Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (29 page)

Some things never quite change though... Mmm, what few minor tasks will we ‘just' fit in? The two grapevines arching gracefully on
la grange
have had vigorous growth spurts in the heat. We've noticed from looking at vines in other gardens, that they are at their most attractive when the main stem of the vine is the feature, forming a long bare length at the bottom, with the branches and tendrils then shooting sideways and upwards. So, this too is our aim.

It has long been Stuart's intention to do the pruning. But time ‘waiting for no man', seems to be in full play in Cuzance. He is frantically still paving as much as possible, before the line is fully drawn. Wasn't it already? Perhaps the sand is wet and the line keeps disappearing. No, in fact, it is the concrete that needs to be kept damp, and the refrain is now, ‘I'll just finish this bag of concrete before I stop.' I have heard these words before – or a variation upon them – many times over our many renovating years.

So, what can I possibly accomplish in the time remaining? I decide to try my hand at pruning, with the intention of creating the feature stem. This proves to be a little more specialised than my pruning in the orchard, which when all is said and done, is really only sheer hacking of old branches. It all goes terribly wrong. With one simple snip of the secateurs, I miscalculate where to cut.
Voila
, all the splendid summer growth tumbles to the parched ground. In fact, not just the growth of summer, but, how many years old must it be judging from the thickness of the stem? Quite a few I'd say. And how many more years to re-establish itself? Again, suffice it to say, more than a few.

The decimation is somehow sadly symbolic for me. Not only is it hard to leave Cuzance again but it is also hard to walk away when our project is not
fin
.
Next year – next year is the echo for everything.

Weary beyond words and emotions running high, we set off to Martel for a much-needed
dîner
of steak and
frites
. Not only is the meal bitterly disappointing – the steak is dry and the potatoes are clearly left over from
déjeuner – l'addition
is also ridiculously
très cher.
Strike that restaurant off our list. A bad end to a bad day.

Grape vines on the barn.

The reality of renovating is that
fin
is never really possible, it is never a finite actuality, particularly once a year in a short hot summer. We enthusiastically embrace our self-declared
petite vacances
.

The shadows start to lengthen ever earlier, creeping across the
jardin
as our days ebb too. Further hints of autumn yellow appear on the trees. Yet, there have been so many consecutive dog days that we can no longer keep count of them. I had thought it was a colloquial term used by our
amis
until Françoise told us that it is used in the weather reports on television. There is further confirmation that it is an official term when we return from shopping in Brive, and the overhead sign on the
autoroute
states:
Attention. Jours de canicule. Arrêtez-vous et réhydrater.
Stuart loses no time in translating it for me. ‘Attention: Dog Days. Stop and Rehydrate.' Ah, the French will use any excuse for another
apéritif
.

All the days of our summer have blurred. The final days though when we declare a
petite vacances
at our
petite maison
are even more so. The walnut tree is definitely my new best friend. At least now it is an indolent, indulgent blur. Days of reading, daydreaming, afternoon
café
and
crème glacée,
icy gin and tonics in the evening. ‘This is the life,' is another of Stuart's favourite expressions and this time it's true. We sigh with pleasure during our last lazy Cuzance summer days and the sweat, toil, and yes at times tears, recede and fade.

The church bells ring imperiously every hour, its chimes are always immediately repeated in case you did not grasp straight away, the marching hours of the day. At both seven in the morning and again at ten at night, the pealing is longer and more resonant to ensure that the villagers know that the working day has started and when it is
fin
at the end of another fleeting day. At midday, there is another clamouring cry from the bell. It commands that tools are downed and that the
dîner
hour – or two – is duly respected. You can measure life by the ringing of the sonorous bells.

I know that I am fully immersed in my French life when I take our
voiture
to the local Renault dealer for a service. I almost manage independently, though of course Jean-Claude is on standby as my back-up. It also gives me enormous pleasure each time I go to Martel, despite being the height of the tourist season, to be a recognised, regular customer by the women who work in
Le Bureau de Poste, la boulangerie
and
la pharmacie
. I never fail to take delight in the courteous exchange of
Bonjour
and
merci beaucoup
, and
au revoir as
you leave. I especially love the ring of ‘
Toute allure
' and all that it implies; full speed ahead; have a good day. The greetings on arrival and departure infuse the everyday transactions with a measure of French timelessness and tradition.

While Stuart's decision to not press on and
fin
the paving is not one I would have initially made, nevertheless as we indulge in our
petite vacances,
I have every reason to be grateful for such a sound decision and not finish it. The toil truly can wait until next year – and the one after, and indeed all the years to come in our
petite
corner of French provincial life. For a few days of utter indulgence, we enjoy outings for
déjeuner
and long, luxurious afternoons next to
la piscine
. For a short moment in time, the biggest decision of the day is what
la robe
to wear out to
dîner
and what choices to make from the
menu du jour.
The world with all its responsibilities and commitments is held at arm's length. Life is spectacular
.
A lone kite, wheeling high in the sky, cries plaintively, the sole sound to puncture the heavy summer silence.

