Our House is Not in Paris (3 page)

So I had to pile my precious clothes on the counter, hoping my ploy would work and that they didn't assume I was abandoning them. I flew down the stairs, frantically searched for Stuart, gasped my request for cash, flew upstairs again … and queued again. Fortunately I still love my hard-won first French clothes.

However, who was it on our very first day in Paris at Porte de Clignancourt, the enormous antique market, that bought a vintage leather motorbike jacket? It certainly wasn't me.

Like couples the world over, we tend to argue the most on car trips. This is never a pleasant experience, but it's particularly unpleasant when it occurs in a foreign country. We had organised to pick up our hire car from Rennes, a few hours from Paris on the TGV. Originally, Stuart had planned to collect a hire car in Paris and start our trip from there. This was one of the few occasions I decided to override his decision. I could picture it clearly: Our first drive in France would be in one of the most chaotic, challenging cities in the world. Stuart was already very fond of saying
merde
whenever possible. It didn't take much stretch of the imagination to predict the excessive use of
merde
and the escalating arguments from the moment the car was in first gear.

After our five days of luxury in the Melia Colbert Boutique Hotel, a style to which we were definitely not accustomed, we set off on the Métro with several changes before catching the train to Rennes. By then we had already accumulated a lot of extra luggage. Sometimes we behave like novice travellers. We arrived in Paris with suitcases already packed to the brim. What were we thinking? That we wouldn't shop once on our six-week trip?

We of course arrived in Rennes in time for the two-hour
déjeuner
break. Laden with luggage, we ensconced ourselves in a café near the station for a few hours. By early afternoon, as we crammed ourselves on a bus headed for the industrial outskirts to collect our Citroën, the sun was beating down ferociously. There were many instances of
Excusez-moi, merci beaucoup
as we gripped our assorted pieces of luggage and swayed in the aisles while afternoon commuters attempted to get past us.

Finally, the car rental company. This was just one of many occasions on which I was both naïve and the source of considerable amusement. We were shown the red safety cones that we were to display on the side of the road in case of a breakdown, emergency or accident. I grasped that; it certainly made sense. Then there were the bright yellow safety jackets. I foolishly — and a better grasp of French may have been a considerable advantage — assumed that we were to wear them in the car at all times so we could be identified as tourists. I was surprised that Stuart didn't try to convince me that, indeed, it was just the passenger who was to wear it at all times.

Finally, after the extensive instructions about our Citroën, we attached our friend Dave Toogood's borrowed Sat Nav to the dashboard and we were on our way to our rented house in Rignac in the Lot. We looked forward to our
apéritif
in the
jardin
once we arrived in a couple of hours. It would in fact be five hours before we arrived.

We had got lost. We got lost at the very first roundabout. We continued to get lost; very lost. The miles ticked away, the hours ticked away, the tempers rose in equal proportion. This is where we were different; very different. Stuart is always determined to do everything with complete independence. He rarely asks for help. This includes all our many renovations, when I had to help lift and haul and hold any number of items such as huge slabs of concrete. Me? I always ask for help whenever I possibly can and for whatever I need. Invariably my technique works.

By this point, as the sun was sinking in the sky, I was adamant that his way was not working. We needed help and we needed it soon. There were no service stations, no villages; we were in the middle of nowhere. There were cars, however. And so we pulled over to the side of the road. Once again, my improvising and dramatic skills came to the fore. I grabbed the large road map, stood behind the car, pointed at the map, raised my free hand in the air and gesticulated wildly to indicate that we were lost and needed help. The eighth car pulled over. The driver had two squabbling young children in the back seat but conveyed that, if we followed him, he would indicate the road that we should have been on. I gathered that we were quite close to Rignac after all. How I grasped all this, I'm not quite sure, because once again I certainly didn't have the French to convey our predicament and the driver did not speak English.

Nevertheless, it worked. We followed him a short distance along the main road, turned off and stopped at a church where he pointed us in the right direction. He turned around and headed back to the main road to continue his journey. Once again I was astonished by the kindness of strangers, for I had assumed that he was going the same way as us. Non, he had gone out of his way to help us.

And so we arrived in Rignac.

After our fortnight in Rignac, before we headed for the Pyrenees to stay with Sylvie Bernard, we had organised to stay with Martine Dubois at her home in the Loire Valley. The four of us met when we were all travelling in India. As our trip was unfolding at home and all the months of planning were taking place, one of the first things we did was buy a road atlas of France. On the cover was a stunning
château
. Strangely, the inside of the cover did not give the name of it. Nevertheless, Stuart was determined that seeing it was going to be a highlight of our holiday. In yet another strange quirk of fate, I stumbled across a book in my school library published in the fifties.
Voilà
, within its pages, was a photo of Château de Chenonceau. When we emailed Martine to organise our stay, we found out that it is literally on her doorstep.

On our first morning, we indeed visited it: our first
château
in France and where I learned one of my first French words. I only ever seem to be able to grasp a word when I need it in a context. Fortunately,
champagne
is a universal word.

It was a splendid summer's day so we set off suitably attired. As we were wandering through the beautiful
jardin
, I realised that my hat had blown off and disappeared. I asked Martine the word for ‘hat' so I could go back to search for it. I repeated the word over and over to myself as I raced through the crowds in search of my
chapeau
. And
voilà
, there it was, lying under the rosebushes. After admiring the artworks and splendour of Château de Chenonceau, Martine took us to meet her daughter Melanie at her workplace, an interior design shop. Then we were off for a treat. Melanie had a friend, Philippe DeBritt, who ran the restaurant L'Escargot, and we retired thankfully under the shade of a striped outside awning to order
déjeuner
and an, as always, welcome
apéritif
. The
canard
and cherry sauce was divine; duck had never tasted this delicious before. Then the moment I always wait for. The
pièce de résistance
: dessert. Or, in my case on this special occasion, I was served all three as I simply couldn't choose between them. Our holiday photos do seem to show me on quite a few occasions posing with a
gâteau
or two.

