John and I are still in New York and will return to the Périgord in early November, this time with our two cats and a commitment to make France our permanent home. John got the new artist's visa (pour les compétences et talents) from the French consulate in New York. The letter accompanying the visa said it was given to him for the “creation d’œuvres de l’esprit.” How very French! Like our past bureaucratic experiences, we were warned how impossibly difficult and drawn-out the process would be. Surprising, it was simple, fast and the visa is good for six years. It also will facilitate getting a carte de séjour, the residency card and final document we'll need to live in France. We are living a charmed life – and, I think France wants an artist of John's stature and experience (his paintings are in the Met, Whitney, and the Hirshhorn). All it took for me was an afternoon visiting some galleries in Paris to realize that abstract art there is not any better than it is in Chelsea. Pretty disheartening. So many Damien Hirst and Jeff Koons wannabes.
On a beautiful August afternoon this summer, John and I were married in a small ceremony at City Hall, in Manhattan’s new marble and gilded marriage bureau. As my friend Mary Ann remarked after seeing a photo, "I am sure some place there is an ordinance forbidding 'mature' people from looking that blissful." We ARE happy and feel very fortunate.
So as we prepare for our future in France (with just a little trepidation, or is it excitement?), the work on our house continues with weekly phone consultations with our contractor. Renovating long-distance has been remarkably easy, largely due to Dale's skill and his appreciation of our taste, as well as good planning with him last spring.
I am eager to return to France, to move into our wonderful house, to see our friends, shop at the Sunday morning market in Issigeac, drink a glass of Bergerac Sec at the Café de France, and drive home through the lovely valley of the Couze River.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Back in New York
Dear Readers
I'm back in New York and its crowds, noise and energy. My mother died two days before we returned and much of my time has been given over to planning a service and settling her affairs with my sisters. We will return to the Périgord in September and I'll resume this blog. I have a few stories left to finish from this spring that I'll work on this summer.
Until then,
Nancy
I'm back in New York and its crowds, noise and energy. My mother died two days before we returned and much of my time has been given over to planning a service and settling her affairs with my sisters. We will return to the Périgord in September and I'll resume this blog. I have a few stories left to finish from this spring that I'll work on this summer.
Until then,
Nancy
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Whistler
We bought a car, a rebuilt 1989 silver Audi from a mechanic for 3,000 euros cash. The mechanic’s name is José and he said he lived for the love of making cars. He was tall, dark and Spanish and had one tooth that stuck straight out of his mouth when he smiled.
Our friends said, you did what?
José’s garage is in the countryside and surrounded by a graveyard of old cars, rusted bodies and a few beautiful deux chevaux that had seen their years. Two Rottweilers patrolled a chain-linked fence and a steady stream of customers in Mercedes and BMWs waited their turn. Inside a large corrugated shed that was José’s workspace were carefully organized car parts in piles and on shelves and he had an office in the corner. By his computer was a worn copy of Moliere's Le Bourgeois gentilhomme.
We took the car for a test drive and immediately knew we wanted it. José said he had made the car for his daughter. He assured us it was very good, but insisted on keeping it for a few days to get it right. When we picked it up the following week, it was spotless and ran as smoothly as a sewing machine. At full speed on the open highway it whistled, so we named it “Whistler.”
Then we had to register it: our first brush with French bureaucracy and the prospect intimidated us. Our insurance agent advised us to take everything we could to prove our legitimacy to buy a car in France – an electric bill with our address, the deed for our house might be a good idea, passports, drivers licenses, proof of insurance coverage, the bill of sale, a carte grise (the registration) and inspection papers. I called ahead to make sure we should go to the sous-préfecture in Bergerac; there is a préfecture in Périgueux. And, yes, the woman said, it was the right place and she’d be happy to help us. We arrived fully prepared mid-afternoon and the bureau was closed. It had opened after lunch at 1:30 and closed for the day at 3:15, regular sous-préfecture hours.
The next day we drove to Bergerac early in the morning and got there during the busy morning market. The office was abandoned; empty desks behind barred windows. We braced ourselves for the worst and struggled to fill out an incomprehensible form that a sign warned us to have ready. Even in the US, we would need help with the technical language and abbreviations. Our dictionary was of no use.
