I went to visit this château on my own initially. The plan was I would go to see exactly how bad a state it was in before the whole family committed to a trip. Even though the damage was extensive, it was beautiful, in a lovely hilltop setting. There was no doubt that we could have done something special there.
It all sounds very rock and roll: a quick return trip to Biarritz to check out a château, but it didn’t turn out quite like that. As I was returning the hire car to Biarritz airport, there was a snap air traffic controller strike called across France. The only airport that Angela could find open for me to get back home was in Perpignan, a four-and-a-half-hour journey away, all the way along the Pyrenees from the Atlantic coast to the Mediterranean. And I had just over four hours to get there or I’d need to drive for nearly eleven hours to Calais in the hire car. I did just manage to get there, with one minor speeding infringement, but it made us think again about where exactly we were looking for in properties. Top of the new list of criteria: we needed it to be located in a part of France that allowed us to return to London in less than a day, no matter what.
Over the course of a couple of years we got into a fairly slick routine when it came to viewing properties. I would scour the internet to find beautiful ‘maybes’ in the correct price bracket (we were looking at properties listed for between £100,000 to £300,000), then we would contact the estate agent to see where exactly the properties were so we could get a feel for the surroundings. This was notoriously difficult as the estate agents are very secretive as there is sometimes more than one selling agent and they don’t want to lose possible commission.
On one occasion we made a rather long trip to visit a château only to discover it shared the forecourt with a garage. On another we visited a truly beautiful château that had an industrial chicken farm less than thirty metres from the back door. The agents just did not want to give exact addresses in case you find this stuff out, but we are fast learners and Dick started to use Google Maps to have a good look around first. He would even look for shadows to determine the orientation of the building. We also started to ask for the cadastral *. They were invaluable and meant we could get a real feel for what we were going to see. I love a surprise as much as anyone, but not after a day’s travel with two young kids to find it was not worth it! When we had lined up enough properties of interest, we would organise a trip, sometimes as a family and sometimes for Dick to go and view a few in one day.
We were serious about buying our new home and consequently my day trips were gruelling, and frequent. I’d leave home at 4am and get the 6am Eurotunnel, drive down to the area where the properties were, view a couple and then get back for the late-evening train, which meant I got home between midnight and 2am. We tried to do as much research as possible in advance but sometimes I just had to see for myself. One château I visited was absolutely massive and on the edge of a national forest. The décor had been trashed as it had been used for raves, but it came with many acres, lovely outbuildings and a habitable cottage. From the photos it looked too good to be true … until you saw it. Never mind the decoration, walls had been removed, mass toilet complexes had been (badly) installed and every bit of wiring and plumbing had been ripped from the walls and floors. Squatters had turned it into what looked like an horrific modern installation. Needless to say, it was not for us.
There were many frustrations and disappointments before we found the ‘one’. And, as time went on, our list of wishes (and wish-nots) grew. I never knew what an orangery was until I started looking, but once I saw one it went on the ‘must-have’ list. In a practical sense an orangery is a building, or conservatory, to protect your citrus trees from frosts during the depths of winter. But they tend to be beautiful, elegant winter gardens and are truly magical to look at. Dick’s dream was to have workshops, a walled garden and a moat. And we both knew that we needed to find a property with a roof in goodish order as our budget would never stretch to a new one straight away.
In early 2014, we found the ‘nearly one’: a beautiful property on the outskirts of Châteauponsac, near Limoges. It was nearly right. It lacked the fairy-tale symmetry we had been searching for, but it was affordable and in a lovely location – it even had a gorgeous boulangerie at the end of the road where we could see my mum and dad taking the kids to get their fresh baguettes in the morning.
Some months later, we returned to see the château near Châteauponsac to confirm if the outbuildings had as much potential as we remembered. Angel’s parents, Jenny and Steve, had come with us on this trip and we were having breakfast in the hotel when an email arrived that gave all of us goosepimples. An estate agent with whom we had seen a previous property had sent us the details of a château that was about to go on the market. When we opened the email the pictures alone made us catch our breaths. It was classified as a ‘small château’ but it looked exactly like what we had dreamt of. If not better. It had a moat, an orangery, a walled garden, tons of outbuildings and it looked like the interiors had been untouched – and, best of all, the price was also within our budget. On 9 October 2014 we met Château-de-la-Motte Husson, and it was love at first sight.
There had to be a catch, but our excitement was such that we were packing up and organising an immediate viewing within minutes. With apologies to the agent who was supposed to be showing us around that day, we headed north. I can’t remember anyone even mentioning the idea of stopping for a pee break. We were on a mission. A mission that took four and a half hours. Angela must have said ‘We should call and put an offer in’ every ten minutes. I did try explaining that we had an appointment at 2pm and that the agent wouldn’t be showing anyone else around in the interim but still Angela fretted. I have to be honest, if something had happened in that period, I’m not quite sure what Angela’s response would have been, but I know it would have been bloody. But as my mum always says, ‘If it’s meant for you, it’ll not go by you.’
