Our House is Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth Page A

she offered to also call Jean-Claude so that we had covered all possible bases. I raced back to get Stuart and our luggage, as he had the contact number on his redundant mobile. The lovely French woman whipped out her iPhone and dialled his number. No response. Then she checked his number on the internet and dialled again. This time she left him a message. We now felt fairly hopeful that he would be waiting on the platform at Brive. Surely we had covered all bases? Soon, the two extra hours of waiting slipped away and it was time to depart. We left without even learning the young woman’s name, and yet again we were astonished and warmed by the kindness of those we have encountered on our travels.
    The four hours on the train passed comfortably and we had some much-needed sleep. Alas, there was no Jean-Claude to warmly greet us at the station. We had yet another dilemma. There were some taxis at the station, so we enquired about the cost to Cuzance. It was essential that we have some food for our arrival at our petite maison , so, still hopeful that Jean-Claude would actually arrive, Stuart set off in search of food in the deserted streets of Brive. As I was standing with the luggage, passengers waiting for a connection to Toulouse asked why on earth we had come all the way from Australia to the quiet, empty town of Brive rather than the Riveria. Forty minutes later, Stuart returned with two sad-looking, end-of-the-day baguettes . We were actually quite grateful for them, as they became our very late supper and, the next day, our stale breakfast; not quite what we imagined for our first meals in France. There was now no choice at all except to pay the exorbitant price for a taxi and so, finally, we were on the last leg of our ten-part trip.
    After a very fast, very expensive, taxi ride, we arrived at Pied de la Croix several hours later than anticipated. There were shades of our arrival last year as our hearts didn’t quite beat with joy. No, there was a huge, green, flapping tarpaulin covering half the barn roof; there was a pile of rubble in front of the house where the roofer’s truck hit a water pipe; and, oh, the grass was very, very overgrown. Despite the meticulous checklist, somehow ringing Christian to cut the grass had been overlooked. To complete the picture-perfect romantic French idyll, there was a dead bird on the porch right outside the front door. Once inside, it was like a haunted house. The lingering smell of old fire smoke was extraordinarily strong and the house was festooned with cobwebs. Fortunately, there was some wine left from last year, so we rapidly downed a glass with our stale baguette and fell into bed, complete with a year of dust on the eiderdown. Welcome home to Cuzance.

Our Reunion with Pied de la Croix
    The long-awaited day was here — well, very late evening. We were back, after almost another year, at our beloved petite maison . Its arms embraced us warmly and there was a real sense of coming home. I remember vividly a Monday morning the previous year when my first task was to start ever so carefully peeling the wallpaper from an ancient wooden beam in the room that was to become la cuisine . I recall thinking I would much rather be doing this first thing on a Monday morning than the normal routine of work at home. Stuart was off on one of his many errands, sourcing bricolage needs and food, so I was alone, as I often was. While we have lived in many, many houses over the years, including two old terrace houses in Sydney, I had never felt such a palpable sense of warmth emanating from a house. I actually felt that our petite maison was thanking me for breathing life into it, indeed, bringing it back to life. Once I found out more about its history from Jean-Claude and the previous owners, it made even more sense. I truly felt their presence in a very warm way. They were glad we were pouring love into the house. Despite renovating our hundred-year-old terraces in Sydney, I