Originally written June 25th 2022
When planning our trip, we coordinated the first two showings, the winemaker's house and the beach house, as we dubbed our second stop, with picking up the car and heading to our B and B homebase. The two homes sat right in between Perpignan and Carcassonne, so it just made sense to do a little road trip now and not have to double back later. Our next stop was the tiny medieval town of Pouzolles, which was about 10 minutes away from the winemaker’s home. Early on when building our favorites list, we gave each of our little homes a nickname in order to keep them all straight. The Pouzolles house looked as though it had been plucked off of a Greek isle and gingerly placed right in the middle of the ancient village, looking like a misplaced, Mediterranean beach house. The white stucco against the bright blue accents definitely gave us holiday vibes and made you feel like you were vacationing next to the sea. We met the real estate agent, Kerry, in front of the town’s carpark. Kerry had moved to France from Ireland a few decades ago and ended up never going home. Finding a French husband and loving the way of life, she fell into real estate and rentals and made herself a life in the South of France.She also was a resident of Pouzolles and couldn’t speak highly enough about the activities and people. We walked past a small park that had two caterers setting up for an event. “You should stay!” she suggested. “We’re having our first fête for the summer! When the sun goes down everyone will come to the park and there will be music and food. It’s going to be a blast!” Andy glanced at me looking for any indication of interest and then back at Kerry when I didn’t give much of a response. “As fun as that sounds, we really need to get to our B and B before they shut it up for the night.” Kerry nodded, leading us up a windy cobble stone hill and around the town’s church. As we walked, Kerry went on and on about the events and the people who lived in the town. “So many English speakers here,” she boasted. “And many people come to me to learn English, I give lessons in the library.” While I have no doubt she was mentioning it as a positive, we were actually searching for a town that did not have many English speakers, as we wanted to fully immerse ourselves into the language and culture and leave home at home. I think part of the reason we wanted to buy abroad and not back in the U.S. had a lot to do with wanting a big change and having experiences we couldn’t at home, so while the idea of having some commonality with our neighbors was nice,the fact that they were anglophiles didn’t fall into the pros category for us. When thinking back on this particular visit, it stands out that she never said anything about the actual town itself. She mentioned the residence and the happenings, but didn’t really mention any positives about the town. Perhaps this should have been a red flag. As Kerry winded us up through town (which might have consisted of 5 tiny “streets”), we noticed that it was around 10:30 am and all the businesses were shuttered. Having some kind of commerce was a big must on our list of wants and this was looking quite bleak, as we hadn’t passed a single person or had seen any signs of life since passing the park with the caterers. “Is it normally so… quiet?” I asked Kerry, careful in my word choice as to not sound rude. “The café opens later on some days. There really isn’t a schedule. Sometimes he opens at 8 am, sometimes noon.” Andy and I exchanged glances as she continued. “The boulangerie truck comes in the morning, but he’s already gone for the day. The two restaurants we passed open for dinner and sometimes lunch,” she said, stopping in front of a worn wooden door surrounded by tall stone walls on each side. The walls rose so high, the house behind them was completely hidden, giving it complete anonymity from the surrounding homes whose doors spilled open to the street. She inserted a key into the rusty padlock and pushed the door free from its latch. I rested my hand on a stone wall and looked up. Andy smiled at me, also loving the ancient discolored walls. Little pockets of gaps in the rocks were filled with cascading ivy and other Mediterranean shrubs, giving it a very secret garden feel. We were led down a small flight of stone steps into a sunken courtyard with a small dipping pool that was tucked into the right corner of the space. The courtyard wasn’t very big, but it was perfect for two people who wanted a small, easy to maintain outdoor area for a few months out of the year. Homemade wooden benches lined the space, providing seating around the walls. Terracotta pots of all shapes and sizes balanced on rock ledges at different heights on the stone, while vines of different shades of green spilled out of each pot and traveled down the wall. It was a charming and cozy space, but the best part was a small porch that connected the house to the courtyard. Two French doors swung out onto the courtyard porch, giving you access to the dining room for the most idyllic alfresco set up. The dining space was small, but with the doors open, the space felt bright, airy and cottagey. A large farmhouse table sat square with the doors, while brocante treasures lined the walls in the shape of an old hutch, an antique buffet and a gilded 18th century chest. Though we had only seen two homes, I was starting to see a theme. Back at home, open concepts with minimalist style was a popular decoration choice. Clean lines and simple designs were featured in magazines and ads of all mediums. Here, though, I had started to notice that the French loved very large,very heavy, old, wooden furniture. While the pieces