FALLING IN LOVE WITH A VILLAGE IN PROVENCE AND TAKING THE LEAP TO BUY A HOME

 

I had a home in Provence at the foot of the Luberon Mountains.  The mountain range runs thirty miles from west to east, from Cavaillon to Manosque, and stands midway between Aix-en-Provence and Avignon.  A valley—the Combe de Lourmarin—carved by the lovely Aiguebrun River, separates the mountains into the Petit and Grand Luberon.  Lourmarin has stood sentinel on a knoll at the south end of the valley for well over a thousand years.  Our home was on Rue de la Juiverie, the oldest street in the village.

 

 

My apologies to Karen Blixen for borrowing the framework of her opening paragraph to Out of Africa. It’s just that I couldn’t get her words out of my mind when we sold the last of our properties in Lourmarin.  I was strangely consoled by silently repeating my version of her first sentence over and over, like a mantra.  It would be too great a stretch of your credulity for me to suggest that Blixen’s large coffee plantation in Kenya, where she lived for 17 years, compared in any manner to our short ownership of a several very small properties in the heart of Provence. But, I suspect it is within the bounds of your heart to understand that, for me, her words characterized the depth of poignancy I felt in severing this tie to a region I love.  But, I am getting ahead of the story—we haven’t even seen the property yet! Let’s start at the beginning…more or less.

Lourmarin.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

Lourmarin is one of 144 villages in the whole country to be officially designated as one of “The Most Beautiful Villages in France.”  Set among vineyards, olive groves, almond trees, and fields of wild herbs, this charming village is not far from extensive forests in the Luberon Natural Park and, in the summer months, from brilliantly colored rows of lavender.

Lavender field near Lourmarin.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

The village is steeped in history, culture, arts, and gastronomy.  It has a 15th-16th-century château overlooking an 11th-century fortified watch tower that rises above narrow winding streets lined with narrow houses with flower boxes, galleries, shops, wine caves, cafés, tea salons, and restaurants.  There is a market every Friday morning (and Tuesday evenings in the summer months).  A canopy of plane trees welcomes visitors traveling from the Luberon Mountains into town or to the château and protestant church, passing by the requisite pétanque court and a huge soccer field, along the way.

Chateau de Lourmarin.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

The town’s allure is irresistible and extends well beyond its attractive surface (belying a violent past).  I am not the first to say that Lourmarin exerts, for lack of better words, a force that has a profoundly calming and peaceful effect.  It grounds me at my very core and I feel good, happy, and at home.

The 11th century watchtower.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

The village has attracted several famous residents—most notably, French author Albert Camus, Provençal writer Henri Bosco, and English author Peter Mayle.  While our fame does not fall into the same league as these gentlemen,   my family and I walked in their footsteps when we had the good fortune to live in Lourmarin for six months in 2002.  Two years later, after many visits before and after that sojourn, we bought a maison village—actually two adjacent homes in the village.  (Just for fun, imagine a medieval duplex.)

Photo of our entrance, given to us by previous owner. Date unknown.

We weren’t planning to buy property*.  The opportunity seemed to blow in with the Mistral one chilly March when we were vacationing there.  One of the owners of the village home died suddenly, leaving his wife, a German woman who lived in her native country as the sole remaining family member.  As she confronted her new status, she reluctantly decided to…
part with the vacation home that had served several generations of family before her.  She informed Arnaud, a local realtor, who mentioned it to our good friends Pierre and Muriel who, in turn, told us.  We were staying just a few doors down from this home, on Rue de la Juiverie.

Rue de Savournin, the main street of Lourmarin.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

Lourmarin is a very small village—I don’t know how many homes lie within the village itself but with a population that barely surpasses a thousand, there aren’t many and new building is next-to-impossible because the village lies within the Parc naturel régional du Luberon, where development is severely restricted. The property market had been going gangbusters for over a decade—since the publication of Mayle’s A Year in Provence—so we knew this home would be snatched up quickly.  Properties within the confines of the village seldom came on the market.

 

Muriel and Pierre wanted us to see it right away, the façade at least and so did we…just for fun, bien sûr. We weren’t planning to buy property, I repeat.

Entrance to La Bonbonniere and l’Oustaloun from Rue de la Juiverie.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

We had walked past the large, rather shabby green door many times over the years, but I had never noticed it.  “Keep it that way,” Pierre said (as if we already owned it) as he opened the door and we peered in to find a shadowy passageway leading to an internal courtyard. I shouldn’t have been so surprised—I have learned that Provence is full of secret gems like this one, concealed by doors and gates whose well-worn appearances belie what treasures hide behind.