Several other people came in confused by the empty office. That made us feel a little better. Eventually an officious woman opened her window and we took her our pile of papers. She ignored everything except the form and the carte grise, asked us to make some corrections and told us to take a seat. We sorted our papers again, making sure we’d have anything she might request, worrying that maybe we should have our birth certificates.
In about 20 minutes, she called John to her window, gave him a new carte grise and said it cost 25 euros. She didn’t ask us for proof of insurance, a driver's license or even a passport. We were so astonished that we got the giggles. We sat down to organize and file our documents, happy the ordeal was over, but when we started out to celebrate with lunch, a formidable chain gate barred the door. It was exactly 12 o’clock, and every self-respecting French person was hurrying to their noon meal. We were locked inside the sous-préfecture.
A few calls for help produced a late-for-lunch clerk who let us out. We had an extra glass of wine with our lunch.
Whistler was ours and legal to drive. In the three months we were in the Périgord, it never gave us a moment’s worry. José took it back when we returned to the US to honor his three-month guarantee and get it ready for us in September. We’ll recommend him to everyone.
Our friends said, you did what?
José’s garage is in the countryside and surrounded by a graveyard of old cars, rusted bodies and a few beautiful deux chevaux that had seen their years. Two Rottweilers patrolled a chain-linked fence and a steady stream of customers in Mercedes and BMWs waited their turn. Inside a large corrugated shed that was José’s workspace were carefully organized car parts in piles and on shelves and he had an office in the corner. By his computer was a worn copy of Moliere's Le Bourgeois gentilhomme.
We took the car for a test drive and immediately knew we wanted it. José said he had made the car for his daughter. He assured us it was very good, but insisted on keeping it for a few days to get it right. When we picked it up the following week, it was spotless and ran as smoothly as a sewing machine. At full speed on the open highway it whistled, so we named it “Whistler.”
Then we had to register it: our first brush with French bureaucracy and the prospect intimidated us. Our insurance agent advised us to take everything we could to prove our legitimacy to buy a car in France – an electric bill with our address, the deed for our house might be a good idea, passports, drivers licenses, proof of insurance coverage, the bill of sale, a carte grise (the registration) and inspection papers. I called ahead to make sure we should go to the sous-préfecture in Bergerac; there is a préfecture in Périgueux. And, yes, the woman said, it was the right place and she’d be happy to help us. We arrived fully prepared mid-afternoon and the bureau was closed. It had opened after lunch at 1:30 and closed for the day at 3:15, regular sous-préfecture hours.
The next day we drove to Bergerac early in the morning and got there during the busy morning market. The office was abandoned; empty desks behind barred windows. We braced ourselves for the worst and struggled to fill out an incomprehensible form that a sign warned us to have ready. Even in the US, we would need help with the technical language and abbreviations. Our dictionary was of no use.
Several other people came in confused by the empty office. That made us feel a little better. Eventually an officious woman opened her window and we took her our pile of papers. She ignored everything except the form and the carte grise, asked us to make some corrections and told us to take a seat. We sorted our papers again, making sure we’d have anything she might request, worrying that maybe we should have our birth certificates.
In about 20 minutes, she called John to her window, gave him a new carte grise and said it cost 25 euros. She didn’t ask us for proof of insurance, a driver's license or even a passport. We were so astonished that we got the giggles. We sat down to organize and file our documents, happy the ordeal was over, but when we started out to celebrate with lunch, a formidable chain gate barred the door. It was exactly 12 o’clock, and every self-respecting French person was hurrying to their noon meal. We were locked inside the sous-préfecture.
A few calls for help produced a late-for-lunch clerk who let us out. We had an extra glass of wine with our lunch.
