Last Tango in Toulouse (10 page)

Jan and I decide we need to investigate hotels, so that we can calculate just how many people we can accommodate. This is very much rural France and the hotels are quite limited in size and room numbers. I am expecting hotel owners to fall over themselves with delight when we tell them we are planning to bring a tour group to their establishments, but nothing is further from the truth. The first hotelier we meet, at Gourdon, looks askance at the suggestion.

‘But we have a very select clientele,' he informs Jan. ‘I am not sure that we would want a large group of Australians staying at our hotel.'

Even though Jan is acting as the translator, my French is good enough to understand exactly what he is saying, and his arrogant, curled-lip attitude causes me great amusement. I should have realised that the French are not always totally enthused about tourism, even though it is such a vital part of their economy. We decide to give this particular hotel a big miss.

Fortunately, not all the hoteliers are as snooty, and over a period of two weeks we piece together an itinerary that includes daily walks and picnic lunches, visits to farms and vineyards, chateaux and gardens, a boat trip down the River Lot and some of the best evening meals that food lovers could wish for. Jan and I also prepare by doing some of the proposed walks, using both French and English guidebooks that detail scenic tours in the region. This doesn't prove as easy as it looks, because the guidebooks give cryptic and often contradictory instructions. We enjoy a walk from Bouziers to the picturesque town of St Cirq Lapopie, an ancient village that hovers dramatically over the Lot River. The walk takes us along the river's edge, with overhanging cliffs and romantic scenery. On the way back we decide to walk a different route. The guidebook tells us to ‘turn left at the chicken house'. We can't find any sort of structure for housing fowls so we take a right-hand turn and proceed gaily along, not realising that we are walking many kilometres away from the river. After an hour or more it becomes obvious that we have gone completely wrong and we retrace our footsteps. It takes all afternoon to find our way back to Bouziers, where we left the car. We laugh uproariously at our
ineptitude, both hoping that when and if we do get a tour group together we will not get them so thoroughly lost and exhausted. We quickly realise that there's a lot of work involved in setting up a tour itinerary – it's not just a matter of taking some casual strolls or making a few phone calls.

There's quite a difference between living in the Lot full-time and being a part-time holiday resident. It's a bit like the difference between a full-time marriage and a holiday romance. Those who live here all year round have to deal with the day-to-day frustration of French bureaucracy, the ups and downs of the climate, the idiosyncrasies of the neighbours and the fact that during the winter months life here can be both bleak and boring. For those of us who drift in and out during the height of the season when the days are long and the twilights balmy, the reality of being a full-time French resident simply doesn't impinge.

There are certainly problems for people who are not here all year: things can go wrong when there is nobody around taking care of the premises. When Jock goes away, which he rarely does these days, he never even locks the front door because he doesn't own a key. Even if he did have a key he probably wouldn't bother, because he is the least security-minded individual on the planet. People whose houses are in more isolated situations do have
security problems when the houses are left empty for long periods. Another couple I know, who generally only visit their converted barn for one month a year, close it up securely with heavy timber shutters and hefty metal hinges. They have planted a tall hedge along the road front; this has the advantage of screening the traffic noise and visual pollution, but also blocks the view of the house from the neighbouring farms and thus makes it more vulnerable to robbery. Last summer a neighbouring farmer noticed a van parked outside the front door. Knowing that the house was not meant to be occupied for at least the next three months, he walked over to investigate. As he approached, two men leapt into the van and took off at high speed. The contents of the van – electronic bits and pieces and furniture from the house – were later found dumped in a field and restored to their rightful owners, who were lucky that their neighbours were so vigilant.

The little house in the woods, where I lived for four months in the year 2000, was also targeted because of its isolation and the fact that the owners only visit once or twice every year. Like a lot of holiday houses, there was nothing much of value inside, but the outside barn was raided and tools, both garden and workshop, were removed. In the end the owners strung chains to the chestnut trees to prevent cars or vans being driven on site, and paid a local man to make random visits to keep an eye on things.

During winter in this region temperatures sink well below zero, sometimes as low as minus fifteen degrees, and home owners experience terrible plumbing problems with frozen toilets and pipes that seize up, expand and burst, even inside the thick stone walls. Part-time residents must be careful to turn off
their water at the mains and drain hot water tanks and kitchen and bathroom taps to make sure there is no water left in the pipes that might create havoc while they are not in residence. During my first winter I dutifully turned off the water and drained the tank, but neglected to drain the tap to the bathroom sink, leaving a residue of water in the pipe. During January it froze and split the pipe under the sink. Because the water was off there was no damage and the problem was detected as soon as Ethan switched on the water when he and Lynne arrived. I have been told horror stories about burst pipes that have cascaded water inside bathrooms and down into cellars for weeks or even months before the owners returned for their holiday to find total devastation (not to mention a mind-boggling water bill).

