A Chateau of One's Own

by Sam Juneau

  The hard part came when I had to show my scant knowledge of Gaelic and that obscure Irish pastime, Gaelic football. Deadly subjects for a man brought up on twangy English and baseball. I hardly knew the name of the prime minister or even how to pronounce what they called their leader. I think they say ‘Taoiseach’; sounds like ‘tea-shuck’, or thereabouts. Not promising. The France option was looking better every moment.

  Once again, I hopped on a cheap flight, this time from Dublin to Belgium, hired a car and headed down to the chateau. The irony did cross my mind: buying cheap, cattle-carrier, no-seats-assigned airline tickets because it is what I could afford, while planning to buy a grand estate? Foie gras taste, hamburger budget.

  I found my way to the town and to the chateau without incident. The sun was bright, the day cool and crisp, the full glory of spring waiting to burst forth, a bit of hope in the air. I turned tentatively down the long, slightly mangled entrance road, passing the enormous trees. I felt a little nauseous as I drove along. The implications of the task at hand – the endless work, the difficulty of leaving the US behind, all the fears of creating an entirely new life abroad – weighed heavily on my racing mind.

  I inched my way around the front of the house. The chateau looked tired. Every window and door was surrounded by that ever-present tuffeau. Again, I could see just how much was crumbling, torn off by winds, storms, freezing and thawing. Balzac once famously said that tuffeau was good for only 150 years.

  I could see now, clearly, all the doors and windows were a sort of putrid brown. I thought defensively, the chateau was more than 300 years old: nothing a few licks of paint couldn’t fix. Oh, and the bank account of a Saudi prince. I could see small chunks missing from the large and imposing pediment perched squarely in the middle of the roof, erected in one of the final renovations of the 1850s. Moulded purely from tuffeau, it was adorned with large rosettes, pilasters and a chunky, wide cornice. Placed prominently in the middle was a grand heraldic feature with the letters ‘N’ and ‘A’ imposed on the universal Masonic symbol of a carpenter’s rule. Philippe had told us the letters signified two families, Nepveu and Abrams, united by a couple blessed with the chateau in the mid nineteenth century. It was this same family who played host from time to time in the 1860s to Napoleon III, the last emperor of France. I was delighted with the ‘N’. No one need know the name ‘Nepveu’. Guests could be informed of the role the great Napoleon (sans the ‘III’) played in the history of our chateau. I ambled around the outside of the house, a new feeling of pride welling up as I thought of my many hours searching for my own little domain. In the weeks since our last visit, Philippe had faxed reams of information to us, whetting our appetites to learn more about the castle.

  I had spent hours studying a dry yet informative book called Country Houses of Ireland. The author’s outlines always included the number of bays, storeys, a description of the interior, special features and a short history. The book was enough to put the most studious architect to sleep but I squeezed immense enjoyment out of this effete pursuit. My pipe-smoking role model might have written about the object of our own affection as follows:

  ‘Château du Bonchamps. A vast seventeenth- and nineteenth-century chateau in the Louis XIII style. A large central edifice comprising a gallery of 40 metres and salons built in 1684. The owners, obscure minor aristocrats, chose to enlarge the main building in the mid 1800s with two unwieldy and rather tall wings joined by said gallery. Immense pediment placed on the central building with the letters ‘N&A’ transposed over Masonic symbolism. More than 30 rooms, 156 large double windows in the French style, 22 marble fireplaces. A splendid wood-carved library with oak mantelpiece. Plaster rosettes in the main gallery and throughout salons and bedrooms. A large outbuilding complex to the south-west of the main house comprising stables, servants’ quarters, chicken coops, dog kennels. 30,000 square feet of French provincial hubris. A particularly handsome ‘plan d’eau’, or pond, in front. 40 acres of woods and prairies with dozens species of trees as was the custom from the early 1600s to the present. The property was the seat of the de Sibille fiefdom commencing in 1507. Main house constructed in seventeenth century, seized during the revolution in 1793 and passed down to 1969. Napoleon III visited Bonchamps several times in the early 1860s. The family fell on hard times after WWII, closing down a large portion of the north wing of the chateau. Up until recently, run as an association for Down’s syndrome adults.’