Whistler was ours and legal to drive. In the three months we were in the Périgord, it never gave us a moment’s worry. José took it back when we returned to the US to honor his three-month guarantee and get it ready for us in September. We’ll recommend him to everyone.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
A cow in labor and one solitary bee
We demolished every wall in the house except a stone wall that had been the end of the original house before an addition in the 1800s. Our contractor's assistant discovered it when he was removing loose plaster. The wall emerged in three days of grueling work, Joe’s jackhammer chipping out cement and plaster around the rocks. It is beautiful. Fieldstones in all colors: light ochre, rose, rust red, grey and brown, the colors of the Périgord. It ends in a wonderful Périgordian corner construction, a chamfered limestone block surround. I scrubbed the stones before the wall was pointed, paying special attention to the rose and red ones that I liked the most. A few will be in front of my kitchen sink and I imagined peeling vegetables there in the fall.
John was cutting tobacco-drying wires in his studio in the barn, 20 feet up on scaffolding. He came in to inspect the wall’s progress, covered in dirt-black spider webs so strong they were like fabric. Sheets of them hung from the rafters and in the windows. No wonder the attic and barn were festooned with bouquets of laurel leaves to repel spiders, otherwise our farm might have been like Sleeping Beauty’s castle, hidden in dark webs.
Dale, our contractor, is British, as is Joe. We were lucky to find them after getting several estimates (devis) from French artisans – they are emphatically not “workers.” Communicating about the devis was hard enough and we soon realized our limitations. The artisans' estimates ranged from astonishingly high to amazingly low, almost in proportion to their English. Dale offered a good price, one we could afford. We were on our way.
They work long, hard hours, Dale and Joe -- a traditional French work schedule: six days a week, 8:30 to 12, two and a half hours for lunch, and then 2:30 to 6 pm. At the nearby Relais de Compostelle, they get a hearty four-course meal with wine for only 11 euros, Dominque’s special price for local artisans. John and I start our day at 11, work through lunch, stopping for a bite mid-afternoon and work until sunset – which has been getting later every day. We have to watch ourselves now or we'd work past nine. Often, we are too exhausted to do anything but drive back to the Beaucour, drink wine and fall into bed.
The dreary bead board ceilings are down. Nasty work. We finished looking like coal miners. The debris that fell was astonishing -- hundreds of corn husks and mountains of seeds, walnut shells, dirt and sawdust. Mice at work, and, we’re told, a ferret-like animal that inhabits houses in rural France. I hope they're all gone. Among the things we found from their nests were shredded pieces of black, plaid and white cloth. John and I chuckle thinking about the person who lost his black shirt. "I know I left it on the chair last night… .”
The living room ceiling is also down, revealing three enormous suspended beam constructions that hang from the roof beam. They are stunning! It, too, was brutal work. This time, old fiberglass insulation – 19 gigantic bags worth. Dale and Joe did it; they are heroes. They don’t shirk at anything.
I built a fire in the field to burn the beadboard. France is just beginning to have problems with wood-eating bugs because all the houses are stone. You’re not supposed to take wood away from your property because you might spread your bugs. It had been raining for days and we felt it was safe. I fed the fire for hours and as I did one of Marie-Christine and Jean-Pierre's many pregnant cows bellowed, low and loud. It seemed that every time I heaved more wood, she answered my labor with hers. The fire burned so hot I thought it would fall through the earth. It consumed everything efficiently, without much smoke. I'll move the ashes to our compost heap. I didn't ask about the calf because after one was born in our barn not long ago, we went to visit it. It was chained to the barn wall with other newborns, separated from their mothers, wobbly-legged, confused. It broke my heart. No picturesque scenes of calves and their mothers in green grass on this farm. It would be slaughtered soon, pour le veau.
For weeks we worked to ready the house for its rebuilding, the plumbing, electricity, plastering. The renovation in the 1960s was done with the sole objective of warmth – lowered ceilings, small tight rooms. Walls were covered with non-porous “insulating” material (styrofoam or fiberboard). When I took it off, the plaster underneath was slick with moisture. Several artisans told me to leave it. An architect-builder told me to remove it; a stone wall has to breathe. The plaster there is still damp, weeks later.
