by Lucy Coleman
While Aiden felt he’d held me back in some ways, I, too, had held him back with my phobias. The mere thought of being on a plane and the door closing, incarcerating me for even the shortest of flights, makes me feel faint. I did brave a ferry once and had a full-blown panic attack. It was the same feeling of being trapped and helpless. Aiden admitted it was a frightening experience for us both as he’d never seen me like that before. He’s never blamed me for limiting our travel horizon and, in fairness, I can’t begrudge him the chance to grab this opportunity. Maybe the lottery win wasn’t a mere fluke but fate intervening.
So, here I am. On the last leg towards my own little adventure. However, as I pull into the vast forecourt in front of Le Château de Vernon, there is nothing at all little about this retreat and my stomach begins to flutter, nervously. Looking at it on Google Maps, it was hard to imagine the scale and I’d expected a cosy little cluster of barns and outbuildings around the main house. This is more like a little village.
I park up alongside an old Citroën and even before I’ve had a chance to swing the car door shut and stretch my arms, a voice calls out in English.
‘Just in time for dinner!’ An older woman, elegantly dressed in several layers of very colourful clothing, walks towards me, smiling. ‘Welcome, Fern, I’ve been keeping an eye out for you. Everyone calls me Dee-Dee.’ She grins at me and positive energy seems to flow from her.
The accent is subtle, and I can’t place it. Her English is perfect, though. She envelops me in her arms as if we’re old friends.
‘How was your journey?’
‘Very pleasant, thank you,’ I reply, good-naturedly.
‘There’s no greater indulgence than the luxury of some time alone to think, is there? A car journey can be quite cathartic, I’ve always found.’
I nod, grateful for her warm welcome. It helps to calm my nerves and I’m delighted that the first person I meet is someone in whose company I instantly feel relaxed.
‘We holidayed in and around the region of Provence several times when I was young. I have some great memories of those days and it’s good to be back here.’
Good, the word seems to echo around inside my head, but not the same.
‘Wonderful. And your arrival is so timely. The next batch of visitors arrive tomorrow, so it’s a low-key dinner this evening. We can sort your bags later. It’s this way.’
I turn to lock the car and she calls out over her shoulder.
‘There’s no need to lock anything here. You’ll soon adjust to a more relaxed way of living. We’re a little too far out to encounter people on foot and you can usually hear a car coming even before it turns into the courtyard.’
Directly in front of the rather commanding château is an old, cobbled forecourt bordered by enormous planters containing neatly clipped evergreen shrubs. I can feel the history as I look around and try to imagine the people who have stood here before me. And the excitement of the owners, when visitors arrived after a long and tiring journey, bringing news from further afield.
I assumed we’d head towards the château, but instead we walk off in the opposite direction, across the courtyard. This much larger area is bounded by property on three sides only. The main house dominates one elevation, with a low wall enclosing the old forecourt. Facing it is an elongated L-shaped, single-storey building, on the other side of which is a standalone cottage. The fourth side looks out across extensive gardens and an orchard that goes on as far as the eye can see. Against the distant backdrop of rising hills covered in dense forest, this plateau feels protected and it’s very picturesque.
It’s obvious a lot of time has been spent renovating these beautiful stone buildings and their appearance is similar to a terraced row of old cottages. However, the proportions are that of a commercial property, the bonus, I assume, of converting what were probably old farm buildings, maybe even stables. I count six doors in the long run on one side and a further two on the dog-leg.
‘It’s an interesting arrangement of buildings,’ I comment, increasing my pace to keep up with Dee-Dee.
‘Yes. Originally it was a hamlet, but several of the old buildings were beyond repair and have been levelled. They had everything here, including a bakery, a blacksmiths and a store for fruits and vegetables. Of course, now they’ve been turned into individual studios. The internal layouts vary. Over there, beyond the fruit trees,’ she points to the far corner of the square, ‘is the forge. Our blacksmith, Bastien, isn’t a talkative man, you’ll come to discover, but don’t let that put you off. He’s a good listener and very reliable. Anyway, let’s introduce you to the team first of all and then, after dinner, we can settle you in.’
