Our House is Not in Paris (4 page)

On the last night of our first trip, we stayed in a small village, Le Caylar, near the spectacular Cirque de Navacelles on the road to Montpellier. This night during our trip was a necessity rather than a choice. A stepping stone to the final destination; this time, home. We would have much rather spent our very last evening in Villefranche with Brigitte and Erick, but it meant the drive to Montpellier would have been far too long the next day. We had to be in Montpellier early the following morning to return our by now much-loved Citroën and catch the train to Paris for our return flight. It meant, though, that we were also able to visit one of the most iconic bridges in the world, the Millau Viaduct. Its soaring expanse of steel and concrete over the river Tarn is stunning. The sight of it soothed our spirits, sad at the thought of leaving a country that had left an indelible impression.

After booking into our
gîte
we set off in search of the perfect country restaurant and memorable meal to end our trip. The village only offered pizza; we were determined, on this our very last night in France, that we were certainly not going to eat pizza. I had noticed on the road into the village a sign for a restaurant tucked behind high stone walls. My fleeting glimpse had made me feel it held the promise of all that is perfect in a French rural restaurant. So off we set, on our last evening drive of the year, down the winding lanes of France in search of the perfect evening meal. We found the high stone walls, the old French manor looked enticing, and we tumbled out of the car in excitement. It seemed to be the tucked-away country restaurant of dreams: the profusely blooming roses in the
jardin
and the white gravel path winding up to the shaded terrace for an
apéritif
before
dîner
. But then we saw the notice on the wall: it is closed one night a week, on Monday. Of course it was a Monday.

As we returned to the car I noticed a young Frenchman enjoying his evening
apéritif
on his front steps. A local; surely he would know where we could eat. ‘
Non
,' he said; there was nowhere to eat around here it is the country and it is Monday. We sank back into the car with disappointment. It was getting late, and the only alternative seemed to be pizza. As we were driving off down the deserted village road I glanced behind and saw him running after us. ‘
Oui
,' there was somewhere open after all on a Monday. ‘
À gauche, à gauche, à droite, à droite
.' Left, left, right, right. Mmm, possibly I understood. We did get lost, but it was in the best way possible.

It was getting later and later. The chances of our memorable meal seemed to be becoming more and more remote. Then,
voilà
, we ended up seeing, quite by chance, one of the most stunning sites on our entire holiday. Getting lost does have its merits on occasions. Cirque de Navacelles.

We fell out the car and gasped in wonder. It was the middle of nowhere and yet here was this extraordinary and breathtaking spectacle. It was like a piece of the Grand Canyon with a tiny little hamlet nestled at the bottom in the ‘U' of the river bend. Pizza no longer seemed so bad after all. This unexpected splendour compensated for the missed perfect meal.

And then, driving back to Le Caylar, we came across, by sheer chance, the restaurant we had been directed to. It didn't matter that it was a pre-fabricated building sitting in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't pizza; it was somewhere to eat and — always a good sign — the car park was overflowing. Things were really looking up.

Eagerly we ventured inside. There was a wonderful warm atmosphere, large groups of family and friends, convivial checked tablecloths and, most importantly, a delicious aroma of home-cooked food. The most unprepossessing of places, and yet the promise of all that it seemed to offer. It was late, we were tired, we were hungry — but we had found it! And then, ‘
Non, non
,' they were full, it was late, it was not possible to have a table. My heart sank. It kept coming back to pizza on our very last night but even that was probably shut by now!

And so I swung into action and used my full dramatic repertoire. It was our last night in France; we were to fly home to Australia the next day, we were searching for the perfect meal, we were happy to wait for a table. ‘
Oui, oui
,' they understood, we could sit outside and have an
apéritif
while we waited, it might be quite a while.

Feeling enormously grateful we assured them that we were prepared to wait as long as necessary. It didn't matter too much that the night air was extremely chilly and damp. Not at all. We gratefully sipped our
apéritifs
as the tantalising smells wafted out into the cool night.

