Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (8 page)

Our bank,
Bank Populaire
, (literally, a popular French bank), is next door and on the other side of the
café
is
Les Marchands de Journaux,
where people grab their copy of
Le Figaro
to read over their
espresso
. Next there is the
pharmacie
and like all other chemists in France, it displays a poster of mushrooms to be able to identify those that are poisonous. Mushroom gathering in spring is a very popular pastime in France. Each year Brigitte and Erick tell us when they are setting off for a few days' break to pick mushrooms. By now, as we have our
espresso,
we actually know a few locals passing by and going to the shops, to exchange ‘
Bonjours, ca va?
' with. This simple greeting fills me with delight. In some small way, we do belong.

It was on one of our
café
sojourns the previous year that I glanced across the road and my eyes landed with happiness on a newly opened
petite
shop, complete with a hat stand and other second-hand wares out the front. I exclaimed with pleasure to Stuart that I simply had to go and investigate straight away. Knowing my predilection for any possibility of second-hand treasure, Stuart settled back with another
espresso
while I skipped across to investigate. A second
espresso
can only last so long, and by the time he thought my time for exploring had definitely been sufficient, I had my arms laden with potential purchases to eagerly share with him.

When friends and family come to stay, Isabelle's shop has now been woven into my personal itinerary. So now mum has her pink jacket in
Australie
and Liz has a
petite
watercolour in Wales. As with all my treasure, I eagerly display my new
chapeau
to Françoise next time I see her. She duly shares my pleasure in my pretty pink hat. Not long after, when I go La Vieux Prieuré, Françoise and their youngest daughter, Bénédicte, show me what they have unearthed in Isabelle's shop, for they too call
la petite
shop by the name that I do. Just like last year, when Dominique appeared in her first-ever purchase of second-hand clothes, it is when I introduce my French friends to sources of second-hand delights, that I truly feel a part of life in Cuzance.

Actually, I don't know the name of
la petite
shop at all. However, I always chat to Isabelle the immaculate and
chic
owner, so that is what I call her treasure trove. I'm thrilled to actually say it's part of my weekly routine in a new village, in a new country.

To start to establish rituals, means that I feel a part of the rhythm of life in Cuzance.

‘
Bon courage
' are words that I would be profoundly grateful to never hear again. It seems that every passer-by, every casual drop-in, every
artisan
and all our French friends, utter this phrase when leaving our
petite maison
. No translation is needed. The meaning is absolutely clear. Underlying this seemingly casual, polite phrase is an undertone that distinctly conveys, firstly; they think we are extraordinarily mad to tackle such a project and secondly; how grateful they are that it's not them. Shades of one of my frequent thoughts, ‘Is a working holiday a
vacances
at all?' rise to the surface whenever I hear this phrase. Somehow too it is always uttered in a tone of the utmost
bonhomie
.

As I continue to labour long and hard at whatever the current task is, I always gaze wistfully after their rapidly departing backs, knowing full well, that they are returning to relax in their
jardin
to linger over an afternoon
apéritif
... I can only begin to imagine the sage nodding of heads and absolute concurrence that yes, the madness of foreigners knows no end. My limited understanding of French would certainly not impede my understanding in this instance, of the speculation about a couple who come all the way from
Australie
each year to spend their
vacances
renovating.

As I get older, my penchant and inclination for renovating seems to rise in inverse proportion to the passing years. And so it is, that I find myself declaring with increasing vehemence – that next year when we embark on the bathroom – will be my last renovating push – ever. We will see. I seem to recall that those words have been uttered before. Despite all that ‘
Bon courage
' implies, nevertheless when working life at home becomes challenging, I console myself with my escape clause – Cuzance. It reverberates in my mind, a place that somehow doesn't often seem real and yet real it is. Cuzance is indeed a place to return to year after year. A very real and very real different life, even if does hold the oft-repeated phrase ‘
Bon courage
'...