Australia has various native animals, possums in particular, that drive home owners to distraction by taking up residence in the roof cavity and clumping around all night in mating, nesting and child-rearing rituals. In France the equivalent ceiling-dwelling beast is larger and more unpleasant. The pine marten (
Martes
spp.) is a mammal about the size of a domestic cat with dense, chocolate-brown or grey-brown fur that is highly prized for making fashionable coats, which is why their numbers have dwindled across the northern hemisphere over the centuries. Some species are commonly known as sable, and their fur is as valuable as mink. They are all members of the weasel family and are very shy, rarely moving into open spaces and most likely to be seen at night. Their natural habitat is woodland areas, although they are very attracted to quiet, deserted houses. If they can find a way into the dry, protected space between ceiling and roof, they will certainly set up a nest. Unlike possums, who are herbivorous, martens are mostly carnivores, eating small birds and
other mammals such as mice and rats as well as berries, birds' eggs, fungi, insects and carrion. They hunt over a wide territory but invariably return to the place of their birth with their prey. They have three or four offspring a year and can live for many years – more than a decade if there are no predators, such as foxes, to keep their numbers down.

In theory they are protected animals: in the UK they are classified as an endangered species and there are laws to protect them. In France they are also protected but there is a much more ruthless disregard for their well-being should they invade human territory. Our Frayssinet neighbours, Anne and Miles Rotherham, who spend most of the year in London, returned one summer to the sound and distinctive smell of a family of martens living in the roof. The ceilings were stained from their urine and faeces and there was an overpowering smell of rotting eggs because the martens had been raiding the local birds' nests and chicken runs and returning to their roof nest with vast collections of eggs to store for later consumption. They have vicious teeth, making them virtually impossible to catch. Philippe, the gardener, was badly mauled trying to grab one and has nurtured an abiding loathing for them ever since.

How to dispose of unwanted martens is a topic of lively conversation in the local bar, with various grisly solutions being proposed by shopkeepers and members of the chasse, the hunters who bound through the woods from autumn to spring taking potshots at boar, deer and hare (and each other) on a regular basis. In French martens are called fouine and there is even a verb, fouiner, which roughly translates as ‘to pry inquisitively' or ‘nose about'. It captures the sly, nosy character of these creatures, and every local has an anecdote or theory on how they can best be
discouraged – although it never seems to involve catching them and relocating them to a more sympathetic environment. The most popular eradication process involves lacing eggs with strychnine and leaving them in places where the martens will discover and devour them. The trick is to prevent them taking the lethal eggs back into the roof, for after eating these eggs the martens will promptly die and decompose, causing even more intense odours and ceiling staining. Miles relies on the local head of the chasse, who is reputed to have great success in this area. He injects the eggs with poison and hides them around the garden, then waits for the martens to emerge. Once they are out, their lofty entrance is blocked securely and then it's just a matter of waiting for the strychnine to take effect. The corpses are found in the garden several days later and, for reasons unknown to me, buried deep in Anne's impressive compost and manure heap. I know this for a fact because some months later I am helping Anne plant seedlings around their rambling garden and I decide to grab a barrowload of compost to spread as a mulch. Thrusting my hand deeply into the sweetly fragrant pile of rich organic matter I suddenly encounter a very different texture – something warm and slimy envelops my hand to the wrist. As I quickly pull back a smell overpowers me. Anne is most apologetic.

‘I think Philippe and Miles buried the dead fouines in the compost,' she explains.

I'm sure they smell frightful when nesting in the roof, piddling and copulating all over the ceiling. But they smell even worse when festering in the compost. I'm glad to say these are the only martens I have so far encountered in France.

The more time I spend in France, the more opportunity I have to establish relaxed relationships with those locals I see on a daily basis. It's difficult when language sets up such an impenetrable barrier, but my vocabulary has improved to the extent that I can participate in simple conversations, peppered with a lot of hand actions and general meaningless laughter. There are two bars now operating in the village. I usually frequent the one closest to the house – Le Relais, which loosely translates as ‘staging post'. It is similar to the old inns scattered around the Australian countryside where travellers stopped and rested on their long, dusty journeys.

The owners of the bar are Christian and Christiane, and they set the tone for the establishment both in their appearance and demeanour. Christian is in his fifties, and has a face that is no doubt a testament to a lifetime of heavy smoking and fairly devoted wine consumption. He can, at first meeting, appear rather gruff, but once he has decided you are okay, he breaks into a ready smile and enjoys a little frivolous banter. I discover after all this time that he can speak quite a bit of English, a fact he has kept well hidden from me – and, I guess, from most of his other English-speaking customers. The bar opens early, about nine o'clock, and locals pop in for a steaming coffee, usually bringing a croissant or pain au chocolat from the nearby patisserie. By ten o'clock some of the harder cases are starting to scuttle into the bar, drinking pastis or red wine well before the church bell is rung at midday, the usual signal that it's okay to have an aperitif prior to a hearty lunch. If I have been working hard in the morning, writing or painting or chipping crepi off the exterior walls, I answer the call of the bell and wander down for a pre-lunch drink or two. If it's hot, I order a pression, the
local draught beer, which is excellent. On colder days I join the craggy-faced locals in a pastis. The bar is very dark and could be described as depressing if you were not genuinely captivated by its dingy, smoky atmosphere. Once inside, my eyes adjust and I see Christian, cigarette in hand, behind the bar. He starts his customary running joke.