Then finally, we were beckoned. There was a classic blackboard menu but by that time there was only one choice. We were more than happy with country sausage and our favourite
frites
. What we didn't know — it was our first trip to France, after all — is what country sausage really is. It is now a word I will never ever forget. It is now the type of
rustique
country meal that I will never ever order. The dreaded
andouillette
, made from pig's colon. So rustic is the
andouillette
sausage that you can still see little colon-shaped pieces once the sausage is cut open, while its smell has more in common with the farmyard than what you normally expect from meat. When it is served, it smells delicious and at first seems delicious. However, it is the most
rustique
type of sausage imaginable. The fact that
andouillette
is made of offal is now seared into my memory. Under normal circumstances I would simply have left it discreetly on my plate. These were not normal circumstances, though. They had responded to my pleas, been happy when they found out where we were from. We were the last to be served and they had found us a table late at night. Despite all of this, it might still have been acceptable to not devour with relish the dreaded
andouillette
. What did make it impossible was the warmth, charm and
bonhomie
of the chef. Throughout our meal, he moved around the restaurant several times, chatting to all his customers — clearly regulars, as this was a rural backwater, after all — and made a point of warmly chatting with us several times and enquiring about our meal. There was simply no way I was going to leave my ghastly sausage on the plate and offend this wonderful chef, especially when he indicated that he would give us a complementary
digestif
when we finished our meal.

Typically, of course, I didn't have a bag with me. So, I carefully wrapped the absolutely awful
andouillette
in a serviette, placed it on my lap and smuggled it out the restaurant. As we set off down the country lane I gleefully tossed the
rustique
sausage out the window into the fields. Perhaps a wild boar roaming the woods would devour it with more gratitude than me.

When we arrived on the Saturday in Puymule for our much-anticipated two weeks of relaxation, it was freezing and pouring. On the five-hour drive, as we hit the mountains, the temperature plummeted to nine degrees. Not exactly an inspiring start to our longed-for break. The previous year we had packed copious amounts of warm clothes as we were headed for the Pyrenees and thought it might be dreadfully cold.

It was actually extremely hot. So, this year, warm clothes were pretty much limited to what we wore on the flight from our winter in Australia. Consequently, we wore the same clothes for about five days straight. As I really feel the cold, this also meant wearing most of these layers to sleep in.

On our second night, we had invited Kim, the agent we bought our house from, and her husband Martin to dinner. It was still freezing and we lit the log fire. Two days later we were in the pool and at last able to enjoy relaxing in the sun. The weather then became utterly glorious and, by the time we left, the pool temperature was thirty degrees — my sort of temperature. So, I was able to have my perfect two weeks, lying next to the pool and devouring books. The furthest I would venture some days was to the communal village bins along the lane — and even such a mundane task was a pleasure, as there were several
châteaux
in the valley below to gaze upon.

Now, Stuart's decision made perfect sense. There would otherwise simply have been no respite at all from our perpetual renovating life. The surroundings of Puymule were picture-perfect: everything you dream of in the quintessentially French country life. The days were warm and splendid, and the ambiance of the surrounding garden was a far cry from my first impressions of Pied de la Croix!

While we were at Puymule, Stuart started to make the first of what would be many
bricolage
runs to get many of the tools we needed to get our renovation underway as soon as went to stay in our house. One day, he came back and presented me with my own set of scrapers, which I ended up using for hour upon hour, scraping wallpaper and paint off wood — a very hard job and one I had never done before. Actually, I was as delighted with that gift as if they were a bunch of flowers. We also went to our first of many
brocantes
in search of second-hand treasure to start furnishing and setting up the house. Even when we were putting in up to eighteen hours per day, we actually set the alarm for Sunday mornings in our quest for treasure at all the surrounding markets. On our first
brocante
outing from Cuzance, we found four fabulous chairs, all at an extraordinary price. And so the
petite maison
was about to be furnished.

