Life at La Maison de la Coquille was hectic at the best of times. Spring saw the hefty restorations finish and the pandemonium of interior decorating begin. We had created three en-suited bedrooms for rental and another bedroom with separate bathroom, for ourselves. In an attempt to be constantly more original than the next person, I created name plates for each room, using exotic destinations as my theme and decorating them accordingly. They were ‘Isle of Skye’, ‘Whitsunday’ and ‘Koh Samui’. Created as tiny ‘islands of peace’ floating merrily on our second floor, each one coloured with home invented, ochre-based paints and finished with my own hand sewn touches.
Situated on the first floor were two generously proportioned, split-level salons, both with monumental granite fire-places, one which bore an ancient coat of arms engraved upon its vast lintel, the other a giant slice of oak. A 15th century water chamber of solid granite sat suspended from the exterior walls of the salon and was considered quite a bonus. It placed our home in the upper echelon of village haut-monde, as interior water chambers were a true luxury in ancient times.
Further, a large dining room furnished with a three metre long Couturier’s table and an ornate 18th century mirror, which had at one time graced the halls of some Provincial Chateau. Finally, on this floor, sat our vast country kitchen, which we filled with treasures and bric-a-brac purchased on our country jaunts. Copper pots and pans hung from an antique wooden ladder accompanied by bouquets of fragrant lavender and roses. Every room was given the personal touch and the walls had taken on the soft golden hue of yester-year. Antique shop owners and Broccante stores (second-hand stores) became our new best friends, as we searched for original fittings for each newly created space.
As the European summer approached at Concorde speed, so did my increasing paranoia.
‘Would it all be good enough? Were the curtains the right colour? Could I clean things until my knuckles bled? How disturbed could I become? Would I physically survive the summer onslaught, or would I die or be institutionalized before the first twelve months were up?’
Of course, to add to the generalised mayhem, I did what every sane and self-preserving person does in these circumstances. I purchased a puppy. And not just any puppy. No, I was determined to have the most distinctive puppy dog in town, so I dragged my ‘whyis-this-happening-to-me?’ husband, to a breeder of rare chiens about 50 kilometres from Treignac in the rugged hills north of Ussel.
We returned with a sandy haired, pyjama wearing, Sharpei bundled upon my lap, whom we named ‘Guangzhou’ or ‘Guang’ for short. He was so timid and tiny and his grotesquely wrinkled skin often made it difficult to distinguish his top from his bottom. Laurent, our recently arrived, village Vet poked about for ages before finding the correct hole to place the thermometer. These Belgian vets have a lot to learn, I thought to myself, then realised it was his way of breaking the ice. ‘Guang’ was a baby orb of sagging, silky skin, whom at close inspection resembled a hundred year old man, rather than an eight-week-old pooch. He was my pile of crinkled joy, though the little parcels of caca (poo) he left about the place, were not exactly the type of gifts I longed for, at present.
My darling Jean set off to work each morning, breathing a hefty sigh of relief as he waved Mummy and pampered pooch Au revoir.
Well, this was my first attempt at running a business, so a little self-induced psychosis was an unquestionably normal condition in my opinion. Of course, I wanted everything to scream perfection. I am a self confessed perfectionist, have been most of my life. As a brave psychologist once informed me, ‘You are compelled to be everything to everyone, all the time’. How bad could that possibly be?
As a direct result of my delusional insecurities, I project myself as the ‘quintessential hostess’. Always the eager beaver; yearning to please. My success in my current role was solidly confirmed, as our widespread notability increased at ‘Mach 3’ speed. Travelling journalists visited frequently, leaving us with positively glowing reports of their short sojourns. In no time at all, we were to appear in the national media and on the glossy, travel pages of ‘Ailleurs’, ‘Avantage’ and the Air France in-flight magazine. Scores of visitors came from near and far, flashing their cut-out magazine articles and beaming satisfactorily, as they handed over their French Francs and American Express travellers’ cheques. All was well in the world and our Crédit Agricole bank account, for the first time in history, was affirmed ‘in the black’.
