A Look Back
I was backing up some old files when I came across a letter
I had written when visiting France in August 1998. Then, like now, it was hot,
hot, hot and we were in the country trying to stay cool, despite the fact that
we had left a very cool Ellensburg WA for this vacation. For reference purposes 35C is 95F which doesn’t
seem that hot but without any AC it was really uncomfortable for most. The French Franc at the time was trading at 6
to the dollar making the Nurses Home sale price USD 100,000. We would have been miserable had we purchased
it, but it was a dream to own a home in France. Now we just rent long
term. Enjoy August in Rueres or where
ever you happen to be. Cindy and Wm
18 August 1998 Rueres, France
It is blackberry time here in rural France. The roadsides
are filled with
long hedges of them, planted long ago by farmers to contain
their
livestock, and now the source of much enjoyment by campers,
hikers,
villagers and touring interlopers such as we. We arrived in
France just
days before the heat wave hit, and hot it was. Day after day
of 35+ c
weather with no wind. The sidewalk cafes were deserted in
favor of the
few spots with air conditioning and the shade of limited
cool of the
interior of bars and brasseries. While the heat served to
whither the
spirits of tourists, it did much for enhancing the sweetness
of the fruits
of France. Thus along with the luscious blackberries, the
peaches, plums
and melons have been filled with the warmth, flavor and
juice of perfect
ripeness. Of course, the most important fruit in this area
is the grape,
and vignerons have been enjoying what will most likely be a
fantastic
vintage with lower production, which will mean higher prices
and more
income.
We have spend most of our time here in the house that we
have been
coming to for nine years, trying to establish a routine. It
is very difficult
to do! The house required three and a half days of deep,
deep cleaning
followed by daily 45-minute spot cleaning. A big house like
this, five
bedrooms, does not take to being idle lightly. The house was
meant to
be filled with people who kick up the dust before it can
cling to cobwebs.
Without the presence of anyone, the house becomes a magnet
for all
types of local insects, but mostly spiders who have been
having a field
day establishing their rightful spot in this house. Normally
we come here
in the winter, or late fall when all of the tourist have
departed the Morvan
Forest for the big cities. Now, everything is different! The
small village of
Quarré le Tombes is filled with people to the extent that
you can’t even
park. Unheard of in the winter. These are primarily French
folks who are
here to enjoy the deep cool of the forest, the lakes and the
hills that
provide exceptional hiking and biking. They come to Quarré
to shop, get
fresh bread from the now exhausted ladies in the town’s only
bakery.
They take coffee or pastis or kirs at one of the two, now
three, bars and
generally just, from my perspective, clog up the works. The
pace seems
faster and not at all the soft, gentle conversations that
one hears in the
winter. Now everyone is animated and trying to get as much
vacation in
as their three weeks will allow.
The quiet has been shattered here at the house as well. The “Nurse’s
House” has been sold to someone from the Netherlands for
FF600,000
and it appears that they are putting at least the same
amount into
remodeling. Lord knows it needed someone to look after it and
now it is
sporting one quarter of a new roof, a lovely new façade and
interior work
that we can only guess at. All of this comes at a price for
us,
construction noise. Drills, hammers, cement mixers, power
saws and
trucks and cars add to the cacophony of unwelcomed sounds
from 8 to
6. This coupled with the semi-daily visits of Joseph with
his worker, who
arrive at 8 am and discuss the days events under our bedroom
window
and then proceed to be a presence at our breakfast and
toilet makes for a
less than amusing intrusion into our lives. Cindy handles
this far better
than I, but then again she doesn’t hate people.
Yesterday she was working on a chapter of her book here in
the great
room while I was in the deep shade of the lawn reading a
book, when
suddenly I heard lots of talking and there in the doorway
were two ladies,
one of whom was gabbing away at Cindy while their little
white poddle
shook nervously half in, half out of the room. I intruded to
try to lighten
the load only to find out that Cindy didn’t know who they
were and they
just presented themselves in the doorway. The leader of the
two had
walked in and greeted Cindy with kisses on both cheeks as
though they
were long-lost friends.
The fact that she was brandishing a pair of garden clippers
did not escape
our notice. The other woman remained silent the entire time
we were
together; the one with clippers had plenty to say. She was
dressed like a
harlequin with a big brimmed white hat, a green summer dress
that was a
bit snug, and colorful jewelry that almost matched the
luminescent
mascara that was a combination of lime and turquoise. As I
approached
my nostrils were assaulted by the combination of cheap wine
and cheaper
perfume. She was a dandy, filled with the French joie de
vivre, in addition
to whatever she had consumed at lunch. We finally got
through all the
niceties and I thanked them for the visit and tried to
escort them to the
gate so that Cindy could get back to work. Well I was
kidnapped by White
Hat and she literally grabbed me around the waist and
insisted that I come
to meet her two pigs.