Time adds a rich layer of meaning to friendships from afar. A chance encounter on the streets in Trabzon, a small town on the Black Sea, twenty years ago, has led to a friendship sustained through letters for many years and now emails. We had noticed Erick and Lydia on the small plane from Istanbul as they were the only other tourists heading to a remote part of Turkey, at quite a dangerous time. It was the first Gulf war and there were bombs being dropped on Iraq. When we stayed in Trabzon, the four of us were the only tourists, so we all teamed up to share our adventures. There was a curfew each night; helicopters constantly hovered overhead and there was a real sense of imminent danger.

As with many of our friendships, chance seems to play a strong role. We had been booked to go on a ferry to eastern Turkey, but as I was heading back to our flat, after collecting my final pay from my teaching job – paid in cash and given to me in a large brown paper bag, just like real-life Monopoly – I encountered Stuart in our local market, heading home too to our flat in Besikatas. He had been to pick up our ferry tickets but on the eve of departure, we found out quite by chance, that the ferry had been burnt and destroyed. We made a last minute decision to fly instead and so, two new friends entered into our lives.

There was no way in those early days that I would have ever dreamt of having a house in France. Just a few days into our travels, Stuart spent all his money on a Turkish carpet, while just a few months later, I paid for my own engagement ring. Who would have ever thought too, that I would go from sleeping on a beach alone in Greece for three weeks to save money, to having a
petite maison
? We were both backpackers on a shoestring when we met Lydia and Erick. We stayed in rooms that cost only a few dollars a night; rooms that you would rather not glimpse in daylight. From soldiers with guns at checkpoints and in the streets and markets, to
châteaux
glimpsed as you round a corner on the way to the
supermarché
from Pied de la Croix. What a long way we've come. Life is truly an adventure when you take risks and push the boat out from the safety of shore to sometimes turbulent seas and uncharted territory.

As with many of our travels over the years, we have met up with people along the way, spent a few days exploring together, traded life stories, and shared meals. Most of these people are just transitory travel companions, bound by the place and time. So it was that after meeting Lydia and Eric, we spent the next week with them exploring eastern Turkey. This has been a special friendship though that has spanned almost two decades. The years have seen us both renovate our many homes and share our unfolding life stories, including that of their two children, Jorn and Eleni. Then finally, after many years, we all met up on our first trip to France.

It was the time we rented a house for a fortnight and we seized the opportunity to gather our family and friends. There was a little studio at the bottom of the garden, so Liz, our friend from Wales, was booked into that. Stuart's brother John, was in a nearby
gîte
, a short bicycle ride away, while Lydia, Erick and the children were able to camp just nearby. And so, for a week, eight of us gathered each evening for meals in the
jardin
under the damson tree. This is not the sort of thing that comes readily to us at home, yet, across the other side of the world, somehow this is now woven into the French part of our life. Time dropped away, we laughed and filled in the gaps of the intervening years, and now, once again we are to be reunited in our own
petite maison
.

Just a matter of a few weeks before leaving, Lydia emailed to let me know that their summer holiday in the Basque country meant that they would also be able to visit us for a few days. What did I think of that plan? My fingers flew across the keyboard in excitement to let her know that is exactly what we hoped Pied de la Croix would be, a place for spending time with those we love. Somehow, again completely unlike the person I am at home, it doesn't matter that we don't still know John's plans; whether there will be eight or ten of us in our
petite maison
, that there aren't enough beds, enough linen and one
petite
bathroom. We simply know that it will all be perfectly fine, it will all work and our everyday selves at home will be transformed by the seductiveness of summer days in France.

