Free Our House is Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth

there were the hours and hours talking about what we would do when we were there next time. It was so finely tuned that, for our next trip, we had arranged for Jean-Claude to pick us up at the station in Brive on our arrival from Paris, and we even stopped at a supermarché to buy some food. I have to say we felt fairly pleased with our planning and attention to all the small details. We were very close to hiring a car — down to such fine timing that we discovered the car hire company closed a mere ten minutes after our train arrived. Then the offer came in to buy the Renault. If we had paid for the hire care there would not have been a refund, so it all came down to the final ten minutes on a flight and all the connections, from the other side of the world!
    On the eve of departure, winter had well and truly started at home. The ocean was grey and angry, and wild winds were whipping the coastline. Once again, we felt profoundly grateful to be setting off to luxuriate in another French summer: one made even longer as it doesn’t get dark until ten each evening. Perhaps though, as last time, it actually meant even longer hours to renovate? One thing I love about the closing of the summer days, when we do return, is our final digestif of the delicious walnut liqueur we had discovered. As with all our meals throughout the day, we know we will resume our place on our curved little steps and reflect, yet again, on how glorious it is to be in Cuzance.

New French Friends
    I always find it extraordinary how seemingly chance encounters and apparently casual conversations are preludes to wonderful friendships. There is no hint at the time that they will possibly extend beyond a polite ‘ Bonjour ’ and faltering chat. And yet, in just a mere three weeks, we developed two close friendships that we are sure will endure for years and strengthen through our emails and each return visit. It was, after all, serendipitous that our petite maison was on the road, for it brought us not only Jean-Claude but also Gerard and Dominique Murat. We called them the ‘French renovating couple’, for we were able to deduce from the times that they drove by each day and from some information — gleaned, as always, from Jean-Claude — that they too had bought a house in the village and were working on it. As with everyone who passed by (hard to know if they were locals or tourists at times) I always enthusiastically waved at everyone. One day, Gerard and Dominique stopped to warmly welcome us to the village. There was an instant bond, despite the language limitations, as they inspected what we had been doing in the little house and had a tour of the property. Our mutual renovating was an immediate connection. The profound difference was our style. On the way home after a hard day’s work, they both looked superbly elegant and Dominique’s chic stylishness was worlds removed from my appalling ripped overalls. However, they seemed to be able to graciously overlook our lack of sartorial style as they invited us for an apéritif at the house they had nearly finished renovating at the other end of the village.
    We had read so much about how it would take a very long time — if ever — to be invited into a French home, so we felt hugely honoured to be so readily accepted. However, there had been a few awkward social moments with an English woman from the village who had also dropped in to make us welcome and invited us to her home. We were certainly very grateful and yet we somehow didn’t click with her at all. I think it had something to do with the fact that, when I greeted her at the door in the midst of rubble and paint-stained clothes, there wasn’t a glimmer of acknowledgment of the work we had done in such a short time after arriving. Her intent seemed to be to talk about all her relatives in Australia and where they lived. It did appear that she was perhaps intent on extending the places that