Category Archives: Les Maisons

Latest Review of La Maison des Deux Clochers – Our 18th Century village house in Magny-les-Villers

Nadia Craig from Montreal just sent us a great review for her recent stay at our 18th Century village house La Maison des Deux Clochers.  Merci Beaucoup et à bientôt Nadia, Ben & Josephine!


Hi Franck & Laura,

We absolutely loved our stay at La Maison des Deux Clochers. What a beautiful home you have created. We had everything we needed in the fully stocked kitchen, and slept incredibly well in your comfortable bed. The baby cot was so cute and comfy and our daughter slept well too. The binders of information were invaluable in helping us find restaurants, activities, grocery stores and, of course, winemakers!

The welcome bottle of wine was the perfect end to a long day on the road to get to your house from Brussels, on a very rainy drive. It was also one of our favourites, though sadly we didn’t make it to Naudin-Ferrand because of poor planning on our part, and weekend and a national holiday getting in the way!

We loved the location, nestled in the vineyards. Tiny Magny-les-Villers is a great jumping off point for everything in the region. We spent lots of time in Beaune, sometimes eating dinner there, other times coming home to cook the goodies we’d picked up at the market or one of the fabulous grocery stores (we loved E. Leclerc and Grand Frais).

We were lucky enough to stumble upon the wine festival in Savigny les Beaune, and spent the afternoon wandering around that beautiful town, tasting many a delicious wine, including some fabulous cremant!

Some other highlights – Patriarche wine tasting was lots of fun, so neat to see their cellars; vespers service at l’Abbaye de Citeaux was a good rainy day activity, Chateau Rochepot was a beautiful spot; and of course, the Hospice de Beaune is a must see.

Our week was not enough to scratch the surface of all the wonderful activities. We will hopefully be back again one day soon for more!

Many thanks to both of you.

Nadia, Ben & Josephine

The Grape Years – La Maison des Deux Clochers

I’m a day late in posting this, so I posted a much longer excerpt than usual today.  This picks up as Franck convinces me to join him up in the idyllic hideaway on the top floor of one of the barns while touring the property for sale in Marey, despite the realtor’s protests that we are going to fall through the ceiling!

 

 

This was perhaps the only chance for Franck and I to whisper our opinions to each other away from the realtor.

I pushed thoughts of rotting floorboards and termites from my mind and scrabbled up the last few rungs. Such worries were slightly unnerving, but in a reassuring, concrete way. They were infinitely preferable to the other kind of anxiety that had been running in a continuous loop through my mind in the past two years – “Am I going crazy? Am I having a heart attack?” “What if I just stop breathing?”
My head poked out just over the level of the wooden beams and Franck, beaming, grabbed my hand and pulled me up beside him.

Franck led me, boards creaking ominously under out feet, to the far end of the mezzanine to a little waist high stone wall. His arm wrapped around my shoulders as we gazed out to a stunning and completely uninterrupted view over the vineyards. He kissed my earlobe.   “You could write here.”

I fingered an ivy leaf from the vine that perfectly framed the view.

“I can’t believe how perfect it is,” I said, mesmerized. I could become someone else here – someone who didn’t struggle on a daily basis with black thoughts and fear – I felt that in every cell of my body.

Still…how could we possibly make it work? How was I supposed to live here and also finish my masters at Oxford then establish a legal career in London? But still, this place was perfect. Everything about buying the property seemed so easy and self-evident, like it was meant to be.

Even if I was miserable practicing law, how could anything go truly badly when I owned a place such a magical place as this? A wave of need almost knocked me off my feet. This sacred little spot represented everything that I yearned for – safety, protection, belonging…even a bit of immortality – all of those butterflies I had never managed to pin down in my life. I felt all of my zen-like faith pop like a soap bubble. My bones ached with desperation to make this place my own.

Franck must have sensed the sudden urgency in my mood because he squeezed my shoulder and tilted his head towards the real estate agent pacing the grange floor below us.
“Don’t let on how much we like it,” Franck said. “He’ll realize that he’s priced it too low.”

I nodded. It would be difficult, but I knew it was essential.

We made our way back down the ladder and Franck lost no time in telling the realtor that indeed most of the floorboards had been rotten up there. “Termites, sans doute,” Franck concluded off-handedly.

I followed as Franck led us all back to the first low-slung house and pointed at the roofline. “That house will need to be entirely re-roofed.” Now that Franck pointed it out, I noticed that the tiles did undulate like a wave. Franck clicked his tongue. “The beams will probably have to be replaced as well.”

We made our way back towards the gate as Franck enumerated the herculean amount of repairs required, the epic number of hours it would take every week to mow the very substantial hunk of land, and the constant danger of children falling down the very charming old stone well that Franck laid his hand on as he pulled to a stop.

