Our House is Certainly Not in Paris. Susan Cutsforth

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.

      Apart from the neighbour’s tractor, occasionally gathering hay, it is only the constant musical notes of birds that stir the peace and quiet. While I love Pied de la Croix, returning to our French home is always something of a jarring note. Although just a short walk, it is worlds removed. However, what I do need to remind myself, is that just three years ago when we first arrived, we couldn’t even walk around our property.

      Although I’m still dismayed by the profuse proliferation of weeds, it is already a far cry from my first glimpse of our new French home, on a cold damp day, one that definitely matched my mood. I remember only too vividly my utter sense of wondering what on earth we had done. Now at least in our absence, Albert has planted a border of lavender and photinia next to la piscine. Thanks too to my vigorous pruning efforts last year , the orchard is flourishing. As the days grow warmer, the walnut tree is a perfect place to escape from the afternoon heat. It is even more perfect when Stuart makes the trek back to our petite maison in front of la grange, and returns with afternoon tea on a tray.

      Espresso and citron tarte, under the spreading limbs of the eighty-year-old walnut tree; a slight breeze stirring the air. Life simply does not get much better than this moment on a languid French summer afternoon.

      After over ten years of rénovation, I’m at last learning to adopt Stuart’s philosophy, that it can all wait until another day. I’ve learnt too from his approach, that half the work is in the reflecting and planning. So, we take the opportunity on this stolen afternoon, to discuss the paving plans for la piscine. On his white plastic chaise longue – no French home is without them – he has a pile of house magazines gathered from vide greniers.

      He pores over the pictures and explores the options. We pause to gaze at the golden stone of la grange and the immaculate new slate roof. While it took at least a week on our last working vacances to find the time to venture into the barn, this time we manage it on our third day. Though only a few steps from our petite maison, domesticity has consumed the daylight hours until now. While an absolute extravagance to even contemplate its conversion, it still remains at the pinnacle of our rénovation dreams.

      Literally as we finish weighing up the merits of paving or decking round la piscine, Jean-Claude appears. I had only just said that once again we would need to get his help sourcing a concrete supplier and voila, he appears round the side of la grange. As with all our pursuits, he enthusiastically embraces our crazy paving plan and with just a brief interlude for a hasty Kronenbourg, he whisks Stuart off to the nearby village of Cressensac to start investigating prices and all the possibilities. Though on the verge of seventy, there is never any time to be lost where Jean-Claude is concerned. Perhaps indeed it is the very fact that seventy is looming means that he embraces each day with enormous delight and enthusiasm.