Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (27 page)

In the course of a day, Stuart moves from mathematical calculations for the laying of the paving, to scientific measurements for the salt and chlorine in
la piscine
. Meanwhile, when I went to the market in Martel, I also remembered to go to in to
Bank Populaire
for a statement. What I forgot, however, is that two statements are necessary for a French bank account. One for a current account and one for the savings account. The ‘current' account shows the daily comings and goings of
euros
in and out, while the savings account automatically ‘tops' it up. The complexities of it all remain a baffling mystery for me. What I can grasp is that the
euros
are flowing out rapidly. What I can also manage to very clearly understand is that there is not a source to top up the account...

The mathematical calculations for the paving clearly need to also be applied to our bank account.

After days of paving, we know that another day will certainly send us crazy; it will tip us over the edge. We decide to take a break and be tourists for a day. However, to avoid the tourist influx of one of the most visited towns in France, we still get up early.

We have also been told that Collonges-la-Rouge is best seen in the early morning light, when the red stone for which the town is named, will be glowing in the breaking dawn.

It is absolutely true that the country drives in France are always as much a part of the journey as the destination. Each curve, each stretch ahead, brings a new vista, a renewal of wonder at the timeless beauty of the rural landscape.

Collonges-la-Rouge is one of the of the most beautiful villages in France. All the houses have been built from the local sandstone, which is striking and unusual because of the red stone. This is in fact how it got its name and its unique in that there is no other village that I know of built from this stone. As too are many of the other villages with the accolade, ‘one of the of the most beautiful villages in France', it is a delightful place to wander round, for each winding pathway and alley leads to another red turreted
maison
.

After a morning happily spent wandering the quiet streets and taking abundant photos, like true tourists, we make our way back to Martel to continue our day of luxury away from the work site. We have driven past the
Auberge des 7 Tours
restaurant just off the roundabout in Martel many times, and been attracted by its
menu du jour,
as well as its terrace with a view. There has simply never been time to stop, but today we finally do. As we walk along the gravel driveway past the vivid orange bougainvillea and pots of bright petunias, a
chic
older couple are driving out in their equally old Citroën. Both them and their cream and green
voiture
are straight out of a French film. They pause to spontaneously recommend the restaurant to us. It is an omen. So it is, that in the ebbing weeks, we find the perfect restaurant and it rapidly becomes our favourite haunt for both
déjeuner
and
dîner
. As with many things in life, it has literally been right on our doorstep all along.

On our first visit, we sigh with relief as we sink into our chairs on the shady terrace under the
mûrier-platanes
, the ferocious sun still beating a steady rhythm on our backs.

Every element of the unfolding tapestry of dishes is a taste of perfection. The setting – the view of the rolling green hills of Martel, the exquisite
fleur
beds, the symphony of tastes and textures – all add up to what is hoped for in the French lunch of dreams. A light, tangy tuna salad, tender pork and ratatouille, plum tart, a
petite
carafe of icy
rosé
, two
espresso
– all accompanied by the low murmur of French people on
vacances
. This is why we are in France.

The weeks have been greedily gobbled up. We continue to work more long hours of daylight than are conceivable. With our departure looming we are torn between our desire to do even more and push on and finish the paving, or soak up the essence of our French summer. As it has been in past years, it is a dilemma. The more we do now, the less there is to do in future years when we return. In the past few years, we have pushed and pushed ourselves, beyond the boundaries of any conceivable
vacances
. It is has paid off, yet the catchcry remains – namely from me – ‘When does the holiday start?'

Finishing touches to the drainage channel.

While Stuart and Jean-Louis work steadily as a new team at Pied de la Croix, my days are now engulfed by vigorous hoeing. I use the ancient, long-handled wooden hoe that Erick gave us. I am preparing a channel at the front of
la grange
that will be filled with
castine
to form a border between the grass and stone walls of the barn. It is yet another attempt to stem the tide of weeds. Each laborious drag of the hoe through the stony soil yields even more rocks that I place in ever-increasing piles. My hard work means that I have increasing respect for the creation of the immaculate vegetable
jardins
that most French people have in the country. Not a weed or a rock is ever in sight. I have seen farmers as old as eighty, patiently tilling the soil. Their vigour and love of the land is what infuses their daily life.

I wonder about the farmer whose gnarled hands once gripped the wood of the hoe that is smooth from age. I see his wizened form, bent at an angle, as he stoops over his vegetable
jardin
and lovingly tends to his plants. I've seen such farmers at times in Martel. They favour sturdy thick blue overalls, often with a red checked shirt underneath and they are always wearing a battered
chapeau
. I imagine too that they still cook their daily meals on wood fuel stoves like the one in Pied de la Croix that was the entire kitchen. Time seems to have entirely passed such farmers by.

It is not long before I am enveloped in clouds of choking dust and soaked in rivulets of sweat. It is not a good day to have chosen to wash the linen, flapping nonchalantly just near where I toil. My billowing cloud of white French sheets and pillowcases is soon engulfed in dust from the dirt and stones. What a fool, I think to myself.

The next ten days are filled in a similar way. Hoe, pick out the stones, make a pile, move the pile, trundle another wheelbarrow of
castine
from the
derrière
of
la grange
to the front. Once again, my objective and driving force is to win my fight against
le herbes
.

