Our House is Not in Paris. Susan Cutsforth
Many times we would be working away and, if we glanced out the window while up a ladder or stripping wallpaper, we would see the scurrying convoy of white vans and know without checking that it was nearly time for lunch. Brigitte and Erick, who are from the south of France, told us the tradition was dying out there and it is now only prevalent in rural areas. Long live the two-hour lunch break, we say. Not that we were always able to take advantage of it, but the mere thought of it is one of the most enchanting aspects of a culture so very different to ours. And, oh, the days when we could enjoy it and go to a restaurant were special days indeed. The delight of plat du jour or the fixed-price three-course menu (which often included a glass of wine) never ceased to fill us with pleasure. Are there any more splendid words in the world than ‘Bon appétit’?
The end of the day can be measured too by a neighbour calling her cat. Again, no clocks were needed as, on the dot of 10pm, we would hear her call, ‘Pooki, Pooki,’ — or something very similar. We have yet to see either our neighbour or her cat. On most evenings, too, someone nearby would play the piano, its sound drifting across the garden.
The Madness of Foreigners
There were many times when I felt conscious that I was playing to perfection the role of a mad foreign woman tackling a massive renovation in a foreign county. Marie-France had given me a pair of traditional blue work overalls made of a strange light material and with a zip up the front. I knew they were ripped and becoming more so every day. Yet, without a mirror in our petite maison, I couldn’t fully see nor fully realise the state they were in until I saw the photos when I got home. Let’s just say I was mortified when I saw how terribly torn they were in completely unacceptable places. I was also not at all happy with Stuart for allowing me to dash out of the house to meet roofers and other artisans when they came to give us quotes. No wonder their eyes nearly dropped out of their heads.
Most mornings I was up before Stuart and, after my petit déjeuner of muesli and fresh strawberries from the markets, I would dash around le jardin with a pair of secateurs, trying to tackle anything in sight that I could possible manage by myself. I was very conscious that anyone watching would observe a truly demented person, randomly running around, pulling ivy off the barn wall one minute, the next tackling the ivy engulfing the silver birch, the next deadheading the roses. I knew what I was doing but couldn’t seem to stop myself. I just wanted to make every single minute count and get as much done as possible in our limited, precious time. As soon as Stuart woke up I would dash back inside, make him a cup of tea and then tackle my next job in the little house. However, even the simple act of getting breakfast was challenging: our only surface, the table, was cluttered with packets of food, paperwork, tape measure, tools, notebook camera, pens, our two bowls, two mugs and some cutlery. One of our first purchases was a filter coffee machine, the type found in most French homes, as neither of us can function in the morning without our two cups of café. This was placed precariously next to the small kitchen sink. We were grateful to at least have a sink and basic bathroom. When you have to, it’s amazing how you can get by without all the things you take for granted at home and how you can manage to juggle everything. I got it down to a fine art of having the water in the machine and the café in the filter ready to switch on as soon as I got up, and the two bowls we owned and the two spoons lined up ready for petit déjeuner. Time, time, time … there simply was never enough of it.
As for where I found the reserves of energy for sixteen-hour days, I simply don’t know, considering at home I’m often in bed by 8.30. Every single day I was fuelled by a burning desire to get as much done as possible. And as for the lists, well, our days were devoured by endless lists.
Life in the Village
I thought that I would miss the relentless rolling of the surf that provides the backdrop to daily life at home and lulls us to sleep at night, yet the countryside in Cuzance has a rhythm all of its own. There are many magical moments, such as being up a ladder, brush laden with paint for the ancient walls that hungrily soak it up, then glancing out to see a squirrel scampering along the road and shooting up a tree opposite the kitchen doors. Or, on several summer Saturday afternoons, the clip-clopping of a horse-drawn carriage carrying a bride on her way to the village church. Then there was the jaw-dropping moment of disbelief when a tractor with a bucket containing two men just appeared to attach a string of flags to the gable on our house to signal the forthcoming village brocante. No words were exchanged at all and, while we were bitterly disappointed to miss our very own village brocante, we felt happy that in some small way we were a part of it.
There are already so many things that we now love about our house in such a short time. The beautiful, wide, old walnut floorboards that dip with age and the wear of thousands of steps trodden upon them. The fact that, as Jean-Claude, the bearer of many stories, told us, apparently Madame la Croix had stuffed old pieces of bread in the gaps to ward off the icy winter draughts. More modern evidence of a season we would never know is the newspaper jammed into the skirting boards and the sides of the stairs. The rounded steps as you enter our little house are a unique feature, as is the carved piece of curved stone over the door, bearing the date 1884, encased in a small stone-carved heart. The huge fire-blackened beams tell the story of generations of meals and a very faint hint of smoke still lingers in the air. There are few remnants of the garden but our dining table is now placed to look out over the trees in it. The humble old farmhouse resonates with a palpable warmth that many, far grander houses will never hold.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.