This environment is going to be more of a shock to my system than I thought it would be. I don’t know what I was expecting, but now I’m here it’s all rather surreal. I think longingly of home and the daily routine I thought would never change. A lump fills my throat and I cough to clear it.
Don’t be silly, Fern, I tell myself. You’re a grown woman. But I’ve never been this far away from my family before, well, not on my own. I consider myself to be a strong and capable woman, but I suppose we all experience situations in which we feel vulnerable. Take a deep breath.
Dee-Dee swings open one of the latched oak doors and the sound of laughter greets my ears. Inside, there’s a long, stripped pine table that could easily seat thirty. However, at the moment there are only five people in the room and they are all clustered around one end. Immediately as we walk in, the laughter comes to an abrupt halt and everyone turns to look in my direction.
‘Hi, Fern.’ One of the men stands and walks towards me with his hand outstretched. ‘I’m Nico. Welcome to the Château de Vernon Retreat.’
The man standing before me has wavy black shoulder-length hair and the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. So dark, they are mesmerising. His neatly defined beard is close-cropped and suits him. I was expecting an older man from the tone of the emails we exchanged, but Nico Gallegos is probably in his early thirties. If it wasn’t for the faint Spanish accent, he would be well cast as Mr Darcy.
There’s something instantly magnetic about this man and I realise I’m staring at him. His olive skin and muscular physique make for a powerful first impression and Nico takes the word smouldering to another level. But there’s something else lurking there. Something rather sad – sorrowful even – that unwittingly adds to the overall mystique.
‘Thank you, um, it’s good to be here,’ I force the words out rather nervously as he takes my hand. But he doesn’t shake it, instead he holds it in both of his and stares into my eyes.
‘You’re not quite what I was expecting,’ he replies, as if he’s literally taken the words out of my mouth.
It’s good to meet everyone, but tiredness makes me excuse myself early as it has been quite a day. My adventure has begun.
As I begin unpacking my things, I lay them out on what looks to be a very comfortable bed. My room in the château must be three times the size of the bedroom at home. The beautiful oak floor, which runs throughout, creaks underfoot as I move around. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in a building as old as this one before and now that I’m beginning to relax a little, I can at least appreciate the setting.
It’s quite spartan and the only other furniture is a large armoire, a huge chest of drawers and a chaise longue; the latter being a well-worn and decidedly shabby antique. Either side of the bed are nightstands, on top of which are two very elegant and ornate table lights with cleverly arranged and entwined metal leaves. Graced by a large white globe, one stands a good thirty inches tall and the other is a smaller, almost identical version. I place my phone on one of the tables, then begin carrying the neat piles of clothing across to place them in the drawers.
Stark white walls contrast beautifully with the dark brown of the furniture and floorboards. I like the simplicity of the overall style, it’s restful. But what really stands out, dominating the entire space, is the enormous painti
ng which seems to leap off the wall. The vibrancy of the colours is breathtaking and the riot of different shades of green, which up close are comprised of very crude brushstrokes, form an enchanting forest when viewed from a distance. It’s clearly the Bois-Saint-Vernon, but the signature isn’t Nico’s, it’s by someone named José.
I place a few items on coat hangers, marvelling at the beautiful carving on the front of the armoire. As I close the door, I run my fingertips lightly over the inset panel of little acorns and flower heads, appreciating the detail and the skilled tooling.
Suddenly, a short rap on the door interrupts my reverie and I call out, ‘Come in,’ watching as the door slowly eases open.
A head appears around the side of it. It’s Ceana MacLeay, the woman who oversees the extensive garden and grounds.
‘Am I interrupting?’ The Scottish lilt has a warmth to it that matches her sunny disposition. Ruddy-cheeked, this wiry, energetic woman is deceptively strong. She’s all muscle and I can only look at her enviously. Why do the pounds begin to creep on with every passing year? I wonder. My waistline is a good couple of inches bigger than it was just two or three years ago.
