Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) Read online

  My highly regarded, Austrian-born specialist informed me, that leaving Sydney indefinitely and leading a cleaner and more holistic existence elsewhere, was ultimately my best option for the future. That was easily said but where would we go? What would we do? I couldn’t ask Jean to give up everything in an attempt to save my health. What if that didn’t work?

  I had underestimated his unconditional love and devotion. When pushed to decide, he was as willing as I was to leave the pollutants of the city and his well-paying job to forge a new life elsewhere.

  Fate stepped in to lend a hand, yet again. On a short trip to Tahiti, Jean returned with a magazine he’d found in a Papeete newsstand. ‘Maisons en France’ its cover read and its pages were teaming with photos of quaint, ‘renovator’s delights’ and majestic Manoirs (manor houses). These ranged from fairytale, 16th century Chateaux and Relais de Chasse (hunting lodges) to astoundingly, charming farmhouses and village abodes. When we both grabbed for the calculator, we were gob smacked by the translated prices. How could these historical masterpieces of French heritage be so incredibly cheap? Sure, some of them were bound to require major restorative work but in comparison, Sydney’s current home prices seemed ridiculously inflated. We read on, finding bargain after astonishing bargain. This was seriously enticing information and after many months of soul searching and deliberating over endless maps and realty guides, we came to the mutual decision that somewhere in rural France would be our starting point. We would search for our new home in the French countryside; somewhere we could live a life of newfound health and pastoral tranquillity.

  Jean was rostered to leave for London a few days later and realized the opportunity of being so close to France, was too good to miss. On arrival into Heathrow, he jumped on the earliest Paris shuttle available, hired a car and shot down the Nationale 20 towards the Pyrénées. He had just two days to inspect as many of our ‘ticked’ adverts that he could manage. After twenty-four hours of constant driving and village hopping, he telephoned me to happily confirm that he was positively sure we would find something to suit us. As far as he was concerned, the sooner we could return to France together, the better.

  So, the honeymoon years done and dusted and five years into our marriage, decidedly through sickness and in health, here we were. On that sacred lovers’ turf. In the ancient heart of Cyrano de Bergerac, D’Artagnan, La Marquise de Pompadour and force-fed goose livers. The alluring, verdant hills of rural, south-western France.

  Jean and I purchased, somewhat spontaneously, an empty shell of resplendent, golden granite, in the heart of a fairytale village of medieval beauty, deep in the gentle southern hills. Treignac-sur-Vezère was my imagination brought to fruition. My quest for the idyllic life achieved. Mon paradis trouvé. My paradise found.

  We had embarked on our search for the perfect dwelling place, just twelve months earlier, in the foothills of the Pyrénées. We believed at the time, to have found our ideal abode. A twenty-eight room, 19th century Manor, some 10 kilometres from the fortress city of Carcassone, had floored us with its beauty and charm but we were toppled at the twelfth hour. A wealthy Dutch couple outbid us with their hefty Florins and our journey towards rural bliss recommenced. We were innately drawn to the quieter regions of southwestern France, those where the almighty Anglo invasion hadn’t yet raped, plundered or purchased every square inch of French soil and where blue-blooded Frenchmen continued to quietly preside. Where ‘Parlez-vous Anglais?’ was not the question asked at every corner store and café. Where the air was pure and clean and my fatigued and weary body would thrive and regain its youthful strength.

  Jean knew of Treignac from his childhood vacations. It fell directly en route to our next destination, Tulle, where we had arranged yet another rendezvous with a rural Estate Agent. We decided it would make a fine coffee-stop and once realising how beautiful it was, we lingered to take a closer look. Whilst strolling languidly over the tranquil, cobbled streets, we noticed a formidable, stone structure that bore the engraved symbol of a scallop shell on its ochre-coloured façade. Jean explained, that this was the ancient symbol carried by pilgrims on their way to Saint Jacques de Compostelle (Santiago de Compostela) in Spain.