The courtyard. Photo by W.T. Manfull

We were immediately enchanted.  I can’t explain exactly why. The courtyard, a small unadorned square paved with flat stones, was wedged deep in the center of a diminutive medieval city block among four tall contiguous houses.  It appeared to have survived the centuries by luck more than foresight.  A loving hand had not touched it in some time. But, the early spring sun seemed to focus its light directly on to this little courtyard, accentuating the ivy that climbed the walls and the small trees that graced two of the corners. Even the old pots and the weather-beaten door were not as eye-sores.  It was a picture of rustic coziness, even on that chilly March afternoon.   A small table and chairs beckoned us to sit down, and we did so for a long while.  Inside a tiny nook in the wall, we found a candle and a frame that, when wiped clean, revealed a tattered copy of Saint Francis’ Prayer of Peace.

We made arrangements right then to see the interior of the two properties the next day.

Cafe Gaby in Lourmarin.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

I didn’t sleep all night.  What was I thinking?  A home in France, no matter how small, was not part of our financial plan.  We live across the Atlantic and our day begins six hours later than the day in Provence. Who did I think I was…Peter Mayle? Frances Mayes?  I didn’t even speak French! In the morning, I doused my face with cold water and headed to Café Gaby for our usual grande crème.  Agence Sud Luberon, the first real estate agency in Lourmarin—which Arnaud’s father had opened some 30 years earlier—is just across from Gaby’s on the narrow main street that traverses the center of town.  We would make the three-minute walk together to the unassuming green door.  I was consumed with anxiety and excitement.

The courtyard.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

The courtyard looked beautiful in the brilliant light, settling my nervous stomach, if only for a few minutes, until we crossed the threshold of the first house.  There, to my great disappointment, I saw rooms that bore no resemblance to any images of Provence I carried in my head.

La Bonbonnière living room.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

There was a small living room dominated by a nondescript fireplace in one corner and an intimidating wooden spiral staircase in another leading to a second floor. The dining area, also small, was on the right. The kitchen, uninspired if functional, was separated from the dining area by a counter.  Ceramic tile, fashioned to resemble traditional Provençal clay tile, covered the ground floor.  The walls begged for paint.

La Bonbonnière kitchen.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

Where were the murs d’enduite?  The ochre colored walls?  Where were the exposed beams? Where were the hexagonal tomettes de Salernes tiles? Why wasn’t the sun streaming in?

La Bonbonnière spiral staircase.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

Up the rickety stair case, I was surprised to find a very large room with a small alcove.  A queen-sized bed at the center of the main room left plenty of space for a bureau and desk.  A single bed was nestled into the alcove. Two skylights brought in the morning sun (and later we would learn, the occasional cat).  Two large windows overlooked the charming courtyard. There were built-in shelves and white-washed thick plaster walls.  I could easily imagine the three of us sleeping up here.

La Bonbonnière upstairs.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

This was most definitely not the quintessential Provençal maison village I had hoped for, but it was a solid home that, with the right paint, tile, and fabrics, could be transformed to something more akin to those images of life in Provence that were firmly ingrained in my mind’s eye. Oui, bien sûr.

Entrance to l’Oustaloun.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

The other house, the older of the two was entered by climbing steep stone stairs from the courtyard.  This house was above the passage way and looked onto the oldest street in Lourmarin. When we opened the door—with a very large brass key–I was bowled over by old-world Provence.  It hadn’t changed since the last century!  I immediately imagined Jean de Florette sitting at the table, but could I imagine my family and me sitting there?

L’Oustaloun kitchen.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

The other overwhelming feeling was the small scale of everything.  If the rooms of the first home were small, these were miniature.  It felt like a dollhouse.

L’Oustaloun stairway.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

To the right of the entrance, a traditional plaster-and-tile staircase twisted up to the next floor.  A thick rope, looped through heavy iron rings, served for a banister. As I navigated those old stairs using the heavy rope, I couldn’t help but feel I was in a building much older than my own 18th-century New England home (which, as a native Californian, I thought was pretty old).

The staircase demarcated a tiny foyer where I envisioned guests hanging their hats and discarding their shoes as they entered what could become our home.

L’Oustaloun living room.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

The living room was surely what people have in mind when they liken the size of a room to a postage stamp. On one wall, an immense fireplace with a massive mantel accentuated the diminutive size of the room.  A large wood-burning stove, in the fireplace, was the sole source of heat. There was a tiny area where one couldn’t possibly do much more than prepare a cup of tea, and another tiny area where one could take the tea at an itsy-bitsy table with two matching chairs at the window overlooking Rue de Juiverie. Across the narrow street, one could see directly into Madame Ricard’s living room where there was a clear view of her television set. We would later learn that there was no reason to own a television set, as long as one shared Madame Ricard’s taste in  programming, a steady diet of soap operas during the day and news in the evening.