Things really started to fall into place before we left this year. Weeks before heading for Cuzance, we decide to check the route for the
Tour de France
. Much to our excitement, the route goes though Brive-la-Gaillarde, a mere twenty minutes from us. We speculate about the back roads that the Tour may take and wonder if in fact it may go straight past our
petite maison –
after all, our house is right on the road! Last year I had strenuously resisted Stuart's entreaties that I go with him to watch it in Figeac. I simply couldn't imagine anything more tedious than a bunch of bike riders whizzing past at great speed, a blur of coloured jerseys, gone in a flash. I kept saying that he should make arrangements to meet Erick as I was sure it would be a perfect outing for them; much like my vigorous attempts to not be involved in any canoeing trips... The thought of a day in the
jardin
, even if it did mean literally sitting in a pile of weeds and rocks to tug and pull at them, was infinitely more alluring. However, like many of Stuart's ideas, once I finally capitulated, it turned out to be a brilliant day.

Figeac is a beautiful historic town on the banks of the River Cele, surrounded by charming villages. It's an unspoilt town centre, with a delightful range of medieval houses that are both stone and half-timbered. The site of the old
halles
, or markets, is where
cafés
now spread their tables. After a visit to the
Office de Tourisme
, to check the route, we joined the throng of the soon-to-be
Tour de France
crowds, and with just enough time before the race came over the bridge, had the
menu du jour
. Just as were finishing our
café
, the heavens opened and it looked like our experience of the atmosphere we had only ever viewed from afar at home, was to be a rather damp one.

However, the downpour was short-lived, so we crossed the river, caught up in
le Tour
excitement, and positioned ourselves in a perfect viewing spot, ready to see the riders swoop around the end of the bridge and then race up the hill. As it turned out, there was an hour of unexpected build-up of atmosphere and anticipation with the arrival of the
caravane.
This was something we had never seen at home when the
Tour de France
was shown and we had not heard anything about it, even from our French friends. It turned out to be tremendous fun. Truck after truck roared past with loud music blaring from speakers, young French people dancing on the floats and banners flowing in the breeze to advertise different companies. To add to the festive atmosphere, the dancers on the trucks all had samples to throw to the crowds: biscuits, magazines and if you were really lucky to grab one, a
Tour de France
cap from the large
supermarché
chain, Carrefour. So, this year, we knew what to expect.

Last year after the
caravane
had passed, we decided to move our vantage point to higher up on the hill. It turned out to be perfect. Just like in our
petite maison
, we were right on the road, close enough to feel the whoosh of air from the bikes that pass in a blur of movement and colour. The whole race was in fact so fast that we were not even sure it was finished. finally, some French tourists asked the policeman on his powerful motorbike in front of us, whether it was
fin.
We understood that
oui
, indeed it was. So it was in fact that at that very moment, Dave texted us to let us know he was watching the
Tour de France
on a cold, wet day at home and thought that the countryside looked very familiar to Cuzance. Were we thinking of going to see it at all? We texted back triumphantly to say, ‘We are here and Cadell Evans has just gone past us.' And so it was, the
Tour de France
that I was so reluctant to go and see, was the year an Australian won – and it was a day out that was far more enjoyable than I could have anticipated. Perhaps I should review my thoughts on a canoe trip after all...

Every single time I spend time relaxing in Jean-Claude's and Françoise's glorious
jardin
, it takes my breath away. Every single time, I feel a sense of privilege to have
entree
to such an enchanting kingdom. The high limestone walls and solid wooden gates, right on the street in the heart of Cuzance, do not give a hint of what lies beyond. The upper
jardin
is adorned with garlands of mauve wisteria and sweet-smelling honeysuckle, and on the right, a large, flagstone terrace leads to their stunning seven-storey
maison
. I find out later from new friends we make in the village, that it is known by everyone as ‘the castle'. It is not until you are in the lower sweep of the garden, beyond
la piscine
, that you can gaze up and see it spread out before you. The tower climbs high into the sky and is balanced by the towering dark green fir trees planted on the boundary. When friends come to stay, I make sure that a visit to La Vieux Prieuré – the Old Priory, so named because it is literally opposite the church – is on the itinerary.