I hadn’t noticed any of these things before, but I couldn’t deny that they were all true. My palm itched to slap Franck. He was ruining the spell the property had cast over me, even if it was merely to put the realtor off our scent. This house was destined for us, damn the roof and the rot and the backbreaking lawnmowing.

As Franck gave the well a final, dismissive pat I felt a piercing pain under my baby toe. The pain hop-scotched down the sole of my foot. Jab. Jab. Jab.
I dropped to the grass and clawed off my left sandal. A half-squished wasp fell out onto the grass.

I gave an explosive and impressive demonstration of my command of French swear words. The realtor stared down at me, both confused and impressed. It had been years since I’d been stung and I’d forgotten how much it hurt. Not just the pain, but the burning and the itching that made me want to tear off my foot.
C’est quoi?” Franck leaned over me.

Un gep,” I swore one last time and then took Franck’s proffered arm and hobbled back to our car. I noticed twitching curtains at the three houses across the street. So Franck hadn’t been completely wrong about the spying villagers.

By the time I collapsed in the scorching leather car seat my foot was beginning to swell. What could this mean? Franck’s guardian angels were sending distinctly mixed signals. The perfect house, a feeling of nearly captured peace, then multiple wasp stings. That was the problem with believing in signs; if I believed in the good signs from the heavens, I felt honour bound to believe the bad signs too. Only Franck could have such exasperating guardian angels.

Mémé made me press a vinegar compress against my foot for a good hour after getting back to Franck’s parents’ house. The pain subsided gradually, leaving the more painful contemplation of what such an omen – and it would take more imagination than I possessed to believe it a good one – meant for Franck and I.

 

A suivre…


This is an excerpt from my first book project about our adventures buying, renovating, and renting out our four homes in Burgundy. I’m currently searching for a publisher and / or agent, so if anyone knows of anyone who would be a good fit s.v.p. send them vers moi!

The Grape Years – La Maison des Deux Clochers

This is an excerpt from my first book project about our adventures buying, renovating, and renting out our four homes in Burgundy. I’m currently searching for a publisher and / or agent, so if anyone knows of anyone who would be a good fit s.v.p. send them vers moi!

This excerpt of “The Grape Years – La Maison des Deux Clochers” picks up as Franck and I tour the magnificent (and dirt cheap) property we have found in Marey-les-Fussey.

 

 

The second house was built vertically, whereas the first one was slung horizontally alongside the main road through the village. This one was much newer, according to the Châlonais realtor; it was built a mere two centuries ago instead of four.

Each of the four floors had one or two rooms, and they were connected by a graceful wooden staircase that spiraled up the middle of the structure and which became steeper and steeper the higher we climbed. The final room – a bedroom under the eaves – took up the entire top floor. It was a perfect spot to come and escape from the world …once the dead flies were cleaned up, that was. Right now the carpet and the windowsill were dotted with them.

Once the house tour was done, the realtor took us down the hill to show us through the first of two massive stone outbuildings which had been used as barns for the past few hundred years. Amongst the other treasures inside we discovered a rusting mobilette, an old wooden cart that was missing two wheels and four giant glass bon bons used for distilling poire william and other hard alcohols.

“These granges can also be renovated and made into other houses,” the realtor said, caressing the wall. It was true, the rough stone and massive oak beams provided an amazing canvas.

The farthest grange commanded a view of the entire valley – yellow wheat fields giving way to vineyards and then back up to fields again, topped off by a ridge of green trees. Inside, a rickety wooden ladder was propped up against a wooden overhang. Franck squinted up its length and then swung his leg over and began to shimmy up.

The realtor clutched the ladder. “Can’t guarantee that it is safe up there you know! You could come through the floorboards – probably completely rotten.”

Franck had already disappeared above us.

“Laura, come up here!” Franck shouted down a few seconds later.

The realtor shook his head. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“What if I fall through the floorboards?” I called up to Franck.

“I’ll catch you.”

I put my foot on the first rung and began to gingerly make my way up, ignoring the realtor’s look of consternation. How much scarier could this really be than climbing the stairs of Oxford’s Examination Schools before my first final exam? Whatever waited for me up top, it couldn’t be as bad as the vertiginous terror I had felt then. A small hope flickered inside me that this splintering old ladder was there to lead me to a completely different kind of place – a place where I could become the kind of person who never needed to feel that way again.

 

A suivre…

Our latest guest review for Le Relais du Vieux Beaune

Cellar in Corton

We just received a great review from Bob Love (who works in the wine industry in Kelowna, BC) and his family.  A big merci to Bob, Andrea, Adam, and Evan and we hope to see you back in Beaune soon!

Wine and food lovers rejoice now!

Beaune Burgundy, with this apartment as our base was gorgeous.  We had the best weather this week that was possible in early April, blue sky at several well appointed wine tastings!  What could be better.