L’Oustaloun upstairs with “monolith” on the left.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

L’Oustaloun bath hidden behind the “monolith”.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

Upstairs was a single room that functioned as the bedroom and bathroom. My eye was helplessly drawn to the far corner where a plaster-covered monolith stood, dwarfing the rest of the room.  It was particularly offensive because its height grew from the relatively short wall with the small window to the center of the room where the ceiling was much higher, giving the illusion that it was even larger and much closer to me than it actually was.   “Eww” was all I could think.  I ventured over to the corner where I found a very long tub stuffed into what was really a very small cavity, despite its appearance from a distance.  At the end of the tub, with no wall to offer privacy was a sink (that I could only describe as utilitarian).  The toilet was wedged, quite literally, into the corner.

L’Oustaloun.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

Bashfulness was not an option with this set up.  I knew immediately that Americans, in particular, would not take kindly to a multipurpose room like this one, but I also knew the monolith had to go and my vision for the room entailed even less privacy (but enabled much more attractive lighting).The late morning sun was streaming in through the small window near the toilet but its path was blocked by the monolith.  I suspected that the late afternoon sun would light up the room through the other window that overlooked the courtyard.

L’Oustaloun window overlooking courtyard.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

This house would require an immense amount of work, much more than the first house, but it was by far our favorite of the two.  The potential was immense.  We were smitten.

 

We told Arnaud we would think about it.

 

Aside from the escalating costs of the renovation plans we were already entertaining—especially in the smaller place where you would think we were recreating Le Petit Trianon of the South—our biggest worry was the courtyard.  It didn’t actually come with the two houses.  It belonged to the large home that made up the other two sides of the courtyard.  We were told that the owner, an elderly man with no children, never used it and that he had in fact boarded up his only door that opened into it. He had always let the owners of the two homes use it.  All this was true we confirmed although—spoiler alert—we should have confirmed the status of his health, too.

Our other concerns centered on the cacophony of neighboring homes—who would be responsible for what?  At home in the States, we have to work—sometimes negotiate, compromise, and even huff and puff —with just two neighbors over issues like repairing fences and pruning trees. Here, we could count at least a half-dozen neighbors whose property touched or could, in some way, affect our property.  We wondered if these multiple joint-responsibilities would be a nightmare, especially in France where every decision typically entails a long discussion in which everyone’s opinion is aired over and over again.  And here we lived on a different continent in a different time zone to boot!

 

Our count of contiguous neighbors had not included Madame Bivet.  She lived on the other side of Rue de la Juiverie, adjacent to Madame Ricard. Like most villagers, she had lived there for many years.  Her petite size, salt-and-pepper hair, and elegant manner did not prepare us for her power-house personality.  She pulled us aside, introduced herself, and informed us, in perfect Parisian French, that she had a “droit de passage.”  This, we knew, meant that she had the right to pass through our property. Upon seeing our puzzled faces—“where was she passing through to?”—she explained that she owned a storage room.  “Ah,” we gathered, “one of the other two doors off the courtyard!”  She liked to enter by passing through “our” courtyard although she could just as easily, it seemed, enter her storage room by walking around the corner.

While relieved to hear her refer to the courtyard as “ours”—even though we had not yet seriously begun to discuss buying the property—the relief was just temporary.  We quickly wondered who owned the other door and just how many people might be passing through.   Those thoughts were interrupted by Madame Bivet’s next pronouncement. She had always kept her poubelle tucked in the corner of our passageway and hoped that we would not see the need to alter this historic arrangement.  (We later noted the garbage can with “Madame Bivet” neatly written across the lid tucked, as she said, in the corner behind the door.)As we mulled this huge decision over and over, we heard from many people in the village. (News like “American family buying maison village” travels quickly.) Everyone seemed to know someone or be related to someone who was a plumber, electrician, tiler, plasterer, woodworker, painter, caretaker, or banker.  Visions of Peter Mayle’s year in Provence whirled in our heads.

