Such is our domestic devotion that we have even been to the car wash in Martel.
Domesticity reigns supreme in Cuzance. What I am already realising is that our packing up at the end of our vacances, will take just as long . And, let’s face it, there is a lot of work to get underway before that time arrives. What is also creeping into my thoughts is that perhaps we are simply avoiding what lies ahead. Nevertheless, there is no denying that this more low-key approach is certainly attractive – and indeed, seductive. No endless parade of artisans to ‘Bonjour’ and offer espresso to every day. No garden crowded in a sea of artisan trucks, no – for the moment anyway – phone calls to plombiers that are never returned. The days start now with a calmer rhythm.
We start our own Cuzance rhythm to reconnect fully once again with our French life. So, it’s off to the boulangerie in Martel for the first of what will be many weeks of indulgent treats. At only ten thirty the display of luscious pastries is almost depleted but we are more than delighted with our abricot hibou, savoured with an espresso at the café across the road. The pastry simply melts in our mouths, we breathe in deep sighs of utter contentment. The equivalent of our Danish pastry at home has this intriguing name as it means ‘owl’, named so for the fact that the two luscious pieces of apricot placed in its centre, represent the eyes of an owl. When we tell Gérard and Dominique about our latest boulangerie delight, they have not even heard of an abricot hibou. It is no small surprise to me that Dominique is not familiar with it . Someone as svelte as she is probably only ever steps inside a patisserie once a year for Noël celebrations.
We love the fact that it is perfectly permissible to take your own petite déjeuner pastry to a café. Within just a few minutes, we see two people we know – Monsieur Arnal, the owner of the Hotel Arnal in our village, and Nigel, an English friend of Jean-Claude and Françoise. While my French has sadly not progressed at all in the past year, I do know enough to grasp that Monsieur Arnal is eager to know if I can now communicate with him more fully. I shake my head, ‘Non.’ It is a disappointment both to myself and him.
Then it’s off to Intermarche , to discover that the supermarché has considerably expanded in the past year. The fish display is much larger and has soft jets of water spraying the fresh poisson. Like all our supermarché visits, especially the first time back, it is the wine aisle that we linger in the longest. Most exciting of all is how affordable champagne is. We buy a bottle for Liz’s arrival the following week.
To round off our responsibilities, we go to Jean-Claude’s on a mission, to use his internet. Such is his endless kindness, that he lets us have his lengthy encryption code so we can use our own laptop. I’ve tried to use their computer on previous occasions but the different layout of the French keyboard means that my typing, never good at the best of times, is even more of a dismal failure than it normally is. It is a lengthy, tiresome afternoon of trying to connect with the world. It also proves to be true that if something seems too good to be true, then that is indeed the case. We finally log on and check why our new portable deal does not seem to be working. It would appear that our two euro a month plan does not have international access until the following year. And so, we are virtually cut off from the world for two months. Jean-Claude will be our conduit to the vast world beyond Cuzance. Truth be told, I love the sense of escaping from the world; buried in the country, reality seems to be another place altogether. We immerse ourselves in the slow pace of Cuzance village life.
Once technology is sorted in a fashion, we are able to relax over apéritifs. I am truly touched, when out of the blue, Françoise, tells me that she intends to whisk me away for a weekend to their apartment in Lyon. I had already gleaned from Jean-Claude in our previous chats, that it is quite grand. Now, when Françoise describes it to me, it seems even more so – parquetry floors, four chambres, study, cuisine, sitting room, salle de bain and a terrace. She tells me it is enormous and in the heart of Lyon. An invitation such as this is an honour. I simply can’t wait. I don’t have weekends away like this at home, let alone in France. While we spent several nights in Lyon, three years ago, the experience will be nothing compared to this insider’s guide.
We leave in the early evening after another relaxing apéritif hour, this time, next to their piscine, soaking up the late summer sun and the beauty of their herbaceous border.
I always marvel at the grandeur of their maison and jardin. I am conscious too that it represents over twenty years of love and hard work . I know that our petite farmhouse and rustique jardin will never be quite on this magnificent scale. Just as we emerge from behind their high stone wall, we encounter Gérard, who we’ve not yet caught up with this year. He always reminds me of a big, friendly bear – with his shock of white hair and large frame. He’s been out for a bike ride and invites us to go back and see Dominique. I plead fatigue, although their friendship is one we look forward enormously to rekindling each year. Seeing Gérard always warms my heart. Again, although I can’t exchange as much conversation with him as I would like, he always makes me feel happy. He is perpetually beaming and the very essence of bonhomie. As Stuart says, ‘As happy as a butcher,’ for who has ever met a grumpy butcher? Jet lag still lingers though and we know to accept means that the apéritif hour will be extended by several more .
By the time Stuart serves dîner, I’m nearly falling asleep over my succulent pork chop and lettuce dressed with French mustard. I crawl into bed straight after dîner and indulge in one of my favourite Cuzance moments, gazing out at the verdant trees and pink-tinged sky. The moment is completed when the full moon bursts out from behind the soft puffy clouds. My reverie is broken when I see Jean-Claude striding past our chambre window. Though it’s late evening, in his inimitable fashion, he has dropped in to check on the alarming activity in our cellar. Over our apéritifs, he had surmised that the digging and huge pile of dirt may be from a badger. He had even made a joke, ‘Don’t be afraid to badger me about the badger.’ He and Stuart set off to the damp, cold cellar with a torch to investigate. Jean-Claude concludes that the digging seems to be from a rabbit. I am astonished that such a huge mound of dirt could be from an excavating lapin. Jean-Claude disappears into the night and Stuart comes in to let me know that his booming voice has carried back through the quiet night as he informs Monsieur Arnal that we have a lapin problem in le cave. It would seem that the whole village now knows.
Such is the way of a petite village and it is part of what makes me love Cuzance.
9
A New Approach
It scarcely seems possible that only two years ago, on our very first morning, I fell off our air mattress in the room that would become our la cuisine the following year, and immediately started to pull down the ugly wooden lattice on our porch that served no purpose at all. We then launched into the debacle that was stripping the wallpaper off in our bedroom. Now, the start of our third working vacances, it seems to take me hours to start functioning properly, even with the kick-start of a couple of espressos. ‘It can wait,’ seems to be the new mantra of the day we have adopted. This time, there is still a glorious nine weeks stretching out in front of us. Little did we know, when time seemed to stretch endlessly, that we would not, in our usual fashion, reach our renovating target.
After just a few days in Cuzance, already the real world has rapidly receded. We are absorbed seamlessly into our special little French world. A world where the day holds infinite promise of what it may bring. A world where the day ends in a golden glow of summer light. As the day comes to a close, I rediscover the delight of lying in bed, before darkness descends, gazing at the soft green of the trees in the Chanteurs’ jardin, crowned by their magnificent walnut.
I