This comfortable and spacious apartment was always nice to arrive home to after sightseeing and exploring.  Burgundy is foodie paradise, baguettes to pastries you will be amazed.  We were always able to prepare great meals in the kitchen.

The region is blessed with excellent wine and many parks and sites that will interest all ages.    Magical memories were made- never forget the charge and counter attack between the kids and the Beaune city park geese, the geese triumphed as the ‘charge’ and ‘the hissing’ was comically played out in the birds favour!

Hope to return, really.. had a blast.

The Grape Years – La Maison des Deux Clochers

This is an excerpt from my first book project about our adventures buying, renovating, and renting out our four homes in Burgundy. I’m currently searching for a publisher and / or agent, so if anyone knows of anyone who would be a good fit s.v.p. send them vers moi!

This excerpt of “The Grape Years – La Maison des Deux Clochers” picks up as Franck and I think we have found the perfect house in Burgundy – an absolute steal.  After hiding out in the village washing house (so the other villagers won’t see us) the realtor finally arrives and we begin the tour…

 

Magny-Les-Villers, Burgundy, France

 

As we approached the black Citroen that had pulled up in front of the gate, a sweaty man stumbled out of the driver’s seat. A flurry of papers slid out of a file he clutched in his hand and scattered over the dusty ground. Franck collected them swiftly, passed them back to the realtor, and herded us towards the shady patch in front of the house gate.

Once we were safely away from the village’s main thoroughfare, Franck stuck out his hand. “Bonjour.”

The real estate agent was still muttering vague mercis and merdes and fais-chiers but managed to shake it.

Vous êtes Franck Germain?”

Oui. And this is ma femme, Laura.”

Being introduced as Franck’s wife was only a year old and still gave me a shiver of delight. There was a cave-man possessiveness about the word “wife” in French; “femme” meant both “my wife” and “my woman” at the same time.

The agent clasped my hand briefly in his moist paw and then began to forage in his pocket for the key to the front gate.

Franck was quivering with the need to get us out of the villagers’ sight. He sighed in relief when the realtor finally extracted the key and opened the creaking barrier.

“So you’re from Châlon,” Franck said, his voice low as we walked into the grassy yard between the two houses. “This is a bit far away for you. Do you represent a lot of sellers in this area?”

The agent shook his head. “Almost never. Completely out of my secteur, this is, but it is being sold by some old ladies who are friends of my mothers. I’m doing it as a favour but to tell you the truth it’s become excessively inconvenient.”

He led us, or rather was hustled onwards by Franck, into the first house that ran low-slung across the back of the yard.

I stepped inside and looked down. My feet stood on huge flagstones – perfectly polished with time and wear. The room was beautifully cool. From what I knew of these old Burgundian houses, the walls were made with stones equally as thick and massive. The kitchen was sparse and simple but I loved everything about it; the scratched wooden cabinets, the huge double sink, even the spiral fly tape that was dotted with several large and expired victims. The back of my neck prickled; I swear I could almost feel the sweet breath of Franck’s guardian angels behind us.

We continued on to the other rooms. The house was small but oozing with potential. There was the fabulous kitchen, bien sûr, and then a bedroom graced with wooden floors with deep patina. I looked right on past the mustard and green velvet wallpaper, the cross complete with an impaled Jesus over the headboard, and the dried and very dusty bridal bouquet under an even dustier glass dome on the bedside table. Take all that away and this room would ooze with charm. Next to the bedroom was a small WC with a sink but no other bathroom (I wondered where the previous occupants had washed – in the well?). Next was a separate living area with more glorious flagstones and a massive stone fireplace.

Franck didn’t say a word but from the flash of his hazel eyes I knew he wasn’t missing a thing.

 

A suivre…

La Maison des Chaumes Reviewed!

Because we are hardly objective, here is a a lovely email and photo (of our clematis in France!) received over the weekend from our most recent guests at La Maison des Chaumes – Thank you Peter and Carole.  A bientôt on espère!

Bonsoir, Laura et Franck,

Needless to say – we’ve so enjoyed la Bourgogne – as shared earlier – very new to us and really a treasure, just as Laura has noted in much of her writing. As much as our trip really was planned to center around the joyous occasion of a marriage – I said to Carol today that regardless of the absolutely surreal experience we’ve had as guests at the wedding – attending the civil ceremony, being with the extended family for many days prior to the wedding – we would have very much enjoyed being here on ANY occasion!

Your home has been such a solid nest for us – as, I’m sure it has been for others, but – as you may have noted – we’re pretty particular with our vacation rentals here in France and yours was undoubtedly among the best we’ve encountered. Really, Laura and Franck you must be commended for you extreme attention to the details we Americans and Canadians appreciate in a vacation rental. But, really – this is a HOME and we very much appreciate that aspect – it is beyond what one would hope for – and has all the amenities that we expect in our own homes!