Stuart's brother John arrived from England to stay with us for a week and, during this time, they both started looking at second-hand cars, as we knew that eventually it would make more sense to buy one. We did the figures and realised that hiring a car each year would become costlier than buying one. For a while we contemplated buying a van, as it would be practical for all the renovating work, and so there were a few inspections and a few times when we were close to buying one. However, to my relief, that didn't eventuate — the thought of driving a cumbersome van down narrow little country lanes didn't really appeal to me. I didn't even have the confidence to drive our sporty Citroën on the ‘wrong' side of the road, let alone a lumbering van.

They also went in search of electrical shops, as we would have to buy a fridge pretty much straight away when we went to Cuzance. However, despite hours of searching, they couldn't find any shops that had anything suitable in terms of size or price. As it turned out, there had been one virtually on our doorstep the whole time. We had by now become friendly with Marie-France and Michelle, the delightful, very active owners of the house we were renting. Their own house was just across the lane and, with the true French hospitality that we were to become very familiar with, they invited us in one night for an
apéritif
. Shortly after that, I confided in Marie-France about our little farmhouse that we had bought in Cuzance. That turned out to be an inspired decision.

After I told them we had bought a little house nearby, Marie-France swung into action. They lent us a stove and gas bottle, a table, two old outside chairs, an assortment of plates and cutlery, and, most importantly, some old clothes to renovate in — which we had neglected to pack (major oversight). Not only that, but they lent us their van to take everything to Cuzance and offered their van any time we needed it. This was the start of the astonishing kindness and help we encountered on all our trips and in our village. Once again, the myths about the French proved to be utterly untrue.

We even came very close to buying their ancient Peugeot, which they just happened to be on the verge of selling. We were chatting one day and told them how, by the following year, we would need to buy a car and,
voilà
, we nearly had a car. However, good sense prevailed over the extreme ease of it all, as it was a 1995 model, which of course meant no power steering, no air conditioning and it guzzled petrol As I still had not overcome my anxiety about driving and I didn't seem likely to in the near future, this was a very sound decision. I could just imagine the scenario of breaking down in the middle of the rural wilderness and being stranded alone.

After John's visit, we went to La Rochelle to stay with Martine for a few days at her holiday house. The invitation seemed like too good an opportunity to turn down seeing another part of France we had not been to before. Or were we still avoiding the inevitable reality of renovating? On the way to drop John off at the station, we stopped quickly at a discount whitegoods shop, as indeed you do when you are heading to the coast to extend your holiday. Within a mere half an hour, we rapidly chose a fridge and washing machine and arranged for them to be delivered when we arrived in Cuzance. True to form, even in a foreign country in a foreign language, Stuart bargained for these two items. This was even more astonishing as it was already
Solde
season!

The
département
Charente-Maritime, where Martine's house is, was like being in a different country. The countryside was very flat, there weren't many trees, it was far more dry and sun-baked, and the architecture was very different. There seemed to be more homes that were new and rendered rather than the golden stone we had grown to love. Somehow, the experience of being in a part of France that we did not fall in love with, as we had the Dordogne and Lot regions the previous year, meant that we were well and truly ready to start renovating.

On the way to Cuzance to finally stay in our
petite maison
, we went on the first of two French IKEA trips, the first in Bordeaux. This trip was to get lots of household goods like linen, towels, glasses, cutlery and a dinner set. On many other long road trips we had been caught without any food and nowhere to stop on the motorways when we needed to have lunch. Ironically, this time, when we had made
baguettes
for a picnic lunch, we discovered that IKEA has sensational lunches, complete with
plat du
jour and wine. After a few exhausting and expensive hours, we ended up eating our
baguettes
sitting on the trolley in the car park, which we thought was fairly sad for France! Our next IKEA trip we took full advantage of the cafeteria — we actually thought that being able to have a glass of wine there was hugely appealing. We later discovered that the motorway service stations also fully cater to travellers and have great food, including, again,
plat du jour
and wine. All very sophisticated.