  The imposing yet elegant dwelling overlooked an archetypal village square. The epitome of French village life was compactly gathered within the hovering façades of this ancient meeting place. The vertiginously steep, grey slate roofs, the golden granite homes with their brightly painted shutters and planted window boxes. The blankets of deep-green Virginia creeper and rambling cabbage roses, that clung and smothered the stone walls and façades. The 15th century, alfresco market hall, with its worn, slab floor, towering oak beams and official ‘lion’s cage’, where the centuries old weights and measures were kept. The architecturally distinct chapel of Notre-Dame-de-la-Paix with its twisted bell-tower, that rang out sweetly each daylight hour and residing quietly amidst all of these, a sign ‘A VENDRE’, For Sale.

  It was l’amour at first sight. The moment I laid eyes on its ancient cellar walls, I cried triumphantly, ‘This is the one,’ much to the bewilderment of the bald-headed estate agent, who had rushed to our assistance on hearing my foreign accent.

  ‘But, Madame, you haven’t seen the house yet. This is only the garage,’ he declared amazed.

  My darling Jean smiled knowingly and nodded in accord.

  ‘My wife has made up her mind Monsieur, so there’s no need to discuss things any further … well maybe just the price.’

  So there we stood, months later, before this solid, triple storey façade of 16th century, sculpted granite, official hand-written title and clamber of clunky, rusted keys in hand.

  We calculated four months of solid renovating, to bring this dormant, stone beast to life, give or take a siesta or three. There’s a unique timetable, that people work to in rural France and it defies all formal time and normal logic. There’s GMT time and there’s Corrèzien time, our future neighbours kindly warned us.

  We would need somewhere to live in the meantime and we were unsure how easy finding a short-term rental would be. To our greatest delight and relief, the gentile vendors of our new home were also the proud owners of an ancient apartment building almost adjacent to ours. They normally rented the rooms to holidaymakers but in our instance, were happy to adjust their normal arrangements. The small apartment was rustic in fashion and the winding, oak staircase to the third floor, where it sat, creaked and groaned underfoot. The rooms were furnished with family heirlooms and hand crocheted bedcovers and cushions adorned nearly every surface. I regularly had the impression of intruding on someone else’s life. There was an ancient presence in this place and I always felt like a house-guest to some unseen force. I never mentioned this to Jean and he never spoke to me of anything similar.

  The tall bedroom windows overlooked the narrow street, which led to our new home. This was immensely convenient when it came to keeping an eye on the cheeky yet charming tradesmen we had hired for our extensive renovations. The rural tradesmen were engaging and we found an easy entente. ‘Gaulloise hanging from the lower lip’ type of men, who kindly but firmly explained to me in our early meetings, that the interior restorations I required were impractical and physically impossible.

  ‘Never been done! Too difficult! Out of the question!’

  ‘C’est de la folie! (It’s utter madness!),’ they cried red-faced.

  Ah, madness … my newfound friend and constant companion, made me even more determined. I insisted most doggedly, the true, nagging female that I am. I pouted and foot stamped until finally, to everyone’s surprise, Monsieur ‘le boss’ surrendered and I reigned victorious.

  They’ll realise I’m right, I thought. They’ll eventually see my way is best.

  Jean had no choice but to side with me, as always. I may not be physically strong but this was one battle, I refused to lose. Despite his ‘Frenchness’, Jean and I glide on a parallel, thought-plane and agree on just about everything that’s important. He
is very talented when it comes to interior design and has an innate sense of style and colour. He completely understood my desires and visions, and knew that, en masse, we would create perfection.

  There was no need for an architect, as Jean and I similarly understood how the interior space should be divided. We simply traced our room plans directly onto the concrete floors, enabling the workmen to follow our chalked lines. The reception rooms and lounges stayed as large, open spaces warmed by two monumental fireplaces. The sleeping quarters were divided into four spacious bedrooms, all with their own ensuites. Our own bathroom was to house a Nordic-style sauna and oversized bath. Although the changes we were making were dramatic, there was never any need for the completing of forms or approval documents of any description. This stunned us, as we were so accustomed to Australian red tape and the lengthy process of gaining council approval for even the smallest of projects. Not to mention the extra costs.

