Free Our House is Certainly Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth

nearby. And so, for a week, eight of us gathered each evening for meals in the jardin under the damson tree. This is not the sort of thing that comes readily to us at home, yet, across the other side of the world, somehow this is now woven into the French part of our life. Time dropped away, we laughed and filled in the gaps of the intervening years, and now, once again we are to be reunited in our own petite maison .
    Just a matter of a few weeks before leaving, Lydia emailed to let me know that their summer holiday in the Basque country meant that they would also be able to visit us for a few days. What did I think of that plan? My fingers flew across the keyboard in excitement to let her know that is exactly what we hoped Pied de la Croix would be, a place for spending time with those we love. Somehow, again completely unlike the person I am at home, it doesn’t matter that we don’t still know John’s plans; whether there will be eight or ten of us in our petite maison , that there aren’t enough beds, enough linen and one petite bathroom. We simply know that it will all be perfectly fine, it will all work and our everyday selves at home will be transformed by the seductiveness of summer days in France.

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The Figeac Caravane
    Things really started to fall into place before we left this year. Weeks before heading for Cuzance, we decide to check the route for the Tour de France . Much to our excitement, the route goes though Brive-la-Gaillarde, a mere twenty minutes from us. We speculate about the back roads that the Tour may take and wonder if in fact it may go straight past our petite maison – after all, our house is right on the road! Last year I had strenuously resisted Stuart’s entreaties that I go with him to watch it in Figeac. I simply couldn’t imagine anything more tedious than a bunch of bike riders whizzing past at great speed, a blur of coloured jerseys, gone in a flash. I kept saying that he should make arrangements to meet Erick as I was sure it would be a perfect outing for them; much like my vigorous attempts to not be involved in any canoeing trips... The thought of a day in the jardin , even if it did mean literally sitting in a pile of weeds and rocks to tug and pull at them, was infinitely more alluring. However, like many of Stuart’s ideas, once I finally capitulated, it turned out to be a brilliant day.
    Figeac is a beautiful historic town on the banks of the River Cele, surrounded by charming villages. It’s an unspoilt town centre, with a delightful range of medieval houses that are both stone and half-timbered. The site of the old halles , or markets, is where cafés now spread their tables. After a visit to the Office de Tourisme , to check the route, we joined the throng of the soon-to-be Tour de France crowds, and with just enough time before the race came over the bridge, had the menu du jour . Just as were finishing our café , the heavens opened and it looked like our experience of the atmosphere we had only ever viewed from afar at home, was to be a rather damp one.
    However, the downpour was short-lived, so we crossed the river, caught up in le Tour excitement, and positioned ourselves in a perfect viewing spot, ready to see the riders swoop around the end of the bridge and then race up the hill. As it turned out, there was an hour of unexpected build-up of atmosphere and anticipation with the arrival of the caravane. This was something we had never seen at home when the Tour de France was shown and we had not heard anything about it, even from our French friends. It turned out to be tremendous fun. Truck after truck roared past with loud music blaring from speakers, young French people dancing on the floats and banners flowing in the breeze to advertise different companies. To add to the festive atmosphere, the dancers on the trucks all had samples to throw to the crowds: biscuits, magazines and if you were really lucky to grab one, a Tour de