I found myself entertaining the Encyclopaedia Britannica of European who’s who, as well as an assortment of unlikely, bordering on unsavoury characters, who tested my multi-lingual skills on a daily basis. From the urban Princess, to the projectile-vomiting Dutchman. From the arrogant American, who directed his questions via the interpretation of his wife, to the highly amiable, Belgian, nuclear-rocket Scientist. We greeted them all, regardless of race, age or creed. As my language skills improved, so did my enjoyment of French country life. I became more relaxed in my position as the ‘Hostess with the mostess’ and as keen as I was to please, a newfound confidence encompassed me.
No more did the ugly, uncouth traveller walk all over me. I had written my new manifesto and intended on following it. I religiously defended my right to accept whom I felt deserved to stay at my elegant establishment. ‘Sorry, we’re full tonight’, was my new catch phrase. One learns the tricks of the trade quickly, if one wishes to keep their sanity in check.
The priceless freedom I gained from running this type of establishment was, that no longer could the nosey, ‘get-a-life’ neighbours, question who was coming or going from my door. People entered and exited incessantly and even the most adapt sticky beak, found it difficult to keep up. My God, it must drive them insane with curiosity, I thought. Good. It’ll give them a purpose in life, if not a slightly psychotic one.
Our friendship bloomed with the neighbourhood Boulanger, René, who enjoyed our regular morning custom and treated us with exaggerated respect. He was a jolly bloke from the ‘burbs’ of Aube, a province just north of Paris, who spoke more slang than French and held a repertoire of jokes that border-lined on a triple X rating. I decided, that had he been born ‘down-under’, he would certainly have been a beer swilling, pub-crawling, ‘Bondi boy’. His perennial joviality was refreshing and I was soon au fait with enough slang, to understand things that I shouldn’t have. He baked the best croissants au beurre (butter croissants) in town and their deliciously intoxicating perfume, wafted through the lofty windows of our home each morning around 6am.
There’s nothing like the aroma of freshly baked baguettes or calorie-laden pastries, to stir the loins of the average Frenchman or woman, as we soon discovered. Countless were the mornings that we woke to the wholehearted, verbal delights of our female guests. We soon realised that the acoustic linings we had employed in our renovations, were no match for the early morning throes of French lovemaking. Communal breakfasts were most amusing on those particular mornings, as we tried to guess, whilst pouring steamy café au lait, who the romantic culprits had been.
It’s often the shy and unassuming that are the most raucous behind closed doors and often times, it was only as I made beds and vacuumed carpets, after my guests had departed on their daily jaunts, that I would giggle my way through the remnants of passion-strewn, lacy g-strings, or X- rated, battery powered toys. This could prove to be an educational experience, as well as immense fun, I decided.
Ah, the joys of the hospitality business. They are many and varied and in our case, wonderful, comical relief from the humdrum. It’s not all glamorous. It’s ugly and smelly and hideous at times. There are baffling events and bizarre occurrences that you’d be unlikely to impose on the even the worst enemy.
You see the best and the worst of human nature every day, in full, living colour. I have observed otherwise conventional human beings, turn into primordial beasts over the breakfast table. I mean to say, how much jam, can one person consume in the course of a continental breakfast? Well, allow me to draw you a sketch … enough to have it oozing from your fingers, down your wrists, until you finally lick it from your elbow joints, just before it attacks your armpits, and really does some damage. Believe me, it happens.
I’ve had pampered, thoroughbred poodles pee in my corridor, rubber-legged fishermen, stomp soggy-footed through my lounge and jodhpur-clad horsemen, walk manure-riddled boots over my off-white Berber carpets.
Then there are those odd individuals who prefer the verbal form of attack. Who for no manifest reason, shout verbal abuse or foul language whilst managing to slurp on their Yoplait yoghurts. It’s extraordinary. Tell me, who in their right mind chooses to discuss the significance of the religious wars or American politics, over aromatic Pain au Chocolat and freshly brewed Arabica? Quel sacrilège! (It’s sacrilegious!) It should be illegal and so should discussing one’s bowel movements, whilst buttering tartines of warm baguette.
I can’t believe the diplomatic tact I’ve acquired. I have found the perfect inflection or reply for every mention of constipation or biliousness.
I’ve become the Queen of all things below the belt. The Comtesse of the coffee machine. The Princesse of the ironing press and the Marquise of mayhem.