We then spent a languid afternoon in Martine's
jardin
as we had been invited that evening to Philippe's home for dinner. This was a true honour, being invited not only to a French home but the
maison
of a chef, no less. Late in the afternoon, Martine and I sauntered off to the produce markets and the
pâtisserie
to buy a gift to take for dinner. On the way, Martine had another surprise for me. All my friends know how much I love second-hand treasure and vintage clothes, and she was delighted that she could take me to a second-hand shop that had just opened. It was a measure of her friendship to take me there. As I walked in I was immediately captivated by a beautiful handmade fifties frock in light blue tulle. After years of collecting vintage frocks, I have the ability to know how clothes can work with the right shoes on the right occasion. I tried it on and fell in love with it. I waltzed around in it and showed it to Martine. Her response was to laugh and laugh and exclaim, ‘Oh, Susannah.' Not deterred at all by her mirth, I scooped it up and imagined a
soirée
in my Loire Valley frock.

In the
pâtisserie
I started to select the pastries to take to Philippe's. Martine gently intervened and I learned that, when you are invited to
dîner
, it is customary not to take an everyday choice but rather an exquisite selection. So the fruit tarts, glossy in their glaze, and powder-puff
choux
pastries were carefully chosen, placed in a shiny white box and tied with a gold ribbon.

Then it was off to our first French
soirée
. We were ushered in by Philippe, accompanied by Melanie, to his courtyard, which looked like a stage set. There were flickering candles placed everywhere, including in all the wall niches. The table was beautifully decorated and a procession of delicious dishes was served.
Escargot
dripping with butter and garlic, a salmon wrapped in foil that was delicately apportioned at the table, and a medley of summer vegetables. Over
digestifs
to finish our wonderful evening, Melanie provided our entertainment with a hilarious display of belly dancing.

The night is one of those special occasions that linger for a long time in your memory. A combination of an exceptionally late night and a copious amount of wine was not, however, a very auspicious start to the following morning, when we set off early for the Pyrenees.

So many of the wonderful things that unfold in life hinge on sheer chance. And so it was in finding the perfect
gîte
. It all stemmed from the serendipity of finding a car park.

After our few days in the Pyrenees, we were heading for Figeac, a town Stuart had fallen in love with, when we had to collect Liz's car. She had broken down there on the night she was driving to stay with us in Rignac. (Liz Campbell is another friend we have gathered on our travels. While she lives in Wales, we also met her when we were on our trip to India.) The drive back through the Pyrenees had been spectacular but it had also been a long, hot day. We had stopped for lunch in Albi and thought we may stay there a night, but the blistering heat deterred us from searching for very long. We decided to press on. By five we were weary and, as we were driving through a town I spotted a single car space next to the river. Even more fortuitously, it was next to a restaurant.
Café
at last. Sipping our
café
I then noticed an
Office du Tourisme
just across the Aveyron river.

We walked over the bridge and I asked about the availability of accommodation in the area. I listed all my requirements: a small
gîte
in a nearby village in a quiet rural setting, preferably with a pool. They laughed. By now it was the middle of summer and the height of the tourist season; there was simply no accommodation available at all. Surely we knew that everyone in France was on
vacances
?

Despondent, we headed back to the car. It was just what we had been told at the Albi
Office du Tourisme
. And then we saw it — a small sign at the end of the bridge with an arrow pointing along the narrow path next to the river:
Chambre d'hôte
. By now we were enchanted just by what little we had seen of the plane-tree-lined boulevards of Villefranche-de-Rouergue. The ducks floating past us on the Aveyron as we approached the
chambre d'hôte
with high hopes reinforced the charm of the town. La Closerie was hidden behind solid stone walls. We tentatively opened the wooden gate to discover an enchanting
jardin
with roses lining the path leading to a splendid two-storey stone building. We later discovered that it used to be a bathhouse at which travellers would stop and rest. I also found out later from Erick and Brigitte Hurault de Vibraye that
la closerie
literally means ‘pleasure garden'. It was now six o'clock. It was peak season. It was unlikely there would be a room but,
voilà
, there was! At last we could stop for the evening and resume our search the next day for somewhere to stay for our last fortnight in France.

Over
croissants
and
café
the following morning, I whimsically asked Erick if he also had a
gîte
in the country we could rent.
Voilà!
It turned out the upstairs of the adjoining part of their c
hambre d'hôte
was a newly renovated
gîte
! Would we like to see it?

It was a long, narrow apartment that had never been rented, as it had just been finished. At one end there were a bathroom and a
petite cuisine
overlooking the
jardin
. Next was a sitting room, then not just one but two
chambres
. Most perfect of all was the terrace outside running the length of the apartment with a
petite
table and chairs perched overlooking the Aveyron. We had found our perfect
gîte
.

And so followed two glorious summer weeks. The intense heat meant that we were not inclined to go out exploring too far or for too long. Instead we adapted to the rhythm of being in a small French town. It was just right as we could simply walk everywhere, over the river and along the cobbled streets of the town. We fell into the cadence of the twice-weekly markets, woven basket slung over my arm to select luscious peaches and strawberries, then, as with wherever we were in France, a daily visit to the
boulangerie
and
pâtisserie
. Back to the spreading shade of the tree in the
jardin
, where Erick had also set up a table for us to enjoy long, lazy summer days. And, most marvellous of all, we forged an enduring and special friendship with Brigitte and Erick.