Two of favorite vendors at the Lourmarin market.  Photo by W.T. Manfull

We already knew this village well, having lived for six months in 2002 just a few doors down.  Our daughter attended the local school and played on the local (boys’) soccer team where, in both places, she made many friends.  As parents around the world know, there is no better source of friends—for children or their parents—than through your child’s elementary school. We already had our preferred cafés and boulangeries. We had our favorite vendors for fruits and vegetables, roasted chickens, cheeses, sausages, and spices at the market on Friday.  We were invited to aperitifs and to dinner parties.  We knew who sat where in the morning at Café Gaby. We had friends who took us to find truffles and cèpes. We knew doctors and even had some experience in the ER of the hospital in the neighboring town. We knew the handsome pharmacist, the cute postman on the motorbike, and the charismatic mayor. Had there been a candlestick maker, I would have made it my business to meet him.

 

I thought about all the years I had heard my parents bemoan their decision not to buy a “little house on the beach” in Southern California.  My father died at the same age I was at the time I contemplated this purchase.  My mother, now 84, still talks about the house she wished they had purchased “for a song.”

Santé!!!

Like so many decisions in life, a list of pro’s and con’s—even weighted for significance—may not yield a clear answer.  It comes down to what our hearts tell us and whether we listen.

 

“We could do this” became “we can do this” and, after a bottle of Côtes du Luberon wine from Les Caves du Château, “we will do this.” We called Arnaud the next day and said, “Oui.”

 

Buying property in France is not for everyone. You simply must speak French fluently—including a healthy vocabulary of real estate and banking terms—or hire a professional to assist you.  C’est dans les details…and there are many details.  Buying property entails navigating the infamous bureaucracy of the French banking system and wading through reams of paper documenting the real estate transaction.   It is easy to get lost. Because my husband speaks French and because we enlisted the assistance of our good friend Pierre, we were able to complete this transaction without hiring a third-party.  Also, in our particular case, the realtor, the banker, and the notaire were immensely helpful.  (We heard enough horror stories to know that this is not always the case.)  To this day, we meet the banker for lunch and aperitifs and we became such good friends with a realtor that he and his family came to visit us in the States.

 

In 2004, there were fewer hoops to jump through when buying property in France (as was true in the States, of course).  When we lived in Lourmarin in 2002, establishing a bank account at Crédit Agricole required divulging much more information than required to get a mortgage two years later. (The bank asked lots of questions about our family tree and any contracts we had, should our marriage dissolve.)  Now, I am told the requirements for both are much more stringent and the process takes much longer.

 

We decided to take out a mortgage because, at the time, the interest rates were remarkably low, less than 2%, and the exchange rate was expected to swing back to favor the dollar soon. In April 2004, when we commenced this process, the exchange rate was $1.20; two years earlier, it was about $.90.  (It didn’t work out this way though—in 2008, the exchange rate climbed to the staggering amount of $1.6038, making mortgage payments a lot higher!)

After we agreed to buy the property, the notaire steps into the picture.  The notaire is less than an attorney, but much more than a notary public—he (or she, though men dominate the field) is a legal specialist and public officer who handles property, inheritance, and family law.

 

The notaire draws up the Compromis de vente.  Although it is a lengthy document, probably originating in Napoleonic times, it seemed a less onerous version of an American purchase and sale agreement.  Entering into the serious phase of this process, we had to fork over a 10% deposit and sign more documents.  We had seven days to withdraw from the contract without penalty. Tick tock.  Then one applies for the mortgage—the answer came quickly for us in 2004, but the byzantine paper process is quite lengthy. It took months to complete.

 

There are many internet sites devoted to buying real estate in France. The process has changed since we bought and sold our properties, so if you are curious, consult those sites. There are some dissimilarities between American and French real estate transactions.  In France, the listed price includes the real estate commission, which the buyer pays.   The seller pays for the “inspection” which, at that time, was not near the exhaustive process required in the States.  I recall only a test for termites and lead.  The under-the-table passage of cash is surprisingly commonplace but did not occur with our purchase (although it would in future purchases). My favorite peculiarity—one not yet relevant in Lourmarin—is that in properties with elevators, repair or replacement costs of the lift are correlated with the floor on which one lives; owners on higher floors pay a higher proportion of the cost.

The renovation team!

With the help of our friend Pierre, we named the homes while we waited for the papers to pass. The larger and newer of the two homes would be called “La Bonbonnière” and the older home would be called “L’Oustaloun.

Muriel helping with decorating ideas.

”Finally, three seasons later, in the fall of 2004, we were homeowners in Provence. Let the champagne flow—there was much to celebrate!  Towny’s sister Lisa, along with my long-time friend Patti, came over from the States to help.  Pam, my close friend since graduate school, and her companion Hervé from nearby Cotignac were there.  Neighbors and friends from the village dropped by. And, bien sûr, Pierre and Muriel were there—none of this would have happened without them.