Being sent what I believed we had been looking for, for four years, was a big deal. I just knew it was going to be our happy ending – or, I should probably say, our happy beginning. Not only was this place like a fairy tale, it had everything on our list and had only ever been owned by one family: the Bagliones. I guess there is no point in picking old scabs, especially as all worked out OK in the end, but writing this and reliving my aggravation, Dick not allowing us to put in an offer still makes no sense to me nearly six years later!
When we arrived at Martigné-sur-Mayenne, we were very pleasantly surprised. To be honest we had not heard anything about the département *of the Mayenne, which is just south of Normandy and to the very north of the Pays de la Loire. There are so many stunning villages in France: the flowers, the artisan bakers, the butchers. Many are simply idyllic and you quickly get a sense of how large or small the community is. Most have a pharmacy and a hairdresser, some also have a boulangerie and a few have a couple more shops beyond. As we drove across France that morning, we decided it was essential to have at least a boulangerie. It was important for how we saw our life.
The village definitely fell into the idyllic category. It was small and felt very friendly. Tick. There was a charming mairie * with an abundance of flowers outside. Tick. A boulangerie, a convenience store, two hairdressers, two banks, a restaurant, a tabac, a primary school and rather grand church, a florist and a beauty salon. Tick, tick and tick.
I cannot explain the desire for this to be our forever home and for everyone to love it. I knew I already did but Dick was playing with a poker face, I think to calm me. And I also wanted my parents to love it. I could not imagine my mum and dad not moving to France with us, and being part of our adventure.
So that brings us back to the start, the beginning and the unforgettable moment when we all gasped in astonishment as we saw the Château-de-la-Motte Husson for the very first time.
As we turned the corner, the elegance of the château took hold of every sense. But the 200 metres stretching ahead of us up the driveway before we arrived at the
front door allowed my mind not to panic and take everything in. Dick drove slowly, or it seemed slow. The forest of trees on the left and the right were gorgeous but I had no idea how exciting it really was or how much fun exploring them would bring to our family. The standalone 1920s orangery was as glorious as it was in the picture. I remember thinking nothing is ever as good in real life, but this was better. Even the outbuildings, which we’d found are often ugly, had their own elegance. I must have had hundreds of thoughts within seconds: what part of the château would we live in? Which areas would we use for the business? Which rooms would be good for Mum and Dad? And endless other possibilities and questions that nearly stopped me talking. Then we were there: the front door. And what a front door it was!
I’m sure Angela and I both had the same mix of excitement and relief at this point because we had done it; we’d found our château. Though I think I proved that I am at least a little bit sensible by insisting that we look inside before the offer was made. Which is exactly what we did. Climbing the fourteen majestic, very solid granite steps up to the ‘ground’ floor just increased our anticipation. The key to get in the imposing front door was huge and in keeping with a château, which pleased us. Turning it made a meaty clunk as the lock mechanism rotated and, after a bit of jiggling with the handles, we got our first view of the insides.
We had to pause and breathe so we could take in the high ceilings, the sculptured stonework, the enormous doors into the rooms and the amazing double staircase that led away and swept up to the left and right … It was spectacular. It was dark and smelt musty and the peeling wallpaper was very busy but wonderfully original. Looking around the ground floor, the salon, the small snug, the dining room, the service kitchen and the bureau showed every room to be tired but thankfully untouched. We galloped around the rest of the château to confirm there were no walls missing or major disaster areas. We commented on every view and marvelled at every room but we did it in a blur, as we knew this was right and we had to get down to business. Within twenty minutes we had made an offer and it had been accepted. Well, sort of.
The truth is, it actually took longer than expected to have our offer accepted, mainly because there was an anomaly on the cadastral. While the walled garden was included on the map, one quarter of it was not coloured in. The agent told us, ‘Oh, that bit is being sold separately as a plot with the large barn that has permission to be a three-bedroom house.’ Well, there was no way we could have someone living in our walled garden. It was a deal-breaker for us. We made our position very clear and, as the buyer was still a couple of days away from committing and signing, the sellers decided they would sell us everything. The price went up by €50,000 to €395,000 but it was still within our budget and the sale was agreed.
We knew from experience how easy it was to forget the details when you were back in the UK, so as we set off to explore our château in full, we took copious notes, photos and videos. In my videos you will see the location of old electric cables, sewage and plumbing issues, the condition of windows and general areas to be addressed. For me, if you are looking around a property seriously you have to pause in every doorway, orientate yourself and methodically sweep around the room. There were just so many rooms. Apart from the ground floor and the first floor, where the rooms were traditionally for ‘high-status’ guests, and the only rooms guests could expect to see, every other floor had lots of functional rooms for children, or the staff, for storing, for ironing or for working in.