made the room feel very cozy and French, it also made it so that it was very difficult to walk around the room without having to squeeze past the chunky items. After taking a pause to envision long summer nights spent in the space, we shimmied our way past the hutch and through a small opening that led to the kitchen.The space was big enough to cook comfortably, but didn’t have enough space to entertain a large group. It was windowless, giving the atmosphere a cave-like feeling with its stone walls and low ceiling, but the wood burning stove resting in a corner added an element of coziness. The layout itself felt like a bit of a hodgepodge. There was a microwave precariously balanced on a randomly angled ledge and another large hutch taking up an entire wall, brimming with nick nacks and the refrigerator sneakily peeking out from under the kitchen counter, covered with a traditional French fabric curtain. “I know I’m going to sound very American and please don’t kill me, but I don’t think this fridge would work.” I said, pointing to the tiny, half hidden rectangle. “Ah, yes,” Kerry started, “but when you buy your food fresh and often, you don’t need a large fridge.” I guess it should have been refreshing that there were any appliances at all, or that it even resembled a kitchen for that matter, thinking back to the last place. Kerry explained that all of the appliances stayed and, as the foreign buyer used it as a holiday home and was not buying in another town in France, all furniture and dishware remained as well. For two people coming with absolutely nothing, it was a pretty appealing deal. Kerry stepped up two small stone steps and into the bright, white living room. The space was a really unique, triangle-shaped room with 14 foot high ceilings. Though small, the living room had an expansive and airy feel to it due to the tall ceilings and open air landing, leading to the second floor. A beautiful white stone fireplace rested crookedly against the angled main wall, adding an element of coziness not usually associated with a beach home. Large cream-colored blankets were draped over the couch and woven baskets full of logs were resting alongside the fireplace. Our eyes traveled across the room to a big black pit. Along the far wall was the original front door, but with a large, square-shaped hole in the floor right underneath it. “This can’t be original. Was this recently done?” Andy said, walking over and peeking down. “Yes, the previous owners wanted easier access to the cave. After much deliberation, they had decided that this location would be the best place and they created the hole and built a spiral staircase leading down to the cave,” she said, walking over to the staircase and grabbing the ultra-modern railing. “This is where they did the most updating and remodeling, they used this as their master bedroom,” she said, starting to disappear down the stairs and into the dark. Descending into the cool damp space, we are greeted with a very modern, minimalist bedroom decorated in Japanese decor. Black and cream colored Asian art fill the space with bamboo wood accents sprinkled throughout. While it felt peaceful, it also felt a bit odd for the house as a whole. The mix of styles were overall so, so different. The Greek looking exterior, with the French feeling dining room, along with the Swiss chalet cozy vibe of the living room, layered on to the Asian inspired zen minimalist bedroom, the design choices were fine on their own, but together just didn’t make much sense. I looked at the nightstand, which seemed to be glistening. Reaching out, I swiped my finger along the top and my index left a streak where my finger just slid.“Things are wet down here,” I said, holding out my finger and turning to Kerry. “Because of the location of the bedroom, in the cave, it will always have a cool, damp feeling. This is why they put their master down here, then there is no need for air con,” she said, trying to spin an obviously bad situation. Andy and I exchange sideways glances, reading the other’s thoughts. Since we plan to use this as a second home, cool and damp aren’t the kind of conditions that lend themselves to being left stagnant and unattended for months and only being aired out two or three months a year. We took a mental note as we passed through the bedroom, into the newly remodeled bathroom. It was dark. Dark tile, dark black sink, dark lighting. An odd choice for an already dark cave. The room was also sectioned off into two spaces. As you went through the door, you could walk around one wall to the left and end up in a small space with a handwashing sink or walk around another wall to the right and end up in the shower. If you kept going straight, however, you ended up in another space that held a small toilet to the right and a storage closet to the left. It seemed like a bizarre layout for someone to have recently chosen to do on purpose. “How long ago was this updated?” Andy said, reading my thoughts. “The previous owners were German, they did this reno maybe… perhaps 5 years ago,” she said, trying to nail down the exact time period. “They have only moved a few homes up, they just needed a place with more space. I could inquire and let you know if you’d like,” she offered. “No, no. It’s ok,” Andy said. “I was just curious.” We were very curious about the whole French housing market and genuinely interested in the homes on our list, but never curious enough to dig any deeper than the surface level questions. Deeper was being reserved for our Watchmaker’s home. After resurfacing up the spiral staircase, we were next led to the other side of the living room and up a flight of homemade, wooden stairs that lead you to the