‘No. I’m nearly done, actually. Come in.’
‘I have a big favour to ask.’
I look at her in surprise because I can’t imagine what I can do that Ceana can’t sort for herself.
‘Fire away,’ I reply as I perch on the bed and indicate for her to take a seat on the chaise longue.
‘This is a gorgeous piece of furniture, isn’t it?’ she remarks. ‘Dee-Dee keeps saying she’ll whisk it away and work on it as one of the projects in her textiles workshop. The fabric is too moth-eaten to rescue. When we were all in here painting last week in preparation for your arrival, I nearly pinched it for my room.’ She chuckles.
‘Is every project around here a group thing? I don’t mean the teaching sessions with visitors, but when it comes to the property itself?’
‘More or less,’ she confirms. ‘Nico doesn’t charge us for accommodation, only a contribution towards the cost of our meals, but we all receive an equal share of the income. In return we help out in any way we can, in addition to running our individual sessions, of course.’
‘That must help him a little as it’s a big place to maintain.’
She nods. ‘He has injected a lot of money into bringing it back to its former glory. We sell surplus produce to the locals in summer, which brings in a little additional income. But money isn’t an issue for him. If he gets stuck, he simply sells another painting. His father left him a lot of canvases and his own work is growing in popularity. Have you heard of José Gallegos? Sad story, but his work only began to increase in value after his death. Nico’s work is very popular, though.’
I shake my head. ‘What an awful shame. That can’t have been easy for the family, but wonderful that Nico inherited his father’s talent.’
‘Oh, they didn’t get on and he says it’s only money. He’s the last of the family line and he has no children himself.’
Only money and money doesn’t bring happiness. The words have a familiar ring to them.
‘Anyway,’ Ceana continues, ‘Anton usually cycles up from the village to help out with the weeding every day. Some of our visitors prefer to do something simple and enjoy the fresh air, so he keeps an eye on them. It’s an easy task but necessary. Not everyone who comes here is eager to learn new skills and when that’s the case, something simple to do, a friendly face and a few kind words go a long way. Anton is good at that and he’s an excellent gardener. His wife is poorly at the moment, so Nico suggested I approach you to see whether you’d mind stepping in for him? Just to supervise a couple of our visitors for the morning session until he’s back. I’d really appreciate it.’
A sense of relief washes over me. ‘Of course. I can, at least, weed,’ I laugh. ‘Well, and supervise people weeding. When you talk about the guests, or visitors, what can I expect?’
‘Great, thanks for that. It is a retreat, but not to worry as it isn’t some sort of halfway house set-up. Nico advertises it as five days of hands-on activity. We don’t run classes at the weekends for people who opt to extend their stay, but they’re free to use the facilities. It’s very much aimed at people who need a break away from their everyday lives. Most folk battle some sort of stress, and I jokingly say this is the holiday for those who don’t want to go down the yoga route. Well, at the moment, anyway, but that might change in the future.
‘You end up getting similar health benefits because it’s an active week and a lot of it is outdoors. It’s all about recharging the batteries. We all believe it’s important to ensure no one feels out of place, or pressurised into joining in if they need quiet time. It’s okay here to just go off for a walk or sit and chill beneath a shady tree. That applies to tutors and volunteers, as well as visitors.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. When I found this place online and clicked on the tab about becoming a volunteer, it hadn’t occurred to me a retreat had more than one connotation. It just fascinated me, with so many different and interesting workshops on offer. The area, too, drew me in. I love the forest and I thought I’d feel a sense of peace here. Hopefully tinged with the familiar, as one of the holiday cottages we stayed in several times when I was a child is only a couple of miles away.’
