Ever wonder what a medieval house in a French village is like? Read on. The house that we are renting for 3 weeks in Montlaur, France, is a delightful, medieval row house of sorts, located right in the village. I don't think that "row house" is a term used for these dwellings but they are, in fact, built altogether, attached on every side, except the street side, to another dwelling. This arrangement saved space and offered protection within the village in the days of warring factions. New houses in France are usually built on a plot of land with a small lawn - the way that we are familiar with. But these old, old houses are oozing with charm that the new ones just don't have. Of course, they come with lots of problems, I'm sure, and require imagination to transform them into comfortable living spaces for modern living. The most intriguing ones have been modernized without sacrificing the antique ambiance. It seems that foreigners, perhaps romantic foreigners, are especially drawn to them. Guess I'm one of them!
"Our" house here in Montlaur has lots of nods to its ancient past, and the New Zealand owners have filled it with antiques and with paintings, etc. that speak of its location here in the Corbiere hills south of Carcassonne. The walls of the house are amazingly thick, approximately 30 inches. Each room has a large French window. The house consists of three stories, each with two rooms and a central corridor between the two. I can't help but wonder what the original lay-out was. It can change drastically over the centuries.
The central corridor. Straw hats and shopping bag are ready for an outing. Livingroom is to the left, and kitchen is to the right.
Now, there is a livingroom (salon, en francais) and an eat-in kitchen on the first floor. Both rooms have fireplaces, and all the rooms have huge, rough hewn black ceiling beams that support the building. Because the streets are very narrow, when the windows are open and we're sitting at the kitchen table, passersby often feel obliged to say "bonjour" to us. A couple of days ago, our neighbor passed a freshly picked head of lettuce through the window! Another neighbor lent us a book through the window. No need to bother with the formality of ringing the doorbell and coming inside.
Desk in front of the living room window where we like to sit to write or use the computer.
Bruce tucking into his daily croissant next to the kitchen window.
The old red clay tiles on the stairway leading to the second and third levels are worn smooth from thousands (millions ?) of footsteps. The passageway is narrow and curves its way upward.
The second level is taken up by one large bedroom and a second smaller one, along with the bathroom - obviously a new addition since the old days. All of the rooms on these first two levels have reasonably high ceilings, though some of the doorways are lower and require caution for tall folks like Bruce. Like colonial houses in Maine, there are no closets in the bedrooms. The large bedroom has a huge armoire as a substitute. It and the large dresser and bed must have been brought in through the window, as it's hard to believe that they could ever have fit up through the stairway.
The smaller bedroom that has great light all day.
The big bedroom looking down on the really narrow street.
The stairs continue on up to one low-ceilinged room on the third floor. It's a cozy spot and has been made more cheerful with the addition of a skylight in the ceiling, as well as the glass door leading to an outdoor terrace. There had been a second room up there, too, presumably, but the roof and much of the walls of that room have been removed to make the terrace. It's a sun sink that gets very hot and bright during the day. Usually, it's very sheltered, as the walls are chest high. Great for growing lavender and drying laundry. But when the fierce winds blow, they threaten to unleash the laundry and send it whipping through the village. One evening Bruce and I tried to eat supper there but had to give up when our lettuce kept blowing off the plates! On a calm, late evening, however, when the sun is down but the sky is still pale and light, it's a lovely place to sit with a glass of wine and listen to the sounds of the town - the church bells, the doves cooing, the occasional human voice echoing off the stone walls of the houses.
Rooftop terrace
We have only one more day in this sweet house. After that, we'll be doing some exploring in the Pyrenees Mountains and then making our way to Bordeaux in time for Quatorze Juillet, French Independence Day. It's been a wonderful spot to relax and enjoy cooking and reading and feeling settled for a bit.
"Our" house here in Montlaur has lots of nods to its ancient past, and the New Zealand owners have filled it with antiques and with paintings, etc. that speak of its location here in the Corbiere hills south of Carcassonne. The walls of the house are amazingly thick, approximately 30 inches. Each room has a large French window. The house consists of three stories, each with two rooms and a central corridor between the two. I can't help but wonder what the original lay-out was. It can change drastically over the centuries.
Now, there is a livingroom (salon, en francais) and an eat-in kitchen on the first floor. Both rooms have fireplaces, and all the rooms have huge, rough hewn black ceiling beams that support the building. Because the streets are very narrow, when the windows are open and we're sitting at the kitchen table, passersby often feel obliged to say "bonjour" to us. A couple of days ago, our neighbor passed a freshly picked head of lettuce through the window! Another neighbor lent us a book through the window. No need to bother with the formality of ringing the doorbell and coming inside.
The old red clay tiles on the stairway leading to the second and third levels are worn smooth from thousands (millions ?) of footsteps. The passageway is narrow and curves its way upward.
The second level is taken up by one large bedroom and a second smaller one, along with the bathroom - obviously a new addition since the old days. All of the rooms on these first two levels have reasonably high ceilings, though some of the doorways are lower and require caution for tall folks like Bruce. Like colonial houses in Maine, there are no closets in the bedrooms. The large bedroom has a huge armoire as a substitute. It and the large dresser and bed must have been brought in through the window, as it's hard to believe that they could ever have fit up through the stairway.
The stairs continue on up to one low-ceilinged room on the third floor. It's a cozy spot and has been made more cheerful with the addition of a skylight in the ceiling, as well as the glass door leading to an outdoor terrace. There had been a second room up there, too, presumably, but the roof and much of the walls of that room have been removed to make the terrace. It's a sun sink that gets very hot and bright during the day. Usually, it's very sheltered, as the walls are chest high. Great for growing lavender and drying laundry. But when the fierce winds blow, they threaten to unleash the laundry and send it whipping through the village. One evening Bruce and I tried to eat supper there but had to give up when our lettuce kept blowing off the plates! On a calm, late evening, however, when the sun is down but the sky is still pale and light, it's a lovely place to sit with a glass of wine and listen to the sounds of the town - the church bells, the doves cooing, the occasional human voice echoing off the stone walls of the houses.
We have only one more day in this sweet house. After that, we'll be doing some exploring in the Pyrenees Mountains and then making our way to Bordeaux in time for Quatorze Juillet, French Independence Day. It's been a wonderful spot to relax and enjoy cooking and reading and feeling settled for a bit.
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