Read Online Our House is Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Cutsforth
Tags: Travel writing, Memoir
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oh, the days when we could enjoy it and go to a restaurant were special days indeed. The delight of plat du jour or the fixed-price three-course menu (which often included a glass of wine) never ceased to fill us with pleasure. Are there any more splendid words in the world than â Bon appétit â?
The end of the day can be measured too by a neighbour calling her cat. Again, no clocks were needed as, on the dot of 10pm, we would hear her call, âPooki, Pooki,â â or something very similar. We have yet to see either our neighbour or her cat. On most evenings, too, someone nearby would play the piano, its sound drifting across the garden.
The Madness of Foreigners
There were many times when I felt conscious that I was playing to perfection the role of a mad foreign woman tackling a massive renovation in a foreign county. Marie-France had given me a pair of traditional blue work overalls made of a strange light material and with a zip up the front. I knew they were ripped and becoming more so every day. Yet, without a mirror in our petite maison , I couldnât fully see nor fully realise the state they were in until I saw the photos when I got home. Letâs just say I was mortified when I saw how terribly torn they were in completely unacceptable places. I was also not at all happy with Stuart for allowing me to dash out of the house to meet roofers and other artisans when they came to give us quotes. No wonder their eyes nearly dropped out of their heads.
Most mornings I was up before Stuart and, after my petit déjeuner of muesli and fresh strawberries from the markets, I would dash around le jardin with a pair of secateurs, trying to tackle anything in sight that I could possible manage by myself. I was very conscious that anyone watching would observe a truly demented person, randomly running around, pulling ivy off the barn wall one minute, the next tackling the ivy engulfing the silver birch, the next deadheading the roses. I knew what I was doing but couldnât seem to stop myself. I just wanted to make every single minute count and get as much done as possible in our limited, precious time. As soon as Stuart woke up I would dash back inside, make him a cup of tea and then tackle my next job in the little house. However, even the simple act of getting breakfast was challenging: our only surface, the table, was cluttered with packets of food, paperwork, tape measure, tools, notebook camera, pens, our two bowls, two mugs and some cutlery. One of our first purchases was a filter coffee machine, the type found in most French homes, as neither of us can function in the morning without our two cups of café . This was placed precariously next to the small kitchen sink. We were grateful to at least have a sink and basic bathroom. When you have to, itâs amazing how you can get by without all the things you take for granted at home and how you can manage to juggle everything. I got it down to a fine art of having the water in the machine and the café in the filter ready to switch on as soon as I got up, and the two bowls we owned and the two spoons lined up ready for p etit déjeuner . Time, time, time ⦠there simply was never enough of it.
As for where I found the reserves of energy for sixteen-hour days, I simply donât know, considering at home Iâm often in bed by 8.30. Every single day I was fuelled by a burning desire to get as much done as possible. And as for the lists, well, our days were devoured by endless lists.
Life in the Village
I thought that I would miss the relentless rolling of the surf that provides the backdrop to daily life at home and lulls us to sleep at night, yet the countryside in Cuzance has a rhythm all of its own. There are many magical moments, such as being up a ladder, brush laden with paint for the ancient walls that hungrily soak it up, then glancing out to see a squirrel scampering along the road and shooting up a tree opposite the
The end of the day can be measured too by a neighbour calling her cat. Again, no clocks were needed as, on the dot of 10pm, we would hear her call, âPooki, Pooki,â â or something very similar. We have yet to see either our neighbour or her cat. On most evenings, too, someone nearby would play the piano, its sound drifting across the garden.
The Madness of Foreigners
There were many times when I felt conscious that I was playing to perfection the role of a mad foreign woman tackling a massive renovation in a foreign county. Marie-France had given me a pair of traditional blue work overalls made of a strange light material and with a zip up the front. I knew they were ripped and becoming more so every day. Yet, without a mirror in our petite maison , I couldnât fully see nor fully realise the state they were in until I saw the photos when I got home. Letâs just say I was mortified when I saw how terribly torn they were in completely unacceptable places. I was also not at all happy with Stuart for allowing me to dash out of the house to meet roofers and other artisans when they came to give us quotes. No wonder their eyes nearly dropped out of their heads.
Most mornings I was up before Stuart and, after my petit déjeuner of muesli and fresh strawberries from the markets, I would dash around le jardin with a pair of secateurs, trying to tackle anything in sight that I could possible manage by myself. I was very conscious that anyone watching would observe a truly demented person, randomly running around, pulling ivy off the barn wall one minute, the next tackling the ivy engulfing the silver birch, the next deadheading the roses. I knew what I was doing but couldnât seem to stop myself. I just wanted to make every single minute count and get as much done as possible in our limited, precious time. As soon as Stuart woke up I would dash back inside, make him a cup of tea and then tackle my next job in the little house. However, even the simple act of getting breakfast was challenging: our only surface, the table, was cluttered with packets of food, paperwork, tape measure, tools, notebook camera, pens, our two bowls, two mugs and some cutlery. One of our first purchases was a filter coffee machine, the type found in most French homes, as neither of us can function in the morning without our two cups of café . This was placed precariously next to the small kitchen sink. We were grateful to at least have a sink and basic bathroom. When you have to, itâs amazing how you can get by without all the things you take for granted at home and how you can manage to juggle everything. I got it down to a fine art of having the water in the machine and the café in the filter ready to switch on as soon as I got up, and the two bowls we owned and the two spoons lined up ready for p etit déjeuner . Time, time, time ⦠there simply was never enough of it.
As for where I found the reserves of energy for sixteen-hour days, I simply donât know, considering at home Iâm often in bed by 8.30. Every single day I was fuelled by a burning desire to get as much done as possible. And as for the lists, well, our days were devoured by endless lists.
Life in the Village
I thought that I would miss the relentless rolling of the surf that provides the backdrop to daily life at home and lulls us to sleep at night, yet the countryside in Cuzance has a rhythm all of its own. There are many magical moments, such as being up a ladder, brush laden with paint for the ancient walls that hungrily soak it up, then glancing out to see a squirrel scampering along the road and shooting up a tree opposite the
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