It turns out that White Hat is the cleaning lady for the
chateau behind our
house. After seeing her two huge and ultra stinking hogs,
she invited me
to come see the chateau. By now Cindy had joined us,
justifiably fearing
that I was in over my limited French head. White Hat showed
us the
tower rooms that used to act as a rampart and then into the
courtyard
where she began to dig out a monstrously large ring of keys.
At the front
door she tried for several minutes to negotiate the art of
entry. Three
locks, eight keys and comedy by the minute. I watched her
several times
relock a lock that she had just opened because she forgot
where she was
in the process. All of her attempts were punctuated by the
most
amusing Gallic gestures and invectives, some of which I even
understood.
Finally, admitting that she could not do it, she called upon
the silent sister
who attempted once, and gave up.
Then came the calls to the others, relationships
undetermined, but
certainly related, who came up from the caretakers’
quarters. Two came
just to watch, apparently -- they left as soon as we finally
gained entry.
As for quasi-locksmiths, the first was a man of about 40
with cigarette
firmly between teeth, flipflops that had seen better days,
soiled shorts
and a tee shirt that did little to hide the trophy of many
good meals
washed down with copious quantities of wine. He lumbered
into the
courtyard and after the mandatory handshakes and
introductions he took
the keys with great fanfare and proceeded to have no more
luck with the
door than did White Hat, dispite her constant dictation.
His manhood sullied, he left. White Hat called for yet
another person, who
looked like he could have been an extra in the movie Manon
of the Spring.
He too had a handrolled cigarette between lips since without
teeth he had
no options. He was dressed in what could best be described
as filth.
Remnants of a shirt almost all of which was tucked into
pants that were
of different hem lengths, a back brace protruding from the
back edge of
his pants looked to be the same color as his skin. His was
the odor of
someone who had never been introducted to soap or water, and
yet he
toiled and from the sweat marks on all parts of his
clothing, toiled hard.
He must have been related to the alcoholic side of White Hat’s
family
since he too reeked, although when the wind blew just right
I was thankful
for the smell of booze over b-o. He, however, turned out to
be the
brightest of the litter, taking only about four minutes to
turn three locks!
Finally our long wait in the hot sun of the chateau’s
courtyard was over
and we were ceremoniously ushered inside.
Everyone in the
lock brigade
disappeared except White Hat and the silent sister. And oh
my, what a
surprise the interior of the grand chateau was. We expected
nothing but
the finest - it is a grand large building with three stories
and is situated on
lovely well-tended grounds with magnificent views in all
directions.
As it turned out, the chateau is indeed furnished with
nothing but the
finest -- from the 1800s! Pieces made of wood are of course
quite
valuable antiques, but elderly upholstered items are not
exactly appealing.
Every room was gloomy and not just because the shutters were
closed
against the sun.
The kitchen had been updated circa 1955 and even though the
old
fireplace and the covered well were charming (had they been
part of a
museum), as part of a place to live they seemed strange
indeed. White
Hat never ceased in her descriptions of what we were
viewing, and
welcomed any questions we had with long paragraphs of
rapid-fire French.
When asked about the well, her story seemed to contain
elements of
someone falling in and drowning, but we’ll never know for
sure.
No one lives in the chateau, but the owner and various
members of his
family visit from time to time; in fact, his son had been
there the previous
day. How anyone could live even temporarily in all that
gloom and
antiquity is hard to fathom. White Hat led us from room to
room, many
with beds in them, some arranged as sitting rooms. We went
up to the
second floor to see many more bedrooms and several
bathrooms, all with
big old-fashioned sinks, some with tubs, some with just
toilets, others
with various combinations of the above. At least they had
some degree
of modern plumbing!
A little aside: Marèchal Vauban is a very famous French
architect who
lived in the 1600s and designed many buildings and
fortresses. His
birthplace is a town a few miles from the chateau called St.
Lèger Vauban
(to differentiate it from other St. Lègers, of which there
are a few).
There is a museum there and signs everywhere indicating that
this town is
his birthplace. Well, wouldn’t you know, White Hat had
another story.
She showed us the bedroom - nay, the very bed - where Vauban
was
born. Seems his mother was an employee of the chateau owners
of that
time, and the little tyke was born while she was on duty.
One can only
hope that no one tells White Hat that the chateau was built
in 1711 and
Vauban was born in 1633!
We continued through the chateau, climbing ever higher to
the attic. One
of the stairways is a very narrow circular staircase that is
beautiful
(despite its need for repair). Part of the third floor is a
true attic, not
finished, and lots of light was coming in through the roof
tiles. Repair has
not been high on the owner’s to-do list.
We finally went back downstairs and outside, White Hat, the
silent sister,
the little poodle, and the two of us. A quick tour of the
back garden and
the clippers were finally put to use - she clipped some
hydrangeas for
herself. We said au revoir and at last
we were free.
