We arrive and climb a mountain staircase ("It's a bit of a climb but it's worth it for the view" says Charlotte the owner, creator, builder and sculptor of this wonderful, wonderful house) and up onto the wooden landing, half inside, and out there is mountain after mountain and forest upon forest, and B, who has been moaning that he wants to go home for the latter part of the journey, announces with almost extravert enthusiasm: I LOVE IT HERE, a phrase much repeated throughout the week.
Earth has not anything to show more fair, surely Wordsworth would agree upon this view...morning light on the eastern veranda and sunset on the western terrace, an extacy of beauty, almost too much to bear...
Every window a picture, the smell of the sweet oaks, the rustle of the sun...
The house, sculpted and moulded into the mountainside, its supporting pillars flourishing like trees and trees flourishing against the supporting pillars...
 |
| Outer wall, west terrace |
 |
| A threshold... |
...ceilings vaulted like the sky, where song, recorder and guitar bound. Textured and nuanced and rounded, soft places to read and sleep, points of detail, doorways and ladders and surprises...a temple to the art of living.
 |
| R rises...and wakes |
 |
| A single dahlia at each table |
Garden carved from mountain, nature awake at the window and tapping at the door...oh the beauty, the beauty of this place...
 |
| 7 branched candelabra |
 |
| Bark close up |
 |
| Oak leaning towards the house and away from his Silver Birch neighbour |
 |
| Field of fallen plums |
 |
| Sun jewels |
But alas, you cannot go there, and I cannot go there again, for Charlotte has met her monk and is leaving all this for a cloister in town with him, and the house is taken, rented out, paradise found and lost...many tears shed, joy, fulfilment, and longing.
http://www.a-gites.com/siteweb29261/
