Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) Read Free

Jean to give up everything in an attempt to save my health. What if that didn’t work?
    I had underestimated his unconditional love and devotion. When pushed to decide, he was as willing as I was to leave the pollutants of the city and his well-paying job to forge a new life elsewhere.
    Fate stepped in to lend a hand, yet again. On a short trip to Tahiti, Jean returned with a magazine he’d found in a Papeete newsstand. ‘ Maisons en France ’ its cover read and its pages were teaming with photos of quaint, ‘renovator’s delights’ and majestic Manoirs (manor houses). These ranged from fairytale, 16th century Chateaux and Relais de Chasse (hunting lodges) to astoundingly, charming farmhouses and village abodes. When we both grabbed for the calculator, we were gob smacked by the translated prices. How could these historical masterpieces of French heritage be so incredibly cheap? Sure, some of them were bound to require major restorative work but in comparison, Sydney’s current home prices seemed ridiculously inflated. We read on, finding bargain after astonishing bargain. This was seriously enticing information and after many months of soul searching and deliberating over endless maps and realty guides, we came to the mutual decision that somewhere in rural France would be our starting point. We would search for our new home in the French countryside; somewhere we could live a life of newfound health and pastoral tranquillity.
    Jean was rostered to leave for London a few days later and realized the opportunity of being so close to France, was too good to miss. On arrival into Heathrow, he jumped on the earliest Paris shuttle available, hired a car and shot down the Nationale 20 towards the Pyrénées . He had just two days to inspect as many of our ‘ticked’ adverts that he could manage. After twenty-four hours of constant driving and village hopping, he telephoned me to happily confirm that he was positively sure we would find something to suit us. As far as he was concerned, the sooner we could return to France together, the better.
    So, the honeymoon years done and dusted and five years into our marriage, decidedly through sickness and in health, here we were. On that sacred lovers’ turf. In the ancient heart of Cyrano de Bergerac, D’Artagnan, La Marquise de Pompadour and force-fed goose livers. The alluring, verdant hills of rural, south-western France.
    Jean and I purchased, somewhat spontaneously, an empty shell of resplendent, golden granite, in the heart of a fairytale village of medieval beauty, deep in the gentle southern hills. Treignac-sur-Vezère was my imagination brought to fruition. My quest for the idyllic life achieved. Mon paradis trouvé. My paradise found.
    We had embarked on our search for the perfect dwelling place, just twelve months earlier, in the foothills of the Pyrénées . We believed at the time, to have found our ideal abode. A twenty-eight room, 19th century Manor, some 10 kilometres from the fortress city of Carcassone , had floored us with its beauty and charm but we were toppled at the twelfth hour. A wealthy Dutch couple outbid us with their hefty Florins and our journey towards rural bliss recommenced. We were innately drawn to the quieter regions of southwestern France, those where the almighty Anglo invasion hadn’t yet raped, plundered or purchased every square inch of French soil and where blue-blooded Frenchmen continued to quietly preside. Where ‘ Parlez-vous Anglais ?’ was not the question asked at every corner store and café. Where the air was pure and clean and my fatigued and weary body would thrive and regain its youthful strength.
    Jean knew of Treignac from his childhood vacations. It fell directly en route to our next destination, Tulle , where we had arranged yet another rendezvous with a rural Estate Agent. We decided it would make a fine coffee-stop and once realising how beautiful it was, we