La vie de chateau.

Chateau life.

Ouzilly, Poitou, France

Summer Soltice, 2024

Sunset at Ouzilly last night.

Dear Reader,

Since my last letter, I left Paris with my parents for Normandy where we spent the night at the Chateau de Courtomer, an eighteenth-century chateau which my mother acquired in 2008, and has been renovating and decorating ever since.

It is an expansive property, with a great lawn stretching out, stone walls lined with plump roses, and old box stalls reminiscent of the previous owner’s love of horses.

Mom smells the roses in front of the Farmhouse at Courtomer.

Today the chateau does not function as a private home, but as a rental property. Back in 2017 when I returned to Baltimore, I handled the reservations and helped with social media.

Recently a group of American West Point friends rented the place to commemorate the 80^th anniversary of D-Day. They visited the beaches, enjoyed meals cooked by a local chef, and sat in the lawn chairs chatting over cocktails.

My mother and I took a walk through the grounds. She showed me her projects – the full renovation of the gatehouse for the new caretaker and his wife, the “Lodge” which will offer another bedroom independent of the chateau for overflow, the redecorated Farmhouse, and the Boudoir, where brides will dress for their wedding ceremonies.

Looking out at the grounds from the window of the “Lodge”.

We had dinner in the grand dining room. While my mother prepared it, my dad played the piano.

Dad plays the piano.

“It’s an old ditty I composed when I was a teenager”, he said coming in for dinner.

We applauded. As a child I remembered him playing that tune.

The next morning Dad and I set off for Ouzilly, the real home of the Bonner Family in France, while Mom stayed behind to tend to business at Courtomer. She’d join us in a couple of days.

Located in the heart of the Poitou – Charentes, Ouzilly is a gracious old chateau surrounded by soft rolling hills and grazing Limousine cows (raised for beef).

We arrived around 4pm. My brother Henry was already there, as well as an old family friend. A fire blazed in the chimney. Tea was made. Outside, it was cold and wet.

I climbed the winding back stairs from the kitchen to my bedroom, positioned just above. It was pretty much just as I’d left it. The framed photos of me and my siblings sat on the mantlepiece. A portrait of me as a baby painted by my grandmother hung above the vanity, and a photo of my sister as a toddler perched nearby.

There was my vintage hat on a hat stand, and the great armoire painted with flowers and birds. And the familiar creaking of the uneven floor.

My room is part of the old house dating back to the 17^th century, therefore the walls are very thick and the floorboards slightly slanted. The walls are painted a peach colour. My mom had brought the curtains, cream coloured with peachy orange flowers and cords of rope intertwined, from my room at home in Maryland some years ago. There they hung.

With so much rain, the flowers were bright and blooming in the garden though drooping with the precipitation. The “citronniers”, lemon trees, had grown fat lemons which hung precariously from the branches.

One of the lemon trees.

César, the farm cat darted furtively through the bushes. Damien, the gardener, a former truck driver with a bad back whom I’ve rarely seen without a cigarette hanging from his lips in the twenty years he’s worked for my parents, came out to say hello. The farmer from across the road, Pierre, a short but large man with a ready smile, who grew up in this house, also came over. Both wore galoshes. They seemed glad to see me.

“How long are you staying?”, asked Pierre.

“Another week,” I said.

“Oh. Not a long stay”, he observed. “And Adrien?”.

I explained that Adrien had stayed in Argentina where he had lots of projects going on.

Pierre showed me a photo of his newest grandchild, a boy. His son would be visiting this weekend. I said I’d certainly stop by to say hello.

At dinnertime I went out to get my dad. He was inspecting his new apartment, built above the machine shop. It would serve this summer as lodging for my many cousins coming to visit from the U.S.

Dad looking out from his apartment.

Sur ce, mes chers amis*, I wish you a wonderful weekend and will be in touch next week with more news from “la France profonde” - deep France.

A bientôt!**

Mariah

*On that note, my dear friends. **Until next time!