I encountered a serious problem with some of the beams. When I was removing hanging nails, I found a beam eaten through, a shell filled with sawdust. Then two or three more. We feared termites, but the house had passed inspection. Dale noticed a bee buzzing around one of the ruined beams. Sure enough, the bee slipped into a hole with a load of nectar, exited and came back with more. Then we noticed other bees. They are a species of solitary bees that bore into wood and lay one egg. Over the years, hundreds of bees and their holes destroyed enough of our beams that we have to sheetrock the kitchen and bedroom ceilings. Disappointing, but the clean white surface will show off the dramatic exposed beams in the living room.
The demolition work is finished. Jacques came to see us on Sunday. He said we had transformed our dark sectioned house into a large luminous space. I think we have, too.
John was cutting tobacco-drying wires in his studio in the barn, 20 feet up on scaffolding. He came in to inspect the wall’s progress, covered in dirt-black spider webs so strong they were like fabric. Sheets of them hung from the rafters and in the windows. No wonder the attic and barn were festooned with bouquets of laurel leaves to repel spiders, otherwise our farm might have been like Sleeping Beauty’s castle, hidden in dark webs.
Dale, our contractor, is British, as is Joe. We were lucky to find them after getting several estimates (devis) from French artisans – they are emphatically not “workers.” Communicating about the devis was hard enough and we soon realized our limitations. The artisans' estimates ranged from astonishingly high to amazingly low, almost in proportion to their English. Dale offered a good price, one we could afford. We were on our way.
They work long, hard hours, Dale and Joe -- a traditional French work schedule: six days a week, 8:30 to 12, two and a half hours for lunch, and then 2:30 to 6 pm. At the nearby Relais de Compostelle, they get a hearty four-course meal with wine for only 11 euros, Dominque’s special price for local artisans. John and I start our day at 11, work through lunch, stopping for a bite mid-afternoon and work until sunset – which has been getting later every day. We have to watch ourselves now or we'd work past nine. Often, we are too exhausted to do anything but drive back to the Beaucour, drink wine and fall into bed.
The dreary bead board ceilings are down. Nasty work. We finished looking like coal miners. The debris that fell was astonishing -- hundreds of corn husks and mountains of seeds, walnut shells, dirt and sawdust. Mice at work, and, we’re told, a ferret-like animal that inhabits houses in rural France. I hope they're all gone. Among the things we found from their nests were shredded pieces of black, plaid and white cloth. John and I chuckle thinking about the person who lost his black shirt. "I know I left it on the chair last night… .”
The living room ceiling is also down, revealing three enormous suspended beam constructions that hang from the roof beam. They are stunning! It, too, was brutal work. This time, old fiberglass insulation – 19 gigantic bags worth. Dale and Joe did it; they are heroes. They don’t shirk at anything.
I built a fire in the field to burn the beadboard. France is just beginning to have problems with wood-eating bugs because all the houses are stone. You’re not supposed to take wood away from your property because you might spread your bugs. It had been raining for days and we felt it was safe. I fed the fire for hours and as I did one of Marie-Christine and Jean-Pierre's many pregnant cows bellowed, low and loud. It seemed that every time I heaved more wood, she answered my labor with hers. The fire burned so hot I thought it would fall through the earth. It consumed everything efficiently, without much smoke. I'll move the ashes to our compost heap. I didn't ask about the calf because after one was born in our barn not long ago, we went to visit it. It was chained to the barn wall with other newborns, separated from their mothers, wobbly-legged, confused. It broke my heart. No picturesque scenes of calves and their mothers in green grass on this farm. It would be slaughtered soon, pour le veau.
For weeks we worked to ready the house for its rebuilding, the plumbing, electricity, plastering. The renovation in the 1960s was done with the sole objective of warmth – lowered ceilings, small tight rooms. Walls were covered with non-porous “insulating” material (styrofoam or fiberboard). When I took it off, the plaster underneath was slick with moisture. Several artisans told me to leave it. An architect-builder told me to remove it; a stone wall has to breathe. The plaster there is still damp, weeks later.
