Cécile
3 comments September 9th, 2004
Fate is a funny thing. Two days ago we stopped to eat lunch on a quiet corner just outside a small village. A car drew alongside us, and a woman leaned out and asked us who we were, and what we were doing. Although we are quite accustomed, by now, to curiosity, we did wonder what was going on when she parked the car and got out. But as I write this now, from Cecile’s beautiful cottage in Montreuil, I can only see it as the most wonderful of chance encounters.
Cecile is the French raised daughter of a Russian poet who fled his native country during the 1917 revolution. She is a most remarkable woman, more like an exotic character from fiction than someone I could ever have hoped to meet in real life. Amongst other things she works part time for the local newspaper, which was one of her reasons for stopping when she saw us sitting on the corner – the other reason is a brilliant story which I shall get to later.
During that first meeting, she took our picture, and some details for an article for the newspaper – “and you have not spoken to anyone else in France?” she crowed delightedly; “you mean I have an exclusive? But this is stupendous!” It turned out that she had been in the middle of an interview in a village not far away, but had an hour to kill before she could take the photo she needed, and had decided to take a drive into some of the other villages in the area. She just happened to drive by our corner as we ate lunch – a coincidence for which we are eternally grateful.
By the end of the meeting, we had been invited to stay in her home the following night. “I have a bath, and I will buy the chicken, and make you a stupendous bed!” she exclaimed delightedly, in a way which made us feel so entirely welcomed that we barely managed to stutter our thanks. As she climbed back into her car and whizzed off in the same exuberant manner she had arrived, Gary and I were left, quite dazed, wondering whether we had imagined the entire thing.
We walked through the whole next day with visions of roast chicken and a bath pushing us onwards, hoping that Cecile was truly real and not just a figment of our often vivid imaginations, and still utterly amazed that someone was actually interested enough to want to write about us. Last night we arrived, hot and exhausted, at Cecile’s front door, and tentatively knocked, unsure of our reception.
But we need never have worried. From the moment she threw open the door and kissed us on both cheeks, her welcome has been one of unstinting generosity and warmth, not to mention absolutely unsurpassable company and conversation.
Cecile’s cottage is in a traditional French style, and utterly enchanting. We are sleeping in a loft which has old exposed oak beams, a sloping roof, shuttered windows and antiques littered throughout. There are original paintings on the walls, some by Cecile herself. Downstairs the shelves are lined with books in French, Russian and English. Partoufle the big white Labrador nuzzles for treats, and the walls are decorated with old French wallpaper. Outside, a true Secret Garden stretches back, with mature apple, pear, and quince trees beside winding stone paths. There are flower beds and a vegetable patch, a wicker chair and table under a shady tree where Cecile does her writing, and a tiny hidden room with an old bed.
Last night we sat out under the sweeping branches of a big old tree for dinner. True to her word, Cecile had roasted a guinea fowl – “it is like chicken, but much nicer” – and some sensational potatoes which she gets from a local farmer. It was one of the most memorable meals Gary and I have eaten, flavour exploding from perfectly cooked meat, and potatoes cooked with bay leaves inside their jackets, served with olive oil and sea salt. Combined with chilled wine and a dessert of homemade fruit compote, and an entire evening of absolutely fascinating conversation, we both felt as if we had fallen through the rabbit hole into paradise.
It was during dinner that Cecile told us the story which I mentioned earlier, and shall, with her permission, retell now.
Many years ago she was driving with a friend in the Pyrenees, when, at the side of the road, they saw a woman walking. Although obviously in her later years, the woman was tall, upright, and, in Cecile’s words, “tres distinguee”. Seeing that she walked without any luggage, they stopped to speak to her. In my words, this is an approximation of what she said:
“I am an old woman, now, and I did not want to be a burden on my children or family. So, two years ago, I decided that if I am to die, I would like to die under the stars; so I began walking. I have been walking ever since, with only what I wear.”
She spoke of the kindness of the strangers she had met, and the generosity of those on her way. She remained with Cecile for a few miles, and then continued on her solitary way.
The memory of that extraordinary woman has remained with Cecile for these last twenty years, and was another of the reasons she stopped to speak to us. It is an image I also shall carry now.
As I write this, Gary and Cecile have just returned from the Boucherie, Gary positively slathering at the luscious meats and pate hanging in the cold room. I think that means it is lunch time.
When I work out how to use the iMac, I will upload the pictures. I will also post again to tell you about the laughing ducks of Loeuilly…