stagger off to bed. However, what was fascinating was that the apartment was on the top of a very old building, and there were 196 steps to reach it. It reminded us of our home in Australia in Austinmer and our fifty-nine steps to reach the house. A rather ironic touch.

Following our two days in Lyon, we rented a house in a very small village, Puymule, for two weeks. It was a much-needed break from all our renovating in Australia and the hard work that was to follow in Cuzance. At times, both then and in the following year, I've had many moments to wonder whether we were utterly mad. It seemed like our life was just one long renovating saga: finish one house, look around and ask,
What's next?

As if buying a house, moving and renovating hadn't been demanding and exhausting enough for the past ten years, we also had to buy a holiday house that just happened to be on the other side of the world. I wondered when there would ever be a real holiday and felt constantly torn between the romance of it all and the — at times — what felt like utter madness.

Despite having our own
petite maison
, we decided that going straight to Cuzance would mean the whole six weeks would be consumed by endless renovating. And we needed a break from renovating. This should have sounded alarm bells in itself. Part of me also thought this was a foolish decision, to rent a house in a country where we now had a house, but it turned out to be an inspired one.

Our love affair with France started in 2009 when we went for a six-week holiday there, starting with five days in Paris. Oh Paris, how we longed to return there. What was even more remarkable about this trip was that we had planned it for months in advance as a long-awaited adventure. Then, in an extraordinary coincidence of utter good fortune, I actually won a return trip to Paris for two as well as five nights in a four-star hotel. The fact that we had already planned to go there and the flights were booked and paid for was almost beyond our comprehension. Winning a trip to the very city that we were already going to … I'm quite sure that we are the only people in the whole world that this has happened to! It did mean that we were able to transfer our flights to the following year. And so, when our first trip finished and with another one the next year, it became inevitable that we would fall in love with France.

So many people have told us that they would never return to Paris or France, that all the myths were true about the arrogance and disdain of the French. Yet never once had we encountered anything except the utmost friendliness and helpfulness. In fact, even in Paris — especially in Paris — people were utterly charming and gracious. For instance, one blistering-hot day, I approached a young Parisian mother with a pram, attempting to ask her directions to a nearby
supermarché
so I could buy bottles of water. My miming attempts conveyed what I wanted so effectively that she reached into her baby's pram and produced a new bottle of water, which she offered to me. It was encounters like this that cemented our love for France. There were times too when I wondered whether such an act of thoughtfulness would happen on the streets of any other of the world's main cites. It was not even that I spoke French; my attempts to do so were really quite feeble. However, the few words that I could use, I used with the utmost charm and enthusiasm. My sense of the dramatic and ability to mime also improved enormously.

It's hard to encapsulate why we were so captivated by France and consumed by a love affair with all that is French. I think to sum it up; I would have to say that there is a certain elegance in the way of life. Even in Paris the pace is not manic and frenetic. People don't rush along the boulevards glued to their mobiles and devouring food on the run. There is a more leisurely way of life; it is celebrated in an entirely different way. The markets for instance take place twice a week in most towns. It is a way of life to saunter with your straw basket over your arm – examine the ripe, plump tomatoes, bury your nose in a sprig of flowers, tuck a pastry in your basket that will crumble with freshness, linger over the pungent display of
fromage
and choose the most aromatic peaches. Oh the cheese, there are enough to choose a different one for every day of the year in France. The market forays and daily meals are strongly connected to the seasons – life in France is a true celebration of food.

Strangely, at home food does not feature that highly in our lives. However, in France that is all completely different. I always remember a French friend, Martine, saying to me that the first thing a French person thinks of when they wake is,
What will I eat today?
Another strong memory is one of our first
supermarché
trips. Stuart and his brother were still outside collecting a trolley and I had already gone into the supermarket. The first aisle was devoted to French wine. I was so beside myself with excitement, especially when I saw the prices, that I ran outside to share the fabulous news. However, it turned out that it was through the emergency exit. The alarm whooped, whooped, whooped, and all heads swivelled to stare at the strange foreigner — whooping with excitement about wine.

The memories of meals and
boulangeries
resonated through the months afterwards. The ‘remember' — the superb almond
croissant
sitting in the park in the small village on our way to Villefranche-de-Rouergue after the prohibitively expensive coffee. It was one of the few times we hadn't checked the price. It was only afterwards, when we were in the little village shop buying food for our picnic lunch, and someone commented on the Paris plates on our car that we realised people had assumed that we were wealthy Parisians. Then there was the lunch in Souillac at a typical French workers' café: a fantastically priced meal of tasty lamb chops and hearty fare. I especially loved eating at the places that catered for the everyday person and would choose one any day over a tourist restaurant. However, the most memorable thing about that lunch was that, just a mere seven months later, Souillac became our very own local town. There was no inkling on that cool damp day that such a momentous event would ever transpire.

Prior to our trip, on our trip and on arrival, Stuart kept constantly repeating and trying to reinforce the one key sentence that he was insistent I learn. Knowing my ineptitude with language, it was the only French he truly wanted me to grasp.

Je suis désolé que c'est trop cher et je ne peux pas se permettre que les.

Yes, I did indeed fully grasp that he wanted me to convey on as many occasions as possible, especially in Paris, that. no, I was sorry, it was simply too expensive and I couldn't possibly afford it. It worked. On no occasion did I buy anything expensive — so much so that it was on our first trip that I learnt the word
solde
. If there is a single word that a woman will learn in any language, surely it is the word for ‘sale'?

In fact, what became a recurring feature of all our trips to France was my ability to fly at high speed around my favourite shop, Etam, in forty minutes. The first time was in Paris and, like men the world over, Stuart drummed his heels relentlessly on Rue de Passy. I have re-enacted this scene a few times now and there is little variation on the theme: race up the stairs, identify racks of what I'm searching for, usually
pantalons
and your classic French T-shirts and jackets, and pile my arms as high as is feasible. I then frantically try on as many items as possible in as short a time as possible.

The first time this happened, thrilled with my collection of fabulous French bargains, I queued with all the other eager women at the sale and waited and waited.
Solde
season is an international temptation. Time was ticking; time in Paris was precious and I knew Stuart would be waiting impatiently. Finally,
voilà
, it was my turn. Then, to my utter dismay — and due to my inability to read the prominently displayed sign — it was cash only. Naturally I only had my credit card on me and Stuart had all the cash. I was determined not to abandon the first French clothes that I was ever about to buy. Absolutely not.