I encountered a serious problem with some of the beams. When I was removing hanging nails, I found a beam eaten through, a shell filled with sawdust. Then two or three more. We feared termites, but the house had passed inspection. Dale noticed a bee buzzing around one of the ruined beams. Sure enough, the bee slipped into a hole with a load of nectar, exited and came back with more. Then we noticed other bees. They are a species of solitary bees that bore into wood and lay one egg. Over the years, hundreds of bees and their holes destroyed enough of our beams that we have to sheetrock the kitchen and bedroom ceilings. Disappointing, but the clean white surface will show off the dramatic exposed beams in the living room.
The demolition work is finished. Jacques came to see us on Sunday. He said we had transformed our dark sectioned house into a large luminous space. I think we have, too.
Monday, May 4, 2009
A Courbet fox
John and I are amazed at how much wildlife we see in France, more than anywhere in the US. It’s hard to imagine where the animals live, the entire countryside is cultivated and most of the woods are planted – sycamores in straight, evenly spaced rows, no undergrowth. It seems that people and animals have co-existed for centuries.
Sighting a hawk was always a special experience at home. Here they are commonplace, sentries on trees and telephone wires. I’ve become very fond of one that stays near a large herd of light brown Limousin cows. I think he watches me and flies off, in beautiful, effortless flight. Once we saw a large hawk beating his wings in place like he was treading air and then made a steep dive for his prey. They are magnificent birds.
We always see deer, small, delicate, some no bigger than a dog. Driving at night can be hazardous. If we are visiting friends, the warning before we leave is “watch out for the deer.” There are large deer in France, too; hunting them is a popular pastime. But only once have we seen one, near our village. He was enormous, handsome. He stopped on a bank and turned to look at us, fearless.
And, oh, the owls. Standing outside at night you can hear and feel the powerful movement of their wings, sometimes uncomfortably close. The last time we stayed at the Domaine de Beaucour, Claire took us up in the barn to see some baby owls -- soft white powder puffs with black, shining eyes. Driving home at a dusk, we saw an enormous light brown owl taking off over a field – wings the color of chopped walnuts. Beautiful!!
Most dramatic of all are the wild boars. They are legend in the Périgord. When you mention them, someone always has a story. Visiting a friend, he showed us what looked like a newly plowed field; but it wasn’t. The earth was turned by wild boars, using their upward bent tusks to find grubs. There was violence in the scene. I don’t think I would want to be near them, under any circumstances. Now we have own story: we were driving home after dinner at a restaurant near our house, rounded a curve and voila! Ten or 12 young boars trotted across the road in single file as nonchalantly as you please. Their coats were lightly spotted, giving them a vulnerable look, despite their spiked backs and vicious-looking tusks – almost cute. Then, after the last had passed and just as we were getting ready to move on, the mother crossed, more slowly, as big as a German Shepherd. Menacing! She, too, took no notice of us, as if we had the stop light. The French word for boar is sanglier (sang means blood). I was so excited I called my slightly demented 92-year-old mother, the naturalist, to tell her. She listened to my story and said, "I hope you were able to get them all safely in your car."
En fin, the renard. He crossed the D2, the road to Cadouin, rust-red, full coat and bushy tail. Bounding across a field, he stopped at the edge of a wood and turned, standing absolutely still for the longest time, watching us with bright black intelligent eyes. He was Courbet’s fox, from a late painting of a fox in the snow. Entitled, the world was his and only his. The most French animal of them all.
Sighting a hawk was always a special experience at home. Here they are commonplace, sentries on trees and telephone wires. I’ve become very fond of one that stays near a large herd of light brown Limousin cows. I think he watches me and flies off, in beautiful, effortless flight. Once we saw a large hawk beating his wings in place like he was treading air and then made a steep dive for his prey. They are magnificent birds.
We always see deer, small, delicate, some no bigger than a dog. Driving at night can be hazardous. If we are visiting friends, the warning before we leave is “watch out for the deer.” There are large deer in France, too; hunting them is a popular pastime. But only once have we seen one, near our village. He was enormous, handsome. He stopped on a bank and turned to look at us, fearless.
And, oh, the owls. Standing outside at night you can hear and feel the powerful movement of their wings, sometimes uncomfortably close. The last time we stayed at the Domaine de Beaucour, Claire took us up in the barn to see some baby owls -- soft white powder puffs with black, shining eyes. Driving home at a dusk, we saw an enormous light brown owl taking off over a field – wings the color of chopped walnuts. Beautiful!!