It was the perfect solution for me. Free meals and accommodation in return for helping out. I told Aiden that I didn’t want him worrying about exceeding his share of the budget we’d allowed ourselves for this year. There are still bills to be paid to keep the house ticking over while we’re away. At least I feel I’m doing something constructive and not just frittering away our nest egg on a whim.
Ceana stands. ‘I can understand that. It’s quite a change in lifestyle for you, I should imagine. But Nico is very easy-going and I think you’ll love it here, Fern. We can usually tell from the outset if someone will fit in.’ She gives me an encouraging smile. ‘New visitors arrive by coach mid-morning every Monday. We do get the odd guest who arrives by car, but most fly in and are picked up at the airport. They settle in, grab a quick lunch and then do a short afternoon session. There are always a couple of newbies who opt for some gentle weeding rather than one of my horticultural teach-ins.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Sorry. My mother would be so impressed with me. She spends hours pottering in the garden and for much of my childhood I was her unwilling accomplice, so I’ve handled a weed or two.’
Ceana grins. ‘Well, we grow most of what we eat. Bastien is in charge of the livestock, as well as the forge. Taylor is our fisherman and there’s a lake in the woods if you ever fancy helping to catch dinner when fish is on the menu.’ She heads over towards the door, placing her hand on the embellished, cast-iron doorknob before turning back to look at me. A moment of hesitation passes over her face. ‘Nico is a lovely man, very passionate and fiery at times. Moody, too. When he’s not approachable, it’s usually best to leave him be, if you know what I mean.’
‘Oh, thanks for the heads-up, Ceana. Much appreciated.’
‘Sleep well,’ she says as she steps out onto the landing. ‘Breakfast is at eight.’
I watch as the door closes, reaching out for my phone to check if Aiden received my text. He’s on his way to Australia to begin his adventure as it’s a country he’s always longed to visit.
Glad you arrived safe and sound, babe. Another hour before I board the plane for the final leg of the journey. Sleep well. Love you. Miss you.
His reply was sent only twenty minutes ago. Maybe he couldn’t get a connection before that, who knows, but it’s strange not having that instant interaction. We’re apart by choice, but the choice was Aiden’s. I can’t let go of the feeling that he has let me down.
I lie back on the bed, looking up at the vaulted ceiling, and watch as a tiny black speck works its way around the large, suspended light fitting. The little spider is on an epic journey and I know exactly how it feels.
5
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br /> Feeling My Way
After breakfast, everyone heads off to prepare for the visitors. I stay behind as Nico wants to talk to me about my work schedule. He’s going to give me the general tour, but he received a call a few minutes ago and had to dash off to sort out a problem. So, I’m left all alone, loitering, as I await his return.
The inside of this stone building is mostly open-plan. Looking up to the rafters, it’s partially boarded on one half, which houses some rusty-looking lifting equipment. I’m guessing it’s a former hayloft. The flagstone floor is well-worn, but there’s nothing shabby about the interior, it’s rustic. Simple. Clean. Well kept.
I wander over to the back of the room; the huge dining table is dwarfed by the amount of space. A scattering of assorted chairs of all shapes and sizes, together with several sofas, help to soften the acoustics.
In one corner, there is a library of books and magazines, next to which is a small table with tea- and coffee-making facilities. In front of me are two doors. Opening the first one, I see a toilet and shower room. The second one leads into the kitchen and I’m surprised to see a cheerful, smiling face peering back at me.
‘Ah, the new lady.’ A rather portly French woman, dressed all in black, is loading up one of two dishwashers. She smiles across at me.
‘Bonjour. I’m Fern, Fern Wyman,’ I introduce myself, and she stops what she’s doing for a moment, half turning to face me.
‘Margot Bressan. I hope you eat most things?’ She looks at me in earnest.
‘Oh, yes, I’m easy to please.’
She nods. I wish my French was better, but I’ve learnt from the past that if I offer more than a few words of French, then it gives the misleading impression I’m fluent. In fact, I can’t keep up as most French people talk very fast and I generally only manage to pick up snippets. And that’s not an easy way to conduct a conversation.
