End of the French odyssey

Well, looks like I've sold the Abbaye at last. Its a bit sad because its a lovely place and we've had some great times there, but restoring a 1,000 year old monastery with maybe a hundred rooms (never quite counted or possibly even saw them all) was seriously daunting. Especially in the current chilly financial climate, which has particularly impacted the owners of dilapidated 1,000 year old Abbey's in Northern France. Or anywhere that matter.

The new owners, apart from being brave and presumably hugely rich (well slightly less rich now) will probably be slightly puzzled by the eclectic interior decor. As we've been using it for photo shoots over the past few years and have left some of the wallpaper and paint finishes in the rooms, Laura Ashley's sedate flower prints and gentle colours fight against Tricia Guilds altogether more startling designs in the Salon. Subdued French grey walls in the stairs hall uncomfortably contain sizzling metallic wallpapers in their 17th century moulded panels. Upstairs one of the creamy crucifix lined corridors has a great splash of deep red paint thrown against the wall for no apparent reason, as if there had been some pagan attack on the old monks.

In fact one of the early Abbots was assassinated nearby, while shaving. The old oak tree from which the assassin launched the fatal crossbolt still stands. And another Abbot, Grimaldi, went on to found a dynasty in Monaco. Oodles of history in a place like this. Saints, miracles, apparitions (one potential buyer had a great fear of ghosts; he had been convinced by the agent that there were none when a huge article appeared in one of the regional newspapers alleging that it was the most haunted Chateau in France. He pulled out of the sale and bought a much inferior chateau nearby, owned by the local government who had been desperate to sell it. I suspect foul play at the highest level).

Every time I walk past Designers Guild on the King's Road the Abbaye winks at me from the window displays. In the past its reminded me of the disintegrating plaster in the seldom visited, almost mythical upper floors, of the little red Fergie tractor sitting rusting in the carriage house, brought at great expense from the UK and sniffily dismissed by Marcel the caretaker who preferred to rent a new one with air conditioning and surround sound to cut the acres and acres of grass. A job we latterly turned over to sheep. Of the enormous task I had taken on. But now I can walk past that Kings Road store and frankly feel relief. I can however lots and lots of advice to anyone brave enough to take on a historic house in France!