In the basement, the cellarage took up half the floorspace with cider caves, good and less good wine caves, and then there were the preserves rooms, with shelf upon shelf of empty glass preserve jars and containers. The utility room was all but empty but in the cold room there were the remains of the cupboards with fine-mesh windows, which is where cheese and meat and other perishables would have been kept in the days before refrigeration. There was an amazing sink for cleaning vegetables in the base of the western tower, adjacent to the main kitchen and pantry. It was nearly six feet across but only four inches deep, complete with hand pump, though sadly not connected. Every window on this level had sturdy bars securing it.
I knew just by what Dick and I were filming that we had different agendas. It’s who and what we are. In my footage, you see the wonderful wallpaper, the incredible floors, the views of dappled light, the woodwork, the steel works – not plumbing and electrics. The contrast is clear to see. We are a team and, without even discussing it, we had divided up the tasks and captured it all.
First impressions are everything and, when I walked through the front door across the hexagonal flooring and pictured our guests walking in and having the same experience, excitement filled my heart. The grand wooden symmetrical doors that lead off the breathtaking entrance into the salon and the salle-à-manger were exactly the right height. The staircase – the double-revolution staircase – was too much to take in and I could hardly speak for excitement. It’s hard to articulate this, but there is the finest line in having a grand house. We wanted somewhere that was impressive enough to hold weddings but would also feel like a home. What I was seeing was perfection. The château was a happy place and you could feel it. Every room I entered showed signs of elegance and that the previous custodians had cared for every detail. Faded glory came to mind. Every room told a different story and even though there was no furniture, the curtains, wallpapers, windows and flooring were more than enough to bring the picture to life.
It felt like a couple of hours passed in seconds as we moved through all forty-five rooms in turn. Then we started to investigate the outbuildings and the grounds. As we did, a tractor turned up, driven by Jacques De Baglion, a very French gentleman with open arms and a big smile. He was being followed on foot by his wife, Isabelle De Baglion, who we watched walk round from the far side of the moat with their dog Inox to come and welcome us.
We all said our bonjours and Dick and Jacques made me giggle: they are both such alpha males, but within an instant a firm handshake turned into a hug. It felt to me like the Bagliones needed to meet us (and to like us); as if they needed to see who the next custodians of their family home would be. We were to become only the second family ever to have owned this château after all. They seemed delighted that it was going to a family and could not have been more helpful and lovely. Within no time at all, Jacques had Arthur up on the tractor driving around. They were buddies.
Then we all walked across to the orangery together, where we spotted an ancient quince tree laden with fruit. It smelt incredible and a bit of pidgin French later we quickly discovered that they harvested the ‘coing’ every year and made quince cheese or jelly. We love quince and were really excited as we had never had the ability to make our own jelly. It felt pretty presumptuous to just take the quince, but Isabelle and Jacques must have realised this and instructed us to help ourselves. We did and promised to bring them back some of our preserves. They said we’d do a swap for some of theirs and an entente cordiale was well and truly established. We ended up with a huge bag of the pear-like fruit to take back to the UK. The sweet, perfumed smell in the car all the way home was a brilliant reminder of what was to come.
We spent hours walking and talking, first on our own, then with Jacques and Isabelle, planning and looking at what was soon to be ours. Along the southern side of the walled garden, away from the château, we discovered that, in addition to the barn we had stopped being sold to someone else, we had also bought a second barn with planning permission for a three-bedroom residence. It was all getting better and better. No doubt this would have been the next bit of the estate to have been sold off, but, no matter, it was to be ours now.
We fought our way into the walled garden, where we discovered the potager*; it had been neglected for decades but the potential was immense. Walking in the walled garden was not easy. Nature had reclaimed its 2,800 square metres and underfoot was a tangle of brambles, grasses and weeds, but were some ancient fruit trees that alluded to its former glory. Agai
nst the walls were some deformed old pear trees that would once have been pruned to perfection, and a plum and a cherry tree that now appeared randomly placed, but must have been positioned with some thought in the garden’s heyday. A true indication of the neglect were the numerous forty-foot-high sycamore trees that had started as self-seeded weeds and were now a major feature of the garden. They’d have to go. We knew the garden would have to wait, as our priority had to be the château, but nonetheless the potential was incredible and my smile was making my face ache.
By the time we had to leave or else camp out for the night, we were deeply happy and excited for what lay ahead. Our minds were racing. It was purely by chance that we had a cameraman with us the very first time we saw the château. We always thought it was an interesting idea to make a television series about the adventure we had planned and were filming a bit of a ‘taster’ video. There was so much we could do, and so much we would do. Now we had to arrange all these thoughts into a sensible order so a plan could form.
* * *
* The notary.
* Aveyron cheese and potato puree – what’s not to love about that?
* Wild boar.
* The plan of the plot with each building and subplot numbered and detailed as to whether or not it is included in the sale.
* Départements are the administrative divisions within France. There are ninety-four in total.
* The mairie is the administrative centre of a town or village. Similar to a town hall or mayor’s office.
* The vegetable garden.
An original architectural illustration of Château-de-la-Motte Husson.
A Year at the Chateau Page 2
