l'Art de Vivre...

All things considered, it's been quite a year. Relocation across borders is seldom without a degree of readjustment, and however much you think you know about your new surroundings, nothing compares with the sensation of finally being there and knowing it's for keeps. Our new home is, of course, far from new and despite valiant renovation and modernisation work having been done by the previous owners, there remains much to do. The fact that it had stood empty for two years before being put on the market didn't help, and the repercussions are still becoming apparent. Like the moment when Julia finally succeeded in persuading a particularly stubborn Velux roof window to open for the first time in many a moon. Sadly, her moment of triumph was destined to be short-lived. The reason for the window's previous reluctance to free itself became apparent as a substantial ant colony, eggs and all, was rudely evicted from the security of its squat in the framework above the weatherproof seals. The resulting cascade which showered down on the perpetrator produced a shriek of horror of which Stephen King would have been proud.

But here and there progress has been made, and the kindly autumn weather enabled our small team of builders to strip the roof off one of our largest outbuildings before gravity beat them to it. Re-timbered and re-tiled using the best of the salvaged Roman tiles, the roof can now be crossed off the mental list of anxiety-inducing jobs to be tackled sooner rather than later. Not that enforced delay is always a bad thing. Decisions made in haste, or driven by a natural desire to get things moving often produce very different results from what might have been the case with the benefit of hindsight. Take the exterior of the house itself. The initial plan was to hack the neglected stucco render from the main facade and then flush-point the underlying, intricately-coursed limestone with a lime mortar. It would certainly have been an improvement on how things look at present, but for various reasons the work was delayed.

Then a recent visit to Bruno and Alexandre Lafourcade, the acknowledged masters in matters of authentic restoration, inspired a total rethink. Instead of transforming the house into something it never was, we have now decided to look carefully at the structure and its contemporaries in the surrounding area, then literally restore it, as closely as possible to its former grandeur. Already a neighbour has promised to dig out some old photographs of the house he reckons he's seen in the family collection. If he's successful then we might finally discover how it looked before one or two less welcome modifications were carried out a generation or two ago. Meanwhile, we'll be scraping off layers of paint to see if we can reveal some of the original colour wash. Like all good mysteries, there is certain to be much which will never be explained, but the house-detective thing is both compulsive and ultimately rewarding.

Such thoughts of regional authenticity only serve to underline the fact that there is not one France, but many, each in its own way heartbreakingly seductive. And for me at least, it's a major part of what keeps drawing me from the cosy comfort of village life and off on another journey of discovery. Wherever the road leads. This year I've skied on fresh powder in the shadow of Mont Blanc, drunk in the heady scent of lavender fields in Provence, left the first footprints on a deserted beach on the Ile de Ré and witnessed the fiery splendours of autumn in the Cévennes. I've felt the echoes of the past on the battlefields of the Ardennes, and seen priceless 1920s Bugattis racing flat out through the streets of Angoulême. I've also spent many happy hours in the company of people whose daily lives are fired by their own passions - fine wines, traditional skills, beautiful homes and gardens, and much more. Including, of course, something which steadfastly defies translation: 'l'art de vivre'. Any one of these experiences would have been enough to launch a lasting love affair with France. But to be able to share them with others, so that they might themselves go in search of the magic is the greatest pleasure of all.

© Words by Roger Moss, 2001
This text first appeared in everything France magazine Issue 4