  As I stared at the great pile like a deer caught in the headlights, I noticed a figure a couple of hundred metres up the drive at the outbuildings. I couldn’t quite make it out, but it appeared to be a man in work clothes hovering around a bush. I started up the lane to meet this trespasser.

  ‘Bonjour,’ I said.

  ‘Bonjour,’ a soft voice returned. I was surprised to realise the voice belonged to a woman.

  I explained myself in my poor, yeoman’s French. Translation: ‘I am Sam. I want buy chateau. I went to America.’ I might as well have said, ‘Hi, I am a brash American. Was your father a collaborator in the war?’

  ‘I am Madame Pernod, the daughter-in-law of the owner. I was cutting some flowers,’ she said. Ah, this was JehanClaude’s wife, Marie-Christine. Philippe had told us about the couple and their unsuccessful attempts to buy the chateau. She was clipping away at a very old, lovely chrysanthemum tree.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘We live down the road but worked here for eight years,’ she said. Then, quite suddenly, ‘We wanted to buy the chateau from my father-in-law.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, my father-in-law has a new wife, a second wife, and she wants the money. He must sell to keep the estate from his first wife, Jehan-Claude’s mother.’ At this, her eyes glistened and a small tear formed in the corner of her eye.

  ‘C’est triste,’ I managed.

  ‘Oui, c’est triste. Would you like some flowers?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  With that, she fashioned the most perfect little bouquet of flowers I had ever seen. She handed them to me and we started toward the chateau.

  ‘I understand you will stay in the chateau tonight?’

  ‘I would like to.’

  I had arranged with the owner, through Philippe, to stay the night. Marie-Christine let me in to the galerie, a long hall for hanging paintings. It was dark and dank. She turned on the electricity for one wing and started the hot water in case I wanted a shower. She pointed out old mattresses and blankets from the institution. I thanked her and saw her to the door.

  Two months after we had put down the deposit, here I was. Two months of arguments and exasperation. I didn’t know where to begin. I scurried around counting the rooms, trying desperately to notice details and take stock of the vastness of the chateau.

  It was much as I had remembered, but worse. It seemed every square inch of wall was covered in that ghastly 1970s wallpaper. Not classic, vintage paper, but mouldy coverings from arguably the worst fashion period in the history of the world. The vinyl coverings were blighted with browns and oranges and sick greens, unfit for a French chateau. For what seemed like hours, I could not find a bathroom. In the end, there were two. Thirty-odd rooms and two bathrooms. The chateau had come to reflect the character of four years’ abandonment. Neglected, makeshift, forlorn.

  I finally stumbled upon the kitchen; hideous and semi-industrial, stainless steel and white tile everywhere, massive functional appliances and brown and white machine-made floor tilings. Not the quaint French country kitchen we’d really wanted. There were plenty of other negatives too. As Bud had noticed, it seemed the institution had replaced all of the doors on the first floor with cheap particle board. I glided through rooms in a daze. Titillated by all the possibility, anxious at the same time by the scope of work needed. Mould, damp and darkness met me at every turn. And that wallpaper.

  Amid this tour of decorative tragedy was the odd bright spot. The fireplaces were sumptuous, mostl
y marble and carved with colourful slabs of emerald, burgundy, grey and black. Each one presented beautifully against well-plastered walls. The main stairs had a solidly crafted wrought-iron banister and polished steps with a large art deco stained glass window in the central part, impressive if a bit odd in a seventeenth-century chateau.

  It seems the old family, the Nepveus, had money until roughly World War I or II, then just flat ran out. You could see they continued to make additions and refinements up until the 1920s. But as the Ancien Régime slipped into the past, the aristocrats and grand estates slipped with it. People moved to the cities to find work, society moved on. Cheap workers, domestiques, became scarce and the houses suffered. The monster hulks of former times were left to decay like discarded carcasses. Why had I gone back? What did I hope to find in this once elegant, now defunct world?

