Free Our House is Definitely Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth

because of the marauding les mouches . I feel that anyone contemplating buying a rural petite maison in France perhaps needs to add to their criteria: ‘Do not buy near a chicken farm’. It would certainly seem that whatever you are in the world, even buried in a petite rural enclave, you can’t escape politics and drama.

Summer Treasure Searches
    While we have chosen to abandon our habit of setting the alarm for precious vide-grenier mornings, a quiver of excitement ebbs into our dreams and we still always wake as the first fingers of sunlight filter in. The tingling thrill of the quest soon holds us in its thrall once again. While the little house is already crammed with treasure from our previous early Sunday morning market forays, the lure of summer treasure searches is one that grips us in a passionate fever. Our voiture positively buzzes with our eager anticipation. It surges forward with a will of its own along the winding country lanes that still have threads of mist. The little car responds to our palpable sense of excitement, like an eager puppy straining at the leash. Once again, our own vide-grenier guide that we plan at the start of every summer also forms our personal exploration of our département and the surrounding ones. It leads us to tiny, tucked-away villages that we would never otherwise discover: Aubazine, Beauregard, Gabillou, Soturac.
    All the villages display small, brightly coloured handmade signs along the roadside to show the way to their vide-grenier . The intermittent arrows, often almost buried in tall grass, point here right, there left. Despite their interspersed appearance, we often wonder as we whizz along the narrow, curving lanes, how a market can possibly appear when we seem to be utterly buried in the depths of the remote rural landscape. Along the way, we gasp at châteaux and exclaim as glimpses of soaring limestone cliffs perforate the dense forests. Le Dordogne suddenly appears, carrying kayakers; it is a shimmering expanse in the glistening early pearl light.
    And then, the arrows stop. Voilà , a freshly mown farmer’s field is already filling with fellow treasure hunters. Cazillac is a new one for us this year. Just the drive across the field makes the outing worthwhile, for a sweeping panorama stretches out before us of rolling hills, a tapestry of every hue of green, fields of fat, contented brown and white cows and expanses of tall corn waving in the breeze. It is like a real-life piece of exquisitely stitched embroidery; a wall hanging where the seams are the farmer’s stone walls, the colours the brightest threads.
    There are many tricks to the trade in the pursuit of summer treasure. I have acquired the skill of casting my eyes down, for far below stall level the best bargains are often to be found. This leads me to unearth superb tea-towels for a mere euro . Frequently they are of vintage quality and the scenes depicted are redolent of times long passed. They are far too pretty to ever be used, though. Was it only just a year or so ago I parted with four or five euro for an old tea-towel? Well, they were French linen, of course. I have since discovered that I can unearth better bargains.
    I have also learnt the art of rummaging through baskets laden to the brim, and ancient overflowing leather suitcases that are placed on the ground. Another speciality I have developed is quite a knack for discovering scarves with designer names, such as Givenchy and Nina Ricci, gracefully decorating their corners. My favourite of the summer is a 1950s one depicting scenes of Monte Carlo. It is silky and colourful, embellished with all the highlights of this ultra-wealthy enclave: Le Casino, Le Palais, Le Jardin Exotique and Le Grand Prix de Monaco. Who was once wearing it and whisked along the cliffs of Monte Carlo in a sports car with the top down, the azure sea crashing below? When I toss it round my shoulders in what I Iike to imagine is an ever-so-nonchalant