Love in a Warm Climate by Helena Frith-Powell Read Free Book Online

be one property. Back in the last century it was boom time for the wine makers of the Languedoc because they were able to produce six to eight times as much as their counterparts in northern France due to the climate here, so a lot of these flamboyant châteaux were built. Château de Boujan is still very much a working vineyard but the owners of Sainte Claire have not maintained the vineyard so there is a lot of catching up to do. But they tell me it is excellent terroir . This part of the region used to be covered by seawater. The vineyards here are built on a former coral reef. Fossilised coral is very good for vines because it drains well and vines hate to have wet feet. It is perhaps the only vineyard in the world with such a unique terroir .”
    I looked at Nick questioningly. “That means the land you grow the vines on,” he explained. “Some experts say they can taste the soil or terroir in the wine.”
    We drove on past the château. The tree-lined road turned into a dust track that ended about 150 metres on at a small roundabout with a fountain in the middle. When I say fountain, it was more of a trickle of water, forcing its way through years of foliage and bright green moss that had grown over a simple stone pillar with a pattern around the top that was barely visible, but it was charming. We got out of the car and looked up at the house. My heart skipped a beat. I had what the French call a coup de coeur . My nipples stood on end. It was similar to the feeling my Italian friend Carla described when she first met her new tennis coach.
    “Is this normal?” I whispered to Nick. “Is it possible to fall in love at first sight with a house?”
    The object of my newfound love was Sainte Claire, a French farmhouse and one of the prettiest places I have ever seen. My first impression of it was that I didn’t really care what was inside; I just never wanted to leave. I stood and gazed at it in awe. The château next door was all very splendid, but this was a home .
    The house itself was large, with three floors. The façade was whitewashed limestone. The windows were all closed with shutters painted blue. On many of them the paint was peeling off, yet somehow that didn’t make it look scruffy but in fact added to the charm. The roof was old tiles and there were three chimneys. On the middle floor there were some French doors leading onto a balcony that I longed to stand on and admire the view from. There were plants growing at various heights up the limestone façade; wisteria, roses and jasmine.
    It was almost as if the house had been painted in the position it sat in, nestled in front of the hills, with views all around, each one prettier than the next.
    “We are in the foothills of the Cévennes Mountains here,” said the agent.
    I looked around me and breathed in the air. It was scented with thyme and lavender. As I inhaled I felt as though it was rejuvenating me, filling me with the goodness of the Languedoc and rinsing out all that London filth and stress.
    An avenue of olive trees led to the garden and the hedgerows were full of flowers: poppies, wild gladioli, daisies. I even spotted a bunch of capers growing wild on the wall of the house.
    “They’ll come in useful for spaghetti alla puttanesca,” I told Nick.
    Not that I’ve ever made spaghetti alla puttanesca. I always forget to buy the capers.
    We walked up the four steps leading to the front door. I immediately imagined the children racing up to be the first one in.
    I smiled at the thought of the children. “I can’t wait to tell them about this place,” I said to Nick. “It is just what we’ve been imagining.”
    In fact it was far better than anything I had been imagining – one of those rare moments in life when the reality is better than the fantasy.
    “The house has not been lived in for almost a year,” explained Mr Vorst. “When Madame Gréco died the family argued about what to do with it. In France you cannot disinherit your