Worth the Wait...

Roger Moss observes that while summer things are racing ahead, others just won't be hurried.

It's quite a sight. Even on relaxed evening cycle rides it's not often that we're stopped in our tracks by the stirring sight of a young hind being pursued, flat-out by a determined stag. We gaze in awe as the tawny, motion-blurred outlines streak across a substantial tract of open countryside before finally disappearing into the cover of the adjoining woodland. With summer days also at full-stretch, life in the French countryside has a way of re-enacting age-old rituals, instinctively and unselfconsciously. And for those attuned to such things, there is reassurance in such continuity.

Not that there isn't a need for change now and then. And right here it's right now. We've grown accustomed to the slightly schizoid nature our of daily lives, which finds us pretty much living outdoors whenever we're not actually working or sleeping. Relaxed evening conversations with friends often continue beneath a canopy of stars, and with only the distant, wind-chime impressions of the local frogs to disturb the perfect stillness. Recently, however, we've learned to synchronise our own working patterns with those of the cheerful teams of local workmen whose skills are rapidly (but not always silently) transforming the traditional farmhouses of not one set of neighbours but two. It's been an educational experience, edited highlights of which have included the cleaning and re-pointing of huge areas of traditional, coursed stonework and the careful dismantling of some ancient roofs to enable their tired timbers to be replaced. We walk among their impressive new replacements, hand-made (in a dusty workshop in the next-but-one village) in newly-seasoned French oak, tap their massive forms sagely and agree that once in place they'll probably be sound for another couple of centuries. When it comes to roofs one cannot be too careful.

And now it's all looking wonderful, peace has returned and the sheer scale of what has been achieved in such a comparatively short period of time is hard to take in. Much the same goes for the gardens, which have lifted-off in spectacular style, rewarding our earlier efforts with unimagined displays of colour and form. Our Pierre de Ronsard climbing rose (named after the romantic poet) is already growing impatient for its promised pergola, lavender hybrids are firing out great spears of purple, while the two young Italian cypresses are reaching skywards. And there's more. Having finally invested in a juice-extractor (une centrifugeuse) we're seeing less of our bountiful crops of native cherries (guignes) going to waste on the trees. Soon it'll be the turn of the vines, which look set to provide us with a fine crop of grapes for juicing.

Other things move more slowly, most notably the process of procuring a devis (written quotation) for works which are beyond the scope of our own abilities. It's a simple enough request, so what's the problem? Well, it doesn't take a genius to work out that the more old homes are bought for renovation, the more the masons, roofers and a host of other tradesmen are in demand. And if we're set on having tired windows replaced with exact (but sound) replicas of the present originals, then we'll just have to be patient until it's our turn for the services of our local joiner. True, we could pull perfectly practical alternatives off the shelf today (and fit them ourselves tomorrow) if we were to go to the factory joinery suppliers, but we learned long ago that the soul of an old house is in the original details. Change something and you lose something.

So, if things in the depths of rural France move slowly from time to time, it's likely to be for perfectly good reasons. And good things, as they say, are well worth waiting for.

© Words by Roger Moss, May 2003
This text first appeared in everything France magazine