#11 Heaven

I knew I was in heaven from the moment our van crunched up the gravel drive.

the view from my bedroom window

The manoir is a patchwork of centuries, the oldest dating back to the fifteenth. Lives are layered into it—horses, harnesses jingling, boots clacking on stone, hands held out to the warmth of a vast fireplace big enough to roast a deer. Harvests. Wars. Love affairs. Children underfoot.

and from my other window

The garden wanders through undulating lawns freckled with daisies, old setts half-sunk into the earth as if the place is slowly swallowing its own history.

Lilac, Mexican orange blossom, koelreuteria, azaleas, rhododendrons, crabapples, ceanothus, wisteria, roses. Each turn leads somewhere—through dappled light over fences to paddocks and trees beyond. All of it improbably green.

And the birds—are they arