Our House is Certainly Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth Page A
Authors: Susan Cutsforth
Tags: Travel writing
Ads: Link
Perhaps I donât want a window after all...
Our chambre shutters are so dark and heavy that they make it impossible to discern the time. So it is, that in less than a week, my body clock has fully adjusted and is once again in a steady rhythm. It often means that Iâm up for hours â usually while itâs still dark and Iâve done several hours of work before Stuart emerges. I prune, I hack, attack, dig, wrench, tear down, and move piles of stone. He can often only hear a rustling when he comes out to find me and is fond of asking if we now have a goat, for all he can hear is a steady movement in the undergrowth. My progress can be traced from the mounds and piles I leave in my wake. While backbreaking at times, it is also strangely soothing to work away in the quiet country stillness, far removed from the world and its cares. Just like pulling on my much-loved second-hand clothes, when I return to Cuzance, I also greet my jardin tools like old friends. Iâm especially fond of my indispensable pruning saw that Jean-Claude gave me. Itâs old piece of blue twine, cunningly attached, helps hook down branches, to meet my vigorous pruning efforts halfway.
The prunier tree is weighed down almost to the ground with its harvest of dark-blue plums. In the damp cool of the morning, just after the soft grey light has crept across the fields, my cold fingers grasp the damp plums to gather for Dominique to make confiture .
Within minutes, my colander is full. All my French friends make their own jam. Iâve never picked a plum before, let alone made my own jam.
So far we have only had one hot day and that has been enough for our two rose bushes to unfurl into pale pink beauty, tipped with sparkling drops of early morning moisture. I pick petite , exquisitely formed buds to place in the tiny antique digestif glasses Dominique gave us for a present when we arrived. Their soft pinkness is a perfect counterpoint when I place them on our dark wooden table. Even the rain is soft when it falls. Our Cuzance world is wrapped in a haze of gentle beauty.
25
Resuming Relentless Work in Le Jardin
For some reason, we seem to be avoiding the renovating that remains to be done. The list is not short by any means... It includes finishing the spare chambre in readiness for the first of our summer friends to arrive when Liz comes to stay. However, there is a lure to be outside, despite the fact that it remains very cool and overcast.
We tackle the planting of our new shrubs that are to provide a much-needed screen for la piscine . From the village centre â which consists of the Hotel Arnal and the Mairie â our block of land and the pool is on full view to all the villagers, and there is a direct view from the upstairs windows of the Mairie . While I want to have a close relationship with the inhabitants of Cuzance, this is not quite what I had in mind.
Stuart uses an old pick with an ancient worn wooden handle that Erick gave us, to attack the stony limestone ground. It remains hard and unyielding. The pick must be at least fifty-years-old and has seen many years of hard labour. Once again, I wonder who once used it. I imagine an old farmer, stooped with age and worn by the weather like his pick, meticulously tending his vegetable jardin .
As I wrench the invasive weeds from the new bed of lavender, I reflect on Jean-Claudeâs immaculate garden. There is a huge emptiness in the middle of the vast expanse of grass where he had to recently fell a dead walnut tree. He told me that it will be the last Herculean task that he performs. The thought fills me with sadness.
There is a strange peculiarity to the light in Cuzance. No matter how gloomy or overcast the day, invariably the sun bursts through brilliantly at nine each evening. The petite maison is filled with pure bright light. On one such evening, before bed, we walk through la grange and stand in the doorway at the back, looking out at the orchard.
The
Our chambre shutters are so dark and heavy that they make it impossible to discern the time. So it is, that in less than a week, my body clock has fully adjusted and is once again in a steady rhythm. It often means that Iâm up for hours â usually while itâs still dark and Iâve done several hours of work before Stuart emerges. I prune, I hack, attack, dig, wrench, tear down, and move piles of stone. He can often only hear a rustling when he comes out to find me and is fond of asking if we now have a goat, for all he can hear is a steady movement in the undergrowth. My progress can be traced from the mounds and piles I leave in my wake. While backbreaking at times, it is also strangely soothing to work away in the quiet country stillness, far removed from the world and its cares. Just like pulling on my much-loved second-hand clothes, when I return to Cuzance, I also greet my jardin tools like old friends. Iâm especially fond of my indispensable pruning saw that Jean-Claude gave me. Itâs old piece of blue twine, cunningly attached, helps hook down branches, to meet my vigorous pruning efforts halfway.
The prunier tree is weighed down almost to the ground with its harvest of dark-blue plums. In the damp cool of the morning, just after the soft grey light has crept across the fields, my cold fingers grasp the damp plums to gather for Dominique to make confiture .
Within minutes, my colander is full. All my French friends make their own jam. Iâve never picked a plum before, let alone made my own jam.
So far we have only had one hot day and that has been enough for our two rose bushes to unfurl into pale pink beauty, tipped with sparkling drops of early morning moisture. I pick petite , exquisitely formed buds to place in the tiny antique digestif glasses Dominique gave us for a present when we arrived. Their soft pinkness is a perfect counterpoint when I place them on our dark wooden table. Even the rain is soft when it falls. Our Cuzance world is wrapped in a haze of gentle beauty.
25
Resuming Relentless Work in Le Jardin
For some reason, we seem to be avoiding the renovating that remains to be done. The list is not short by any means... It includes finishing the spare chambre in readiness for the first of our summer friends to arrive when Liz comes to stay. However, there is a lure to be outside, despite the fact that it remains very cool and overcast.
We tackle the planting of our new shrubs that are to provide a much-needed screen for la piscine . From the village centre â which consists of the Hotel Arnal and the Mairie â our block of land and the pool is on full view to all the villagers, and there is a direct view from the upstairs windows of the Mairie . While I want to have a close relationship with the inhabitants of Cuzance, this is not quite what I had in mind.
Stuart uses an old pick with an ancient worn wooden handle that Erick gave us, to attack the stony limestone ground. It remains hard and unyielding. The pick must be at least fifty-years-old and has seen many years of hard labour. Once again, I wonder who once used it. I imagine an old farmer, stooped with age and worn by the weather like his pick, meticulously tending his vegetable jardin .
As I wrench the invasive weeds from the new bed of lavender, I reflect on Jean-Claudeâs immaculate garden. There is a huge emptiness in the middle of the vast expanse of grass where he had to recently fell a dead walnut tree. He told me that it will be the last Herculean task that he performs. The thought fills me with sadness.
There is a strange peculiarity to the light in Cuzance. No matter how gloomy or overcast the day, invariably the sun bursts through brilliantly at nine each evening. The petite maison is filled with pure bright light. On one such evening, before bed, we walk through la grange and stand in the doorway at the back, looking out at the orchard.
The
Similar Books