Most dramatic of all are the wild boars. They are legend in the Périgord. When you mention them, someone always has a story. Visiting a friend, he showed us what looked like a newly plowed field; but it wasn’t. The earth was turned by wild boars, using their upward bent tusks to find grubs. There was violence in the scene. I don’t think I would want to be near them, under any circumstances. Now we have own story: we were driving home after dinner at a restaurant near our house, rounded a curve and voila! Ten or 12 young boars trotted across the road in single file as nonchalantly as you please. Their coats were lightly spotted, giving them a vulnerable look, despite their spiked backs and vicious-looking tusks – almost cute. Then, after the last had passed and just as we were getting ready to move on, the mother crossed, more slowly, as big as a German Shepherd. Menacing! She, too, took no notice of us, as if we had the stop light. The French word for boar is sanglier (sang means blood). I was so excited I called my slightly demented 92-year-old mother, the naturalist, to tell her. She listened to my story and said, "I hope you were able to get them all safely in your car."
En fin, the renard. He crossed the D2, the road to Cadouin, rust-red, full coat and bushy tail. Bounding across a field, he stopped at the edge of a wood and turned, standing absolutely still for the longest time, watching us with bright black intelligent eyes. He was Courbet’s fox, from a late painting of a fox in the snow. Entitled, the world was his and only his. The most French animal of them all.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The neighborhood
The man that sold us our house warned us not to trust the neighbor. The neighbor said don't trust the farmer. The farmer kept his own counsel. We set out to find out by ourselves.
There are five families in the neighborhood. We met Bertrand and Mathilda first, just after we bought Le Pouget and we liked them at once. They live across the road in a renovated stone barn. Bertrand is a former mason, a gregarious and charming man who reads Socrates, Joyce and the Huffington Post. His family is Italian, as is Mathilda’s, and they met in St Tropez. I can imagine them together then – brown-eyed beauty Mathilda and older, handsome and sophisticated Bertrand. They have two beautiful sons, one at a university in England; the other at a lycée in Bordeaux. The oldest, Gregoire, helped us in the house on his spring break. As we shoveled plaster and bricks, we talked about Descartes, Spinoza and Kant – both of us philosophy majors, although my study was decades ago. I listened and remembered and was happy that his favorite was the Dutch lens-grinder.
Down the drive are Marie-Christine and Jean-Pierre who are dairy farmers and own most of the land around us. They are friendly and respectful. First they waved from their tractor, then they stopped the tractor, dismounted and made polite introductions. Now they wave and beep each time they pass.
After Patrick left, we continued to demolish the inside of the house, and knocked down five more walls, opening it up to light and air. The piles of debris mounted. Jean-Pierre said he’d take the rubble to fill some holes on his farm, and delighted, we asked him to come back at the end of the week. Getting rid of the enormous piles had seemed a daunting task. Friday came and we’d only made a small dent carting the bricks and mortar outside. Jean-Pierre, a taciturn, shy man who speaks in a sing-song dialect we can hardly understand, realized our plight and worked with us all afternoon. Plaster, brick and wallpaper flying, he hauled off load after load in his tractor front-end loader. When we finished we opened a bottle of wine and toasted and smiled at each other as the sun was setting through our lovely new bank of west-facing windows.
The patois would later get me into trouble with Marie-Christine and Jean-Pierre’s son when I tried to communicate with him about their cows grazing near our barn. I misunderstood him, he misunderstood me. We don’t have a problem with his cows, he thought we did. Luckily, Marie-Christine is direct and stopped by to sort it out. As she said, it would not be good for either of us if we didn't like her cows. Next time I’ll say, “J'aime les vaches.”
The house next to Bertrand and Mathilda has two delightful children and a chain-smoking governess. They have parents I have yet to see or meet. The remaining neighbors are an elderly couple and some Parisians who spend part of the year here.