  Here in the heart of bureaucratic France, there was simply no need for all that fuss. And it wasn’t as though we were hidden away, where the bureaucrats wouldn’t find us; we were perched directly opposite the council chambers, in full view of The Mayor and his chamber of workers. This was a pleasant start to the process, no stressful waiting period, no highly-strung engineers, and no building inspectors. Apparently, as long as we didn’t alter the building’s historical façade in any way or fashion, we were free to proceed as we wished. This French way of running things was suiting me just fine. Just our merry band of tradesmen, Jean and I. No exterior influences, no interruptions to deal with and no endless red tape. Treignac-sur-Vezère was looking more like paradise on earth, by the minute.

  And so, it came to pass, with difficulty on occasions, a tantrum or two for good measure, that the previously lacklustre, stone void became our new abode. A home of warmth and curvaceous lines. A residence that would for the following eight, wondrous years, welcome the weary but well pursed traveller into its ample and comfortable bosom. For the right price, of course. We were now the proud owners of Treignac’s first Chambres D’hôtes (Bed and Breakfast) opening for business in May of 1992.

  The house with the shell or La Maison de la Coquille became renowned for its antipodean hospitality, generous, leisurely breakfasts and eclectic décor, laden with collected objet d’art. The intrepid traveller was exalted to hear a familiar accent in the deep heart of France and the French, in turn, enjoyed the charm of my basic but enthusiastically spoken French.

  I realised that the age-old term, ‘sex sells’, really did exist and was fully functional here in provincial France. Not that I was prostituting myself. Hell no! I only had to open my pretty mouth and say something incorrectly, to make half the population swoon. The male half, most importantly. Wow, could this be happening to me? After residing under the shadow of my husband’s sultry accent for many years, I was now the sexual flavour of the month. Here, in this quaint medieval village, I was becoming the sought after one. The headliner on your next dinner party list. The one, who spoke with so sweet an accent, that the soon to be elected President of France, fell under her spell. He paid undue attention to me, whilst attending an official opening ceremony and political aperitif.

  I was enraptured with these newfound attentions.

  ‘Your wife, Monsieur Raoul … Elle est charmante. (She is charming.)’ Monsieur Le ‘future’ President cooed at my husband, who proudly nodded his head in agreement and beamed unaccustomedly.

  Monsieur Jacques Chirac remains my favourite politician to this day, bien sûr. A man of discriminating taste and unquestionably, polished diplomacy … obviously.

  Those heady days of pure ignorance could not last. As I become more fluent in the language and the ways of village life, I realised that being the village idol, was not all it appeared on the surface.

  Realistically, with the adulation and accolades, comes a healthy amount of jealousy and disdain. With this revelation, I became a touch more reserved and my persona adopted a subtle aloofness. Self-preservation was called for. When in Rome … that’s my motto. Obviously, that’s what all the aloofness, or arrogance as we ignorant Anglos call it, is about. It’s self-preservation in its highest form. Pure and simple. The French are experts in this art and as I awoke to the intimacies of village life, I understood why.

  I realised very quickly that I was the bête étrange on the block. A constant joy to passers-by, who inspected my every move with curious abandon. Ridiculously, my choice of new curtains was the talk of the town for several weeks alone. And when I chose Spanish terracotta pots to adorn my front steps … well! How audacious could this woman be? Strangely enough, my choice of décor was soon to be repeated throughout the cobbled streets and passageways. Apparently, la bête étrange wasn’t that strange after all. She had excellent, if not unusual taste so, why wouldn’t we copy her?

  Complimentary as this may sound, I soon became ambivalent. I couldn’t step outside my front door without my peroxide blonde, next-door neighbour peering through her ghastly, windmill incrusted, lace curtains, to spy on my attire. Eerily, within days of monitoring me from her third storey window, she would set out on her daily errands, small child in tow, dressed as my identical twin. People began to notice. I was aghast. I was being stalked by a fashion pervert. My hairdresser, Nicole, was quick to inform me, that she had even dared to ask for the exact haircut to mine. As extreme action was necessary, I decided to dress as hideously as possible and wear my hair in a non-descript, slightly dishevelled chignon, in attempt to disarm her.

  It eventually worked, though I suffered weeks of pathetic glances from the village Bourgeoisie. I was now the talk of the town, for all the wrong reasons but it was the price I had to pay for my independence. Temporary embarrassment held no stead, in the name of fashion liberté.

  Now that I was aware of what it took to survive with my sanity intact, I grew stronger and more resilient. This was the start of my newly chosen life. A life I had dreamt of for years and that very thought kept me sane and motivated. If this was how it was going to be, then so be it. I was ready, willing and able for any new challenge and was comforted by the assurance that my cherished Jean, would be forever by my side.

  CHAPTER 2

  La Barre à Mine

  (THE CROW BAR)

  The human psyche functions rather peculiarly, at times. I became increasingly aware of this idiosyncratic phenomenon as my subconscious, bilingual mind took charge. Oddly, having learnt to use an object for the first time in France, I adopted a perpetual tendency to refer to that object in the French language. To this day, I regularly forget its name in English. That said; the common, all-purpose crow bar would forever remain in the corridors of my mind, in its French form as la barre à mine.

  In casual conversation with our builder’s son, Jean-Christophe, a particularly handsome and extremely appealing young man, we learnt that our beautiful, medieval village was riddled with mysterious, underground passageways dating back to the 13th century. This hidden labyrinth of medieval chambers and tunnels zigzagged across the length and breadth of the original village site; a honeycomb of intricately burrowed chambers once linking the homes of the noble and wealthy residents, to the impenetrable, fortified safety of the Seigneur’s Chateau.

  Jean-Christophe warned us of the dangerous conditions in the tunnels and explained that it had been many years since anyone had ventured into their dark depths. For centuries, amorous, young villageois had used them as secret ‘Tunnels of Love’, where they would partake in their liaisons dangereuses. In recent decades, anxious parents had become aware of their children’s dangerous ‘hankypanky’, and had forbidden all access to the crumbling hideouts.

  We were told of their precarious state of collapse and wondered how the entire village hadn’t been engulfed in a cloud of ancestral dust. Rest assured, we were also informed that they held no danger to the buildings above them, as long as they were not tampered with and remained completely undisturbed.

  This didn’t deter either Jean or
I from rushing to the nearest hardware store and purchasing a very solid barre à mine, determined to find our very own ‘love tunnel’ beneath the stone foundations of our fortified, granite home.

  We questioned Jean-Christophe about the presence of an opening in our cellar and he confirmed with great aplomb, that there was indeed an ancient staircase leading from the now, defunct guard tower, which had risen high above our abode. This then led to a massive tunnel, the width of a horse and carriage, linked directly to the Château fort. We pursued him relentlessly regarding its exact location, attempting desperately to appear innocently curious. We prayed that Jean-Christophe would not suspect our true motives.

  ‘You must not touch zee tunnel Marisa. It iz très dangereux,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Of course Jean-Christophe, we wouldn’t think of it,’ I announced dramatically, winking at my husband in delight.

  ‘If you promise to be careful, I will show you where zee entrance iz,’ he replied.

  ‘We promise. Cross our hearts,’ I declared, smiling as sincerely as I could and crossing my chest with my index finger.

  ‘Bien, come wiz me. It iz over here.’

  As soon as he indicated the starting point, it all became so clear. There were definite signs of carved stone stairs ‘in situ’ that were aligned with the curvaceous walls of the garage. The same walls had stood aloft the house for centuries, until a destructive bolt of lightning had destroyed the magnificent Tour de Guet (Watchtower), and its contents, in the early 20th century.