Which is actually something of a problem. The property has been in the family since the 1930’s when great Oncle Patrice bought it to receive his stylish Parisian sisters; all he wanted was a farm and vineyard, but they complained about the chickens and the mud on their silk hems. Those were the good old days. An army of servants to care for 100 acres. You can still see the bell system in the House, where you could signal the kitchen staff from your bedroom to come light your fireplace and bring up your breakfast tray. But now we are the generation of “the new economy,” a euphemism for major sweat equity and sleepless nights worrying about upkeep, worrying how to keep her in the family. I often ask my husband (“the man”) if we’re crazy. A stupid question because I know the answer. Ok, we’re crazy. We’re crazy in love with this magic place and if it sometimes feels like an albatross settling around our necks, well, it’s our own fault for going to the wishing well.
So here are my stories about our adventures and misadventures as we try to bring La Tourbeille into the next century without disturbing her dignity and grace; to preserve above all the dreamy ambiance that is her charm, for family and for old friends who have lived our hopes, frustrations and garden vegetables, our nights of star gazing and dancing on the river terrace; and for the new friends out there we are so looking forward to seeing here someday.