Down the road, which used to be the ancient pilgrim’s route to Compostelle, and less than a kilometer away, is St Avit-Sénieur, a tiny medieval village dominated by a huge 11th century abbey with an adjoining cloister. It was fortified in the 12th century by two enormous defensive towers in a time when no villages were safe from roving bands of mercenary soldiers. The sanctuary was large enough to protect all of the town's residents during an attack and the door strong enough to withstand an army. Now, a well-used pétanque court lies at the entrance to the cloister ruins -- promises of afternoons to come. On the ridge to the west is the fine military gothic church at Beaumont with four belfry towers: it is rumored that they were used to pour boiling oil on attackers. It is larger than St. Avit's abbey and even had an interior well to sustain its citizens during enemy sieges. Twenty kilometers to the north is another fortress church in Trémolat. In medieval times, the church was the second line of defense, after the town walls. To have so many in such close proximity testifies to the violence of the Périgord’s history.
A few years ago I researched my ancestry on my father's side and found that I was related to Eleanor of Aquitaine by three separate lines. I was delighted that Eleanor had probably passed by our farm when she visited the local churches and their important relics (Cadouin's abbey was believed to have had part of the shroud, proved to be a fake in 1935).
It was also a pleasant coincidence that John and I had visited St Avit several years before and stopped at the Relais de Compostelle for a glass of wine and spent a delightful hour talking with the proprietor, sitting on the terrace while the sun set over the valley. We went back to find her and she was still there and remembered us. She is Luce, a lovely, warm woman and the mother of the restaurant’s owner, Dominique. We became instant friends. She only comes on weekends to help her daughter and I don’t see her much, but it’s nice to know I have a friend nearby.
There are five families in the neighborhood. We met Bertrand and Mathilda first, just after we bought Le Pouget and we liked them at once. They live across the road in a renovated stone barn. Bertrand is a former mason, a gregarious and charming man who reads Socrates, Joyce and the Huffington Post. His family is Italian, as is Mathilda’s, and they met in St Tropez. I can imagine them together then – brown-eyed beauty Mathilda and older, handsome and sophisticated Bertrand. They have two beautiful sons, one at a university in England; the other at a lycée in Bordeaux. The oldest, Gregoire, helped us in the house on his spring break. As we shoveled plaster and bricks, we talked about Descartes, Spinoza and Kant – both of us philosophy majors, although my study was decades ago. I listened and remembered and was happy that his favorite was the Dutch lens-grinder.
Down the drive are Marie-Christine and Jean-Pierre who are dairy farmers and own most of the land around us. They are friendly and respectful. First they waved from their tractor, then they stopped the tractor, dismounted and made polite introductions. Now they wave and beep each time they pass.
After Patrick left, we continued to demolish the inside of the house, and knocked down five more walls, opening it up to light and air. The piles of debris mounted. Jean-Pierre said he’d take the rubble to fill some holes on his farm, and delighted, we asked him to come back at the end of the week. Getting rid of the enormous piles had seemed a daunting task. Friday came and we’d only made a small dent carting the bricks and mortar outside. Jean-Pierre, a taciturn, shy man who speaks in a sing-song dialect we can hardly understand, realized our plight and worked with us all afternoon. Plaster, brick and wallpaper flying, he hauled off load after load in his tractor front-end loader. When we finished we opened a bottle of wine and toasted and smiled at each other as the sun was setting through our lovely new bank of west-facing windows.
The patois would later get me into trouble with Marie-Christine and Jean-Pierre’s son when I tried to communicate with him about their cows grazing near our barn. I misunderstood him, he misunderstood me. We don’t have a problem with his cows, he thought we did. Luckily, Marie-Christine is direct and stopped by to sort it out. As she said, it would not be good for either of us if we didn't like her cows. Next time I’ll say, “J'aime les vaches.”
The house next to Bertrand and Mathilda has two delightful children and a chain-smoking governess. They have parents I have yet to see or meet. The remaining neighbors are an elderly couple and some Parisians who spend part of the year here.
