The first full day in France is a Sunday but even Françoise knew that it would not be a highly prized vide grenier day. It will take at least two days to get the petite maison up and running. We wake before 5 am in the pitch dark of our tightly shuttered chambre.
First things first, we set up the coffee machine. Recovering from jet lag is hard at the best of times let alone without a strong café. Outside, it’s eerily silent and darkness envelops Cuzance in a crisp chilliness. A squirrel scampers across the roof of la grange, the only other sign of life in the still-waking countryside.
While life at home already seems remote and another existence altogether, the uncanny resemblance of our two lives do not escape us. Mobiles and plumbing seem to be our parallel downfalls on either side of the world. Our new portable plan, that we had such high hopes for, means that in fact we can only connect with friends in France. Another perplexing puzzle to add to the list of things to deal with. Oh yes, just like in previous years, the lists have started already – and it is only day one. The most pressing problem though is the septique. At home we have to get a plumber as soon as we return for the dreadful plumbing problems. That though is nothing to compare to the devastating, all-consuming, all-pervading utter stench emanating from our septique.
Ooh la la. The smell fills our entire petite maison. It is just like being back in Turkey on our travels all those years ago when we first met. We knew it was going to be bad on our return for the septique problem had already well and truly flared up the previous year, but nothing could prepare us for the reality. For the moment though, we simply have to live with it. There are more pressing things to deal with, like, will our petite voiture start after sleeping for a year in the garage in la grange?
Though your memory holds a thousand imprints, the reconnection with the minutiae holds infinite joy. The collection of old cutlery in a wooden trug, the exquisite heavy glass bowl that I bought for a song, the white enamel jug that holds la cuisine utensils. So many vide grenier finds on so many occasions. After only a couple of years, we can’t even recall the precise where and when of each piece of treasure. The accumulated pieces represent the layers that transform our petite farmhouse into a home.
I am sure that each year will be the same. A repetition of reuniting with beloved objets, balanced by the discovery of the forgotten and overlooked . Added to this are the other fragments of Cuzance life that have been cast aside in the year in between. Most striking is the soft constant cooing of the doves and the stratum of noises of other birds unknown to me, overlaid by the chiming of the village church bell.
The silence in the very early morning and late evening is the deep, deep silence of the countryside. The musical bird notes of the day fade gently away to be replaced by an occasional soft rustling in the dry, fallen leaves – field mice, hedgehogs and a slinking black cat slipping through the night shadows.
By early morning on our very first day, I abandon the cleaning. I’m rapidly worn out – consumed by jet lag and the lack of a proper meal, by now for several days. Airline food does not count in my book as a ‘proper meal’. I slip under the soft comfort of the eiderdown and just like our first evening, within a few minutes, drift off into a deep sleep.
Several hours later, Stuart tiptoes in to triumphantly announce that he has recharged the car. After a year, he’s jubilant that it started the first time when he put the battery back in. The day of challenges he’s set himself is well underway and it’s not even midday. He flourishes a shopping list that he’s already written and lets me know he’s off to Martel to the supermarché. I murmur goodbye and sink once more into the Cuzance silence.
Much to my surprise, on our first afternoon, while the house is still in a state of considerable disarray, Stuart suggests an outing to Martel. Although he has already been once to the supermarché, he feels like having a wander round. He seems to be fervently embracing the fact that we have declared that this year we simply will not slavishly work the whole time and that the first week will be a break. It is a quiet Sunday afternoon in Martel and while it is a small town, we discover quiet streets tucked away off the main square that we had not previously explored in the past two years. That in itself is a measure of how absurdly hard we had worked before. And so it is, on just our first full day, we are able to enjoy a leisurely stroll, admiring the abundant, bright window box displays. To our surprise, we also discover two more boulangeries that we had no idea existed. Over espresso and a chocolat crepe we discuss how it simply reinforces that we have certainly worked far too hard on our previous visits. We need to also remind ourselves why we are in France. It is not to merely renovate the entire time.
7
A Mouse in the House
On our second morning, as I sleepily stumble out into la cuisine, it suddenly comes home to me with a jolt, that just two years ago, all we had was a single table to not only prepare everything on but it was also our storage area. It would hold at any one time an eclectic array of items, like a surrealist painting; a loaf of pain, paintbrushes, bricolage catalogues, maps, screwdrivers, as well as our petite collection of plates, glasses and cutlery. Renovating and setting up a house in those basic conditions requires a lot of organisation, flexibility – and patience. The statement, ‘two years’ does not quite encapsulate all that has been achieved since then, for in reality, the total transformation until now, has all been achieved in a matter of nine weeks. While that time was spent in the longest days of sheer hard work imaginable, it was not even nine full weeks of solid work. There were the endless bricolage trips, the expeditions to the Trocs in search of second-hand furniture, the brocante and vide grenier outings. I can only marvel as I gaze around at our new stylish IKEA la cuisine, the cracked old leather Chesterfield sofa and chairs, the long wooden table and assorted array of old wooden chairs. How did we possibly manage all this I wonder?
After only one whole day back in Cuzance, our collection of vide grenier finds are all unpacked and our petite maison is almost restored for another summer. The mantelpiece is decorated once again with everything that has been tucked away for a year. In pride of place, is my still-life painting, that I picked up for a mere two euros. I like to secretly believe that it is by a famous artist and worth two million euros. I convince myself that it is and I will make our fortune by selling it at Sotheby’s. The matching bright yellow jugs, the dark brown espresso cups and saucers, all lined up in a neat row, the beautifully carved wooden vase – all these things give me pleasure every day in our little French farmhouse. As I eat my chocolate chip muesli – surely not ‘real’ muesli but nevertheless utterly delicious – I discover that it is extremely addictive. I decide that it is far too decadent a way to start the day. Surely I should be more selective here about my choice of daily mouth-watering treats? I devour another mouthful of exquisite rich, small dark chocolat squares. For now, such momentous decisions can wait.
As I soak up the view of le jardin while I have my first espresso of the morning , I plan my day. Most pressing is to seek Jean-Claude’s opinion on the source of the freshly dug, ominous mound of dirt in the cellar. I had only seen it in the fading light of the previous evening, yet what I saw was enough to sufficiently alarm me. I asked Stuart why he hadn’t told me about it when he discovered it earlier in the day. In his usual inimitable manner, he told me he didn’t want to worry me. It was probably only a rabbit he said.
I don’t know much about the habits of rabbits but I do know enough to think that it may be more disturbing than a mere lapin. However, I cannot begin to imagine what creature has been marauding in our cellar. In addition, there’s some highly alarming noises emanating from the attic – dubbed last year, ‘The Squirrel Room’, due to the disturbing sounds of scampering and the sight of squirrels leaping across the barn roof.
Stuart informs me he will venture up there later. He can go alone, I think. There is also still a mouse in the house.