Friends relaxing by
la piscine.

There are few things that I can imagine would be more wonderful than arriving for
déjeuner
when the entry is outside a high stone wall, so high that it is impossible to peep over. The moss-covered walls encircle an old convent, that in its most recent history – the start of the nineteenth century, was a school for girls. Now, in its latest incarnation, it is one of the most prestigious restaurants and hotels in Martel.

There are also few places that I have ever visited, that on arrival, I have paused to simply breathe in the complete charm and beauty. And so, an exquisite few hours unfold, in the company of Jean-Claude and Françoise, on this, our last Friday in France.

It had been Françoise's suggestion to have
déjeuner
here, for although they have been a stone's throw away for twenty years, they had yet to visit it. It is our surprise to them that
l'addition
will be our way of saying
très merci beaucoup
for all they do for us.

The
jardin
is perfectly manicured and while Le Relais Sainte Anne is in the centre of Martel, a very popular tourist destination, now at its peak in August, there is a tranquil hush within the grounds. The lavish
menu du jour
is served on the spacious, flagstone terrace overlooking the chapel, which is flanked by a bed of bright yellow
fleurs
. The meal and company will be long-lodged in the memory bank of: ‘Do you remember?'

Indeed, it was by far our best meal in France, in the most delightful company in the most ideal of settings. And while the
cuisine
was sublime,
l'addition
was by no means extortionate, especially when
foie gras
was served in both the entree and main course.

We are fully aware of some people's ethical objections to the production of
foie gras.

What can I say? We are not in that camp
.

The entree is finely minced
canard;
the duck is encased in a golden brown pastry parcel; the main dish,
canard
again, a regional speciality, is served with a delicate
foie gras
sauce while the dessert is a
magnifique
concoction of strawberries,
crème glacée
and paper-thin
fraise
wafers embedded on a layer of fine shortcrust pastry. Jean-Claude and Stuart have chosen an exotic creation of meringue and
chocolat,
served with hot
chocolat
sauce
.
We all sigh with utter pleasure
.

A wander round the soothing
jardin
completes our outing. We all concur that a visit to Le Relais Sainte Anne will be an annual pilgrimage; a homage to all that is the well-deserved repute of fine French
cuisine
. Yes we may be far from Paris and the Michelin restaurants but we have found our piece of Paris buried in the country – and unlike the
grand
Parisian boulevards, it is not at all
très cher.

On the short drive back to Cuzance, Jean-Claude takes us on a country lane not travelled by us before and through the
petite
hamlet of Remedy, a sign that has often caught my eye for all that its name conjures up. We are not five minutes from Martel, yet we are in the depths of the country, where copses of trees are now in full autumn flight, cloaked in a medley of rich colour. We drive past a half-finished
la grange.
Jean-Claude as always our own personal tour guide
,
a font of local knowledge, tells us that it was not completed at the end of World War 1 as the money went out of the truffle business, for which le Lot is renowned. It seems incomprehensible to me that no one has finished building the barn in all the intervening years.

On our very last Saturday in Cuzance, the autumn rain sets in steadily. Similarly, the leaves now fall in golden torrents, the onset of all the trees surrounding us, being stripped completely bare.
La piscine
and all final relaxation is abandoned. Our plans for a farewell onslaught on
les herbes
are thwarted by the downpours. Instead, we turn our attention to another outbuilding. It is attached to the
derrière
of
la grange
and our long-term dream envisages it as a
salle de bain
and laundry.

From the layout of the old wooden stalls and the remnants of hay piled up, we imagine it was a cow byre. Once again, we look around and try to utilise what is on hand. Stuart sets to work with the crowbar, pulling down the thick ancient wooden planks. He needs the wood to repair the rickety broken doors of
la grange
before we leave. I rake the hay into mounds and trundle wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow out to
le jardin
. I am ever mindful of what may be lurking in the long-abandoned hay. At least it is lighter than my previous countless loads of
castine.

Next, I use one of the many old abandoned straw brooms that once saw another life.

I stretch and reach to drag down the skeins of thick dark cobwebs. Now we are able to look through the
petite
apertures that have been left in the huge stone slabs that form the wall. We pause and gaze around at the magnificent space, overlooking the back garden.

We pace the space; a bathroom with an orchard view. What could be better?

As I work away, I muse once again about my concept of fun, for fun indeed it is to clear out this long-neglected building and peel it back to its bones. I am filthy beyond description, dust flies in my face and I am ever conscious of hidden mice, rats and even snakes. And yet, it remains strangely satisfying, despite the fact that the weather continues to thwart our
petite vacances
plans. We could certainly sightsee for there is plenty in our
département
to still explore but the connection with the past and the imprint we are creating, exerts a strong tug.