Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) Read Free Page A

lingered to take a closer look. Whilst strolling languidly over the tranquil, cobbled streets, we noticed a formidable, stone structure that bore the engraved symbol of a scallop shell on its ochre-coloured façade. Jean explained, that this was the ancient symbol carried by pilgrims on their way to Saint Jacques de Compostelle (Santiago de Compostela) in Spain.
    The imposing yet elegant dwelling overlooked an archetypal village square. The epitome of French village life was compactly gathered within the hovering façades of this ancient meeting place. The vertiginously steep, grey slate roofs, the golden granite homes with their brightly painted shutters and planted window boxes. The blankets of deep-green Virginia creeper and rambling cabbage roses, that clung and smothered the stone walls and façades. The 15th century, alfresco market hall, with its worn, slab floor, towering oak beams and official ‘lion’s cage’, where the centuries old weights and measures were kept. The architecturally distinct chapel of Notre-Dame-de-la-Paix with its twisted bell-tower, that rang out sweetly each daylight hour and residing quietly amidst all of these, a sign ‘ A VENDRE ’, For Sale.
    It was l’amour at first sight. The moment I laid eyes on its ancient cellar walls, I cried triumphantly, ‘This is the one,’ much to the bewilderment of the bald-headed estate agent, who had rushed to our assistance on hearing my foreign accent.
    â€˜But, Madame , you haven’t seen the house yet. This is only the garage,’ he declared amazed.
    My darling Jean smiled knowingly and nodded in accord.
    â€˜My wife has made up her mind Monsieur , so there’s no need to discuss things any further … well maybe just the price.’
    So there we stood, months later, before this solid, triple storey façade of 16th century, sculpted granite, official hand-written title and clamber of clunky, rusted keys in hand.
    We calculated four months of solid renovating, to bring this dormant, stone beast to life, give or take a siesta or three. There’s a unique timetable, that people work to in rural France and it defies all formal time and normal logic. There’s GMT time and there’s Corrèzien time, our future neighbours kindly warned us.
    We would need somewhere to live in the meantime and we were unsure how easy finding a short-term rental would be. To our greatest delight and relief, the gentile vendors of our new home were also the proud owners of an ancient apartment building almost adjacent to ours. They normally rented the rooms to holidaymakers but in our instance, were happy to adjust their normal arrangements. The small apartment was rustic in fashion and the winding, oak staircase to the third floor, where it sat, creaked and groaned underfoot. The rooms were furnished with family heirlooms and hand crocheted bedcovers and cushions adorned nearly every surface. I regularly had the impression of intruding on someone else’s life. There was an ancient presence in this place and I always felt like a house-guest to some unseen force. I never mentioned this to Jean and he never spoke to me of anything similar.
    The tall bedroom windows overlooked the narrow street, which led to our new home. This was immensely convenient when it came to keeping an eye on the cheeky yet charming tradesmen we had hired for our extensive renovations. The rural tradesmen were engaging and we found an easy entente. ‘ Gaulloise hanging from the lower lip’ type of men, who kindly but firmly explained to me in our early meetings, that the interior restorations I required were impractical and physically impossible.
    â€˜Never been done! Too difficult! Out of the question!’
    â€˜ C’est de la folie ! (It’s utter madness!),’ they cried red-faced.
    Ah, madness … my newfound friend and constant companion, made me even more determined. I insisted most doggedly, the true,