Mind you,
les herbes
has the ring of a Michelin chef's
cuisine
rather than the more prosaic word ‘weeds'. In any language however, they remain the same, and they must be banished. The only saving grace is the two grapevines that loop gracefully against the golden stone of
la grange
.

Day after day too, Jean-Louis arrives punctually on the dot of eight. His shabby old
voiture,
parked in the front of the barn, tells me every story that cannot be shared in words. Not only do he and his wife work shifts at the perfume bottle factory, he has undertaken this arduous job to support his son at university in Limoges. It is an entree to another world beyond the village. Jean-Louis was born in Martel so his life has had a
petite
radius. His son's world, through his father's labour, will move far further than the tiny world of Cuzance.

After a restorative
déjeuner
break, Jean-Louis always returns promptly at two. There are days we try to convey that as it is
le chaud,
it is simply too hot to continue in the burning afternoon heat. He indicates that he has his
chapeau,
so with a shrug and hat on his head, he steadfastly sets to work for another four hours under a blazing Cuzance sun. Not a ripple of air stirs the land and I finally concede defeat to the heat and retreat inside. The thick old stone walls means that it is blissfully cool. The end of our week is a glorious one, for real progress is at long last being made.

As another Cuzance day ends, the
noir chat
slips through the shadows on her secret night-time adventures. The sun hugs the horizon and the melodic birdsong hushes as darkness falls across the now fallow fields.

Over
dîner
, in another parody of the seasons, we discuss the complexities of heating
la grange.
Yet again, our dreams fuel us. We are toying with the idea of a year in Cuzance one day. Right now, on a day that soared to forty, it is inconceivable to imagine the minus eighteen of the past hostile winter.

I continue to conduct my own daily Cuzance assault. In shades of previous years, I fall out of bed, pull on my work clothes, consume a hasty
petite déjeuner
– and it's back to the trench for me. When I resume my trench weed-fare, I adopt an even more ignominious
jardin
style. I now crouch in the trench with my spade to scoop and shovel the dirt and stones in a sideways motion. It saves my back from constantly stooping over and most importantly, it works. I seem to have stumbled upon a very efficient rock-moving, dirt-moving, method. At other times, I seem to find myself balancing – one leg stretched out to the side, ballet-style. At least I have sufficiently maintained my sense of humour to be able to observe myself and laugh. One thing I do know, is that I will not soon be auditioning for
Swan Lake
.

As we pause for our morning
café
on our
petite
porch, we hear an unusual cry. I race to the side of our
maison
, to see to my horror, that Madame Chanteur has fallen on the road. My instinct kicks in and I run to help her. I pat her back and use soothing words that I know she won't understand but my calm tone is universal. A
voiture
rounds the corner. Instinctively, I put up my hand in the stop gesture. Fortunately it is Monsieur Dal and he was not careering wildly. Just the other day, two teenage boys, with high holiday spirits racing in their veins, nearly pushed us down a steep embankment on their fast-moving tractor as we crept around a country corner.

While not in sight when I arrive at Madame Chanteur's side, within seconds, Monsieur Chanteur appears in response to her frail yet frantic cry. He moves her gently off the road and tenderly admonishes her for wandering. Monsieur Dal conveys to me that Monsieur Chanteur is far too old himself to have such consuming, enormous care and responsibility for his wife. It is simply heartbreaking to see every day how rapidly she is declining. I am not sure his devotion is sufficient to sustain them both.

It must be a mirror in the eyes of the many older village inhabitants of what life may hold in store for them. I am full of sadness, for I know Monsieur Chanteur cannot continue to care indefinitely for his wife. What makes me even sadder, is that they moved to Cuzance to be close to their family in a nearby village. Yet, not once, have I heard the joyous cry of
petite
grandchildren ring in the
jardin
, to fill their hearts with happiness.

At the end of each Cuzance day, the closing of all the heavy wooden shutters, never fails to have a sense of symbolism. The closing out of the night, that after even the street lamps go to sleep at eleven, means that the heavy blanket of country darkness is only broken by the stars peeping through the scudding clouds. And then, each morning, the pattern is repeated, when the open shutters welcome a new, bright day. I know inevitably that the day is close when I will never again glimpse from our
chambre
window, Monsieur and Madame Chanteur, hand in hand in their
jardin
. And I will miss them.

Where my force and drive and energy come from, I simply don't know. I work feverishly, like a possessed person. The urge to do more, to press on, is all-consuming. A solid morning's work is translated by the corresponding pile of rocks and stones. As I work at the front of
la forge
, I watch the endless parade of tourist cars and caravans. I wonder about their destinations and how it is that such a procession can be constantly moving through such a
petite
village. I wonder too, if they ever think about me as they glance ever so fleetingly in my direction. Do they think I am French in my own homeland or are they able to deduce that I am a possessed foreigner? In a flash, they disappear round the bend, off on
vacances
. As I dig and hoe and wrench and heave, my trench is my sole focus. The demanding, backbreaking task is my whole world. Sometimes, I wish I could run away with the tourists.

In a feat of magic, after another relentless day of interminable toil, we transform ourselves for a marvellous evening in Martel. We park in the overflowing main street and gaze at the medieval market place and surrounding restaurants, all transformed at night by soft lights that glow upon the ancient golden stone. The towering church spire stands solidly against the soft dusk sky.