Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Soon we were staring blearily over mountains of luggage at a timid dawn through a taxi
window. Sophia and Ellie looked remarkably wide-eyed, despite our best attempts to keep
them asleep. As we passed familiar streets filled with memories from almost a decade of
our life, tears welled up in my eyes.
Wearrivedattheairlinecounterwithourtwo-storeytrolleyofluggage.Theairlinerepres-
entative looked at us with mild amusement and I muttered something about moving coun-
try. Her eyes flicked over the stratospheric total on the scale and she handed us our board-
ing cards. She hadn't charged a cent for excess. Soon we were in France, navigating our
luggage mountain out of Bordeaux airport.
'I think we should go straight to Haut Garrigue,' said Sean.
'I want to go to the B&B. We'll see it in a few days,' I replied.
I had booked a B&B on a local vineyard that was a few kilometres from Haut Garrigue.
It looked authentic and clean but most importantly I hoped that staying with winegrowers
meant we could learn something.
'But it's on the route.'
Sean was naturally desperate to show me our new abode. But I was in denial. I wanted to
go home.
I was scared. I didn't want to be disappointed. By the time we reached the Bergerac exit
on the Bordeaux ring road, thanks to Sean's persuasion and my own curiosity I capitulated.
Before long we were climbing the hill into Saussignac. It was a postcard-perfect French
village with a magnificent château looking onto the main
place
, or square, with a restaur-
ant on the opposite side and a second square with a small park, post office, bread shop and
church. A few houses later we passed the school and a few vineyards and took a well-worn
road past the cemetery and three new-looking houses. Then Château Haut Garrigue was in
front of us. No warning, no avenue of trees, no signs, just a bunch of dishevelled buildings
at the end of a short, bumpy dirt road.
The owners' dogs thrashed around the car. There was broken equipment lying around the
yard. The house looked worse than the photos had promised. The shutters were eaten away
by rot and termites.
We got out of the car and were offered a tour of the property. The fence around the
3-metre-high terrace was rusted away, making it a deathtrap for children. The place was
thoroughly rundown. I looked at the date, 1737, etched above the cellar and thought 'Oh
my God, what have we done?' then swallowed back a wave of tears and tried to concentrate
on the view. The natural splendour of the valley sprawling below, decked out in the bright
greens of summer, was breathtaking.
The owner continued the tour inside. It was beyond a nightmare. The main house was
filthy. The renovation required was terrifying. The potential of the place, with its views and
deep history, was clear, but the prospect of living in it with Ellie a mere five months old
filled me with horror. After the visit we sat at the outdoor table to talk through the final
