Monsieur Dal was the man we bought our petite maison from. The original owners were de la Croix. You can see their name carved into the golden stone outside the heavy barn doors. Another layer of history and meaning.
Pied de la Croix is the small district where our house is, as opposed to the bourg (city centre) where Jean-Claude and Françoise’s house, Le Vieux Prieuré, is. There is a cross by the ex forge, and the cross sort of dominates a small area, hence the appellation ‘pied de la croix’. It makes it sound like a large town when, in fact, it is a small village of only about 300 people. Le Vieux Prieuré, or the old priory, is most definitely not in a city centre! Our village doesn’t even have a single shop any longer. However, the room that is right on the street of Le Vieux Prieuré was originally a shop. It is the only part of Le Vieux Prieuré you can glimpse, as the rest is hidden behind high stone walls; outside is a bell you can pull to announce your arrival. It is now Françoise’s guest room and the place she chooses to iron, for, hidden behind her lace curtains, she can keep an eye on all the comings and goings in our village.
La Forge
Did I mention the barn? Now, the barn is a mere four metres from our house and yet it took us five days — yes, five whole days — before we had time to venture in and explore it. We certainly intended to every single day but time always overtook us. That was despite getting up very early and staying up far, far later than I absolutely ever do at home. The house got under my skin in a way that I could never have possibly anticipated. It was like no other renovation we had undertaken before. Likewise, it was two whole weeks before we finally managed to walk around our village. It seems ridiculous in retrospect, but time was always rapidly ebbing.
The barn. How can I describe it? It is huge and needs lots and lots of work to make it into a home. That will also require lots and lots of money and, for now, and a long time to come, it remains in the category of dreams. However, knowing Stuart’s passion for projects, I’m sure that one day the conversion will also become a reality. However, what was fascinating, upon seeing it for the first time, was that I could see exactly how it could be transformed into an absolutely stunning space. Equally fascinating was how the vision just came to me, considering I had never been into a single French barn in my life, let alone one that had been converted. Even before we could contemplate at what point the conversion would ever take place, it seemed to take on a life of its own. Before we knew it, the barn already had a name, La Forge. As with so many of the things we discovered about both our new home and village, Jean-Claude brought it all to life for us. We also found out the owners of our petite maison made their money from the elusive truffles. What a pity there are no longer any left for us to make our fortune.
Back to the road and how it turned out to be such a stroke of good fortune and the source of our wonderful new friends. A few days after meeting Jean-Claude, a car pulled up in the front of our little house. It was Jean-Claude and his delightful wife, Françoise. When we met Françoise, it was like two guardian angels swooped down and ‘rescued’ us. I will always remember the first time we met her, as they arrived to whisk us off for a much-needed respite to their fairytale house. It was like being in a children’s book, especially the tour of their enchanting home. When I first met Françoise I flung myself into her arms. Her face is one of the kindest and friendliest I have ever known. I must have innately sensed her wonderful, warm spirit; now that I have come to know her even better, I was right to instinctively allow myself to be enfolded in her affectionate embrace.
Though just a few minutes from our house, we went with them since they were already in their car. While Le Vieux Prieuré is right on the main road, the garage is at the back of their property. This meant walking across the sweeping expanse of perfectly mown grass to arrive at the rear of their home. Françoise led me through an arbour, cunningly placed to reveal their pool and beautiful surrounds as you walk through. I’m sure I gasped aloud — it was just like a luxury resort. We then entered their house on the lower level; there are seven levels in all. It was one of those magical and privileged experiences that rarely, if ever, arise in your life. We could have spent years going to France without ever receiving an invitation into someone’s home, let alone one as magical as this. Then we ascended the wide, sweeping stone stairs with stained-glass windows perfectly placed so that shards of light glow upon the centuries-old stone. The tower was built in the thirteenth century, and the small window was to watch for invaders. It comes complete with a trapdoor. I felt a close sense of the past and heard echoes of the invaders appearing in the distance.
The Essence of Cuzance
So many elements of our ‘story’ are just that: a story. Meeting Jean-Claude meant that he had become not only our friend but also our guide and mentor. The three of us went on walks around the village. In just a few short promenades with him as our tour guide, our petite village turned out to be a set for an Agatha Christie. There was no way we would have discovered that the wife in one particular house tried to poison her husband — and Jean-Claude assured us he knew this in good faith, as a gendarme had told him. Or that Estelle Loomis, a wealthy elderly lady who owns lots of properties, huddles in her fireplace to keep warm in winter.
I had heard about Anne Barnes, who would have been our next-door neighbour, before we went to our house. Kim and I had entered into an email relationship after Stuart met her and bought our petite maison. Shortly after he returned, Kim told me that Anne, who had worked for the United Nations, had died in the hurricane in Haiti and her funeral was going to be in the village church. So, even before we went to Cuzance, I had a sense of this woman I had never met yet was just a few years older than me and whom, after having heard so much about her, I felt I would have become friends with. When I first met Kim, it was uncanny to be told that I looked similar to Anne Barnes. Then, shortly after meeting Jean-Claude, he told me that he and Françoise had been very good friends with her and he would often help her. It seemed that, in some strange way, we had come into their lives when Anne had gone. The first time we had apéritifs together, they served the rum that Anne had brought them from Haiti every year upon returning to Cuzance. With our new friends, Stuart and I toasted the memory of someone we had not met. And, yet, I had already heard so much about her, I felt I did know her.
I was touched by Anne’s memory and felt tearful. Then one day, as we were working, an agent came to open her house. He invited us to have a look before the prospective buyers arrived. It was a beautiful, large house; the garden by now was sadly overgrown, yet the roses bloomed profusely around the doorway. This time I wept for Anne Barnes — for she always seemed to be referred to by her full name — when I saw her slippers placed side by side next to her bed, and her book, with its bookmark in place, waiting for someone who would never finish it.
Later, Jean-Claude told me about her funeral. Apparently Anne Barnes’ French boyfriend was despised by her sister, and he was forbidden to attend the funeral. He organised his own service for her in the village, ran into the church and seized the ashes. I don’t know the rest of the story but this moved me very much and was yet another example of how Jean-Claude provided us with glimpses into the lives of those around us in the village.
There have been so many occasions when, at home in Australia, we reflect on how very different our experience would be without the friendship of Jean-Claude and Françoise. One early evening, Françoise appeared to inspect our progress after hearing Jean-Claude’s daily reports about our frenetic activity. She took one look at me and was horrified to see how tired I looked. When she asked what we had been having for dinner, I had to confess that it was often only pain. This horrified her even further and so, there and then, we were again whisked away to the comfort of their home and a delicious dîner.
It is all very strange for us — but utterly wonderful — to think that we were in the very privileged position of having another life on the other side of the world.
La Piscine
This brings us to the decision regarding our pool. When we look back, the adrenaline that fuelled us and the pace we worked at seem beyond belief. What would have taken months at home, we often achieved in a few hours. Even more astonishing is