Thank you – thank you!

The roses are just getting to bloom at the end of the front terrace – and the rosemary is green and bright along the walk way. The peonies in the back garden – is that your neighbor’s????- should bloom next week – as is their lilac – white and purple.

As shared, the shower is the best on the continent!!! The kitchen is superb – enjoy the oven and stove immensely! The washer and dryer also deserve commendation as the best in France! Not typical in our experience! We could actually dry clothes without burning them – ha!

So enjoyed the wine here – particularly, Chateau Meursault, Savigny les Beaune, Pommard and so many others – really enjoyed the Musee de Vin –

We’ll keep in touch and hope to hear from you soon – we DO hope to return here!

Regards – Peter

The Grape Years – La Maison des Deux Clochers

This is an excerpt from my first book project about our adventures buying, renovating, and renting out our four homes in Burgundy.  I’m currently searching for a publisher and / or agent, so if anyone knows of anyone who would be a good fit  s.v.p. send them vers moi!

This excerpt of “The Grape Years – La Maison des Deux Clochers” picks up after Franck and I have arrived back at his family home in Burgundy to try and recover from two exhausting years in Oxford where I worked day and night completing my law degree.  I’m teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown which isn’t helped by the fact that we’re still in limbo – awaiting my final exam marks which will dictate our future.  After I receive a small and unexpected inheritance from my grandfather we try to distract ourselves by looking for a little pied-à-terre of our own near Franck’s village…

 

 

If an amazing property for sale at a bargain price in the charming village where Franck and I were married was a sign, what was the meaning of a wasp getting stuck in my sandal?

We visited the property in Marey-les-Fussey the next morning.  The realtor was driving in from Châlon-sur-Saone, about half an hour South, and the only free slot he could give us was eleven o’clock.  Right away would have suited us much better, but we reminded ourselves that it wouldn’t do to appear desperate.

We walked to Marey-les-Fussey, only a leisurely ten minute stroll through the vineyards from Villers-la-Faye.  We arrived half and hour early, of course, and there was no chance of getting lost.  We had only driven by the sprawling property about a dozen times or so the day before.

I crossed the street and walked right up to the front gate of the property.  It looked deserted.  The agent had told Franck that the sellers, two elderly sisters, had already moved into a nursing home.  The red tiled roofs and the old stone well in the courtyard beckoned.  Franck tugged at my arm and pulled me back into the shadows on the other side of the street.

“Everyone in the village will be watching,” he hissed.  I surveyed the empty cobblestone thoroughfare.  A vineyard tractor rumbled in the far off distance, but that was the only sign of human life.

“In here!” Franck ducked under the thick stone walls of the village washing house and pulled me in behind him.

“What’s wrong with just walking around the yard of the house?” I asked, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dark.  “Nobody’s there.”

“We mustn’t be seen,” he answered in a furtive whisper.  “Or overheard.”

There was a little round window looking out to the street.  I stood on my tiptoes and peered out.  Still no sign of life except a few chickens clucking their merry way around a grassy patch two houses down.

“There’s nobody out there,” I said.  “Unless you’re worried the chickens are spying on us.”

“They’re there even if you can’t see them.”

“Who?”

“The villagers.  They’ll be watching us.  That’s how it is in ces villages.”

Franck was always full of tales of the mysterious workings of ces villages, but I was skeptical.

I looked out the window again.  It was just past ten thirty, but the day was already so hot that waves of heat shimmered over the cobblestones and seemed to slide down the slopes of the vineyards which dropped from the village on either side.  There were worse places to wait than under the cool of the ancient lavoir, to be sure, but I still couldn’t believe there was any real need for the cloak and dagger furtiveness.

“Even if the villagers are watching us,” I countered, though I was far from convinced, “Surely we’re allowed to visit a house that’s for sale, aren’t we?  Or is there a law against that that I wasn’t aware of?”

He reached over and pulled me to him.  “It’s not that.” He nipped my earlobe.  “The fact is that if they see us visiting the property they will start to think they  should take more interest in it.  They’ll steal it from under our noses.”

“Why would they want another huge property when they all own a house in the village already?”

“To keep an outsider from buying in their village.”

“An outsider? You’re from one village over.”

Franck’s teeth flashed in the dim light.  “I might as well be from outer Siberia.  Don’t forget that I also married an etrangère.”

The roar of a car engine drowned out the chickens’ clucks.  Franck used one strong arm to pin me against the wall while he peeked out.  Cool humidity seeped through my T-shirt and a pointed rock edge poked into my back.

“It’s him,”  Franck informed me and let me free.  We emerged from our hiding spot and tried to walk as nonchalantly as we could across the blistering road.

 

A suivre…