premier étage. On this level, there was a small landing with another tiny staircase that connected you to a small terracotta rooftop terrace. Stone bench had been masoned around part of the wall, economizing the space and a little table had been set out, taking up most of what was left of the available space. “It’s south facing,” Kerry said, peeking her head through the small terrace door. “Why do people keep telling us that?” I asked. “Is that something of importance here?” Andy chimed in. “Bien sûr!” she answered, almost appalled that we didn’t know. “North facing properties will have less sun in the winter months and be more cold,” she answered, turning and going back down the stairs. I shrugged at Andy who returned the shrug and followed her down. As this wasn’t a home we planned to visit in the winter months, we weren’t sure if that mattered to us. I turned back and took one last look at the terrace view. From there, all of the tanned terracotta roofs of the neighbors could be seen throughout the whole town, touting the view or confirming the small size of the town. The bright sun hit my face and I closed my eyes, taking in the warmth. Maybe south facing wasn’t so bad after all? I headed back down the small steps to catch up with Andy and Kerry. From the landing, there were two steps that continued up to the next level, leading you to two very small, characterless bedrooms on opposite ends of a small hallway. Each room had its own tiny window that allowed small pools of light to flood into the dull, shadowy space. One of the rooms was a little bigger than the other, but had a thick, newly installed shiny silver pipe running from the floor to the ceiling, taking up a large quantity of space. This “feature” crushed any hint of character the room may have displayed, giving it a cold, factory feel. Behind me, Kerry noticed what caught my eye and quickly said, “it is from the wood burning fireplace in order to bring heat to the bedrooms,” as if the practicality could save my opinion. With a home that has so many different style directions and identities, I was a little surprised that the two upstairs bedrooms look how they did. It’s as if the owner had just kept to the main level of the home, never coming up to this section of the house, leaving it as an afterthought. “There is one more room to show you,” Kerry says, slipping past us and out the bedroom door. She stopped at a door that sat in between both bedrooms. “A closet?” I ask, seeing that there wasn’t too much wall space between the two rooms. “Not quite!” She says, opening up the door and fiddling in the dark to find the light. I peek my head into the closet-sized space and find what looks like a rest stop bathroom. “A bathroom,” I say flatly, trying to hide my real thoughts. “It’s more of a wet room?” Andy asked, from the doorway. The shower was not enclosed to keep it separate from the rest of the room. Instead it was integrated as a part of it, with a drain in the middle of the floor and a shower head that hung delicately from the ceiling, right in front of the sink. Every inch of the room was covered in dated, faded blue tiles. A large squeegee rested in the corner, dictating the rituals of the shared space. Andy squeezed past me into the room and raised his arms out from each of his sides, touching end-to-end each wall from the middle of the room. Point taken. With the courtyard and dingingroom oozing with charm and style, it seems as if the rest of the home seemed not only like a mishmash of styles, but, in some cases,an afterthought completely. And with the town right outside the door and nothing open, the appeal of the beach house had slowly fizzled out. We thanked Kerry for her time and told her we must think about things, but I think she could tell that this wasn’t our home. We left Kerry at the car park with a promise to update her after we’ve completed half of our trip and gained more clarity about what we liked and where the beach house stood in all of that. We started our drive to Carcassonne with a lot to talk about after our first two visits as international home buyers. Could we imagine living in a home with an attic room whose main purpose was slaughtering pigs? Was it important at all to live amongst English speakers? Where did commerce fall in our must have list and how little of it was enough? We had just gotten onto the highway and started seeing signs for Carcassonne when I received an email from the watchmaker’s agent. We were set to see the home first thing tomorrow morning and couldn’t wait to visit the home that literally got us on a plane. I read the email out loud, as if that would help me comprehend it a bit clearer. “Hello Rachel, I am very sorry, but I have to cancel the visit to the house in Montaigu tomorrow… the owners have had some family issues and can’t do the viewing. I’m really sorry for the late notice. Bien cordialement! Carol.” Andy took his eyes off of the road, “wait, what?” I quickly wrote a reply, hoping she was still by her phone and able to shed a little more light on the situation or at least be willing to reschedule. We drove the rest of the way to Carcassonne in silence.
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**Above is our journey from the Spanish boarder through the whole south and all the stops in between. You may notice Vaison is not marked, it was a totally by chance we ended up there!
AuthorBonjour, Ciao, Salut! I'm Rachel and this is my story documenting our experience buying a home in France. If you are looking for advice on home buying, feel free to e-mail me or check the bottom of the home page for a link to a basic guide. Archives
July 2023
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