Down the road, which used to be the ancient pilgrim’s route to Compostelle, and less than a kilometer away, is St Avit-Sénieur, a tiny medieval village dominated by a huge 11th century abbey with an adjoining cloister. It was fortified in the 12th century by two enormous defensive towers in a time when no villages were safe from roving bands of mercenary soldiers. The sanctuary was large enough to protect all of the town's residents during an attack and the door strong enough to withstand an army. Now, a well-used pétanque court lies at the entrance to the cloister ruins -- promises of afternoons to come. On the ridge to the west is the fine military gothic church at Beaumont with four belfry towers: it is rumored that they were used to pour boiling oil on attackers. It is larger than St. Avit's abbey and even had an interior well to sustain its citizens during enemy sieges. Twenty kilometers to the north is another fortress church in Trémolat. In medieval times, the church was the second line of defense, after the town walls. To have so many in such close proximity testifies to the violence of the Périgord’s history.
A few years ago I researched my ancestry on my father's side and found that I was related to Eleanor of Aquitaine by three separate lines. I was delighted that Eleanor had probably passed by our farm when she visited the local churches and their important relics (Cadouin's abbey was believed to have had part of the shroud, proved to be a fake in 1935).
It was also a pleasant coincidence that John and I had visited St Avit several years before and stopped at the Relais de Compostelle for a glass of wine and spent a delightful hour talking with the proprietor, sitting on the terrace while the sun set over the valley. We went back to find her and she was still there and remembered us. She is Luce, a lovely, warm woman and the mother of the restaurant’s owner, Dominique. We became instant friends. She only comes on weekends to help her daughter and I don’t see her much, but it’s nice to know I have a friend nearby.
Then came Patrick
We continued on the house and worked long, hard days, often leaving after sunset, too tired to do anything but find an open restaurant, dinner and a bottle of wine. Friends visited to check our progress and stayed to help, pitching in with the day’s project, however dirty or difficult.
One Sunday in early April, Jacques and Patrick and Ulla arrived in Jacques’ big blue van with their boys, Titouan and Elias. It was their first visit to Le Pouget and a proprietary one as they had introduced us to the Périgord. Ever since the New Year’s weekend three and a half years ago, they had encouraged our enthusiasm – and now they were here to see what they had started. It was cold and drizzling that morning, but soon after they arrived, the sun came out and our property was at its springtime best. The boys headed out to explore the barns and pigsties while we showed the adults our workmanship and talked about plans: a focus on the dramatic walk-in fireplace for the kitchen and living space, but it didn’t inspire us. Patrick, the architect, walked the house; we had it wrong, he said. The old kitchen was north facing and dark; good for winter nights. The other wing was where the light was; the two small bedrooms, a bath and the parlor would have to go. By knocking down four walks and removing the ceilings, we would have an expanse of southwest-facing windows with a beautiful view of gently rolling fields, a woods and the ridge that rose above the Couze River on the horizon. Opposite, a window and door faced east onto our courtyard for morning sun. His solution was brilliant. The house had been renovated in the 60s, horribly: low dark bead-board ceilings, fancy wallpaper, and fussy light fixtures. I knew it sighed with relief. A grateful paradigm shift.
We started that afternoon: two walls went down: dust, plaster and bricks. The walls were constructed with hollow bricks, not wood and lathe, so knocking them down was very dramatic – crashes, dust and rubble. Titouan and Elias loved it. They beat walls with their small hammers and pulverized plaster and bricks. The adults took their turns with the sledgehammer, wide swings and percussive responses. Eventually the old walls yielded to blows from young and old. All that was left was a big pile of rubble.
Dirty and dusty and happy, we climbed into Jacques’ van and took off for Cadouin and to the only restaurant open on Sunday evening. The boys finished their energy kicking stones in the covered market in front of the massive 12th century Cistercian abbey. A wonderful day with good friends and an exciting new direction for us.
For many years we had stayed with Patrick and Ulla in their Paris apartment with French doors running its length on the top floor of an 18th century hotel. From Patrick’s inspiration and 18th century Paris, we redefined our steep-roofed Périgordian farm house, resolving to an architecture more familiar to me and the 1940s Frank Lloyd Wright-like house in Philadelphia in which I grew up. I found a comfort zone and solutions began to come easily. John was generously supportive and teased about the house we bought with all systems functioning.
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