  The north wing had a servants’ staircase handsomely carved of oak and ascending four flights into the vast grenier, or attic. The final stairs in the south wing were made of walnut. I couldn’t see the banister as it was covered with two thin walls of plasterboard.

  As it grew dark, I decided to end my melancholic tour and go into town for a bite to eat. I rolled down our long lane and onto the main road. Along the two or three kilometres to Châteauneuf, I passed through a small gully and was immediately struck by a putrid, all-encompassing smell. Incroyable. It took my breath away and I quickly breathed through my mouth. Must be the scent of an active countryside, I thought.

  A couple of minutes later, in Châteauneuf, I found a handsome country restaurant along the banks of the River Sarthe, in a nineteenth-century maison bourgeoise that may once have held the local notary public or town doctor. It was covered in sprouting ivy and decorated throughout in slightly dated though appealing floral prints.

  ‘Bonjour,’ I proudly asserted to the hostess. Always greet the owner and acknowledge his or her presence. This appears to be a universal necessity of daily life in France. The French tend to be formal and respect of this custom can bring many good things. It is a custom that allows the owner of the restaurant, shop or bar to know that you recognise their proprietorship, respect their place and are willing to proceed on their terms. More importantly, the simple hello is a clear acknowledgement that they deserve the greeting. Simple yet remarkably effective human courtesy.

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur. Est-ce qu’on prend un apéritif?’

  ‘Oui, merci. Un kir, s’il vous plaît.’

  I sat down, scanned the menu and ordered quickly. I started, like a good Frenchman, with a kir, a champagne-raspberry cocktail, to clean the palate. This was followed slowly by a pot of ‘rillettes’, a local confection of coarse pork pâté. I spread the mixture expectantly on a baguette, remembering my first experience of this delicacy from my studies 12 years ago in the region, near Tours. At the time, I was a student of Georgetown University in Washington, DC. I was enrolled in the School of Foreign Service, Bill Clinton’s alma mater. One of the more onerous requirements for graduation from this particular school was the need to pass a proficiency exam in a language other than your own. I had started my college career with French, detested it, dropped out of all my French classes and was left to scramble at the end. I headed off to Tours for three months the summer after my class graduated. I managed to just barely pass the proficiency retake through the help of a very attentive local French girl and a few bottles of wine. My first experience of Europe. So the infatuation truly began.

  The rillettes were deeply satisfying despite being a heaped dose of pork fat mingled in with thick shreds of pork. My next course offered another sensory onslaught with small, perfectly rounded medallions of rare duck, complemented by small rinds of duck fat hugging the edges of these tender morsels. Heaven.

  As I ordered chocolate-slathered profiteroles, the maîtresse stopped by my table.

  ‘Ça va?’ she proffered.

  ‘Oui, tout va bien.’ We continued in French.

  ‘Are you visiting the area. A tourist?’

  ‘Not really. I am buying a house near here.’

  ‘Yes? Which one? ‘Do you know the Château du Bonchamps? Near Juvardeil?’

  ‘Château du Bonchamps?’

  ‘Yes, Château du Bonchamps.’

  ‘The chateau at Juvardeil?’

  ‘Yes, it’s big, with woods and a pond.’

  I think my French was not so bad that she did not understand me. She simply couldn’t believe what I was saying.

  ‘Do you know it?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, my husband and I looked at it to buy.’

  ‘Really? What happened?’

  ‘Oh, too many works. The place is falling down.’

  This seemed to be the consensus among in-the-know French property buyers.

  ‘What will you do with it?’ she asked, a small, in-the-know smile crossing her lips.

  ‘We want to run a chambre d’hôtes.’

  A burst of laughter popped out and she managed, ‘Bon courage!’

  Very comforting. Of course, everyone knew what a Sisyphean challenge Bonchamps presented. It seemed all the locals and indeed all the French who had viewed the house realised it was a lost cause. I felt slightly foolish.

  I waited for my café but it didn’t arrive. Not for the first time, I felt ignored, unloved even, as I waited patiently for this coffee. My usual dining experiences told me coffee arrives with the dessert. Not in France. In France, the coffee is another course, the fourth or fifth, never to be taken with the dessert. It should be savoured as the digestif that it is – after the dessert, by itself, perfect in its substance, serving its proper purpose to excite the body into digesting a rich meal.

  My new friend offered me a cognac on the house, probably overcome with compassion for my chosen lot. The four-course meal confirmed the urgent necessity to move to a place that treated eating as a solemn ritual. London and New York and other modern-day gastronomic centres offer delightful culinary creations these days, and some might say France is no longer the centre of power in the food world. But I would say a good French country meal is still unparalleled in Western civilisation. The goodness of it is indigenous, it grows from the terroir and the people who will not tolerate bad food. While the very best of British or American food is excellent, the key to a true gastronomic society is to have the best food available all the time at all levels of eating. This is food art. Vive la France.

  I finished a small bottle of exquisite Côtes-du-Rhône and drove back to the chateau. As I was driving, something struck me. Roughly two kilometres out of town, again, a smell worthy of the eighth ring of Dante’s Inferno engulfed the car. I had noticed it on our first visit but ignored the nuisance in a rush to embrace my chateau. Here it was again like a bad rash. This was unmistakable. Not quite sulphurous, but invasive, like rotting flesh. I had once made a documentary on death scene investigators in New Orleans. During my time on the beat, I filmed a number of autopsies. An unforgettable, unique smell that makes grown men cry and hardy souls faint. This was like that. I drove around and found only what appeared to be an abandoned factory. I would have to investigate in the daylight.

  Nearing the chateau, I passed a house, a farm really, situated directly across our pond. The farm might have been part of the original estate but had been sold off about fifteen years ago, according to Philippe. The pond was actually a small lake, filled with fish and surrounded by willows, sycamores and oaks. In times past, the estate workers would have used it for laundry and watering the animals around the property that would feed the estate. It currently served the aesthetic purpose of reflecting the image of the castle.

  My curiosity got the best of me so I decided to drop in on our neighbours. Maybe they had an idea of where the smell was coming from. It wasn’t too late, I hoped, to visit. I entered the farmyard, which was flanked on two sides by large, cavernous sheds and dilapidated stone buildings. These simple, two-storeyed buildings were vaguely in the same style as our outbuildings. Sand-covered stone, slate roof and brick and
tuffeau decoration. This, all part of the thousand-acre estate belonging to Bonchamps in the old days.

  The yard was illuminated by a very powerful spotlight. One could find here almost any tool or motorised piece of equipment produced in the early to mid twentieth century. As I pulled in, a clamour rose that made my heart stop. I couldn’t find the source of the noise but it sounded like ducks.

  I got out of the car, took two steps and was blind-sided by an aggressive and determined gaggle of geese. The noise was deafening. One took a chance and poked me in the forearm with his beak. I darted to the front door and knocked. The lady of the house answered, cracking the door open gingerly so I could see just one eye.

  I explained my presence and she reluctantly let me in. I entered a small vestibule, then a kitchen where several large men were seated with very serious looks on their faces. One was an extremely large man with the face of a young boy, a bum leg and a slightly turned eye. He appeared harmless if not a little unsettling. They all sported blue overalls befitting local custom among agrarians in France. Ancient leather boots were flung haphazardly around the place like forgotten toy soldiers. A fire blazed up from a monumental stone fireplace.

  They offered me wine out of an unmarked bottle and gave me a small glass. I related my meeting with the geese in my broken French. Everybody laughed. And laughed. Several of them made flapping motions and pecked each other on the arm. Meanwhile, my arm was grower blacker from the bruise. Very funny, it seemed.

  I told them I was looking to buy the chateau across the way. This was met with general bemusement and curiosity. Now for the big question:

  ‘What is the smell around here?’ I ventured.

  The farmers looked at me, a whiff of Gallic indignation in the air. ‘It’s probably the cows. We have a cow farm, about seventy, all milk,’ the patriarch said. He was a small man, unlike the rest. He had a rounded, stringy moustache and long hair down past his shoulders. As he spoke, his left eye rolled out sideways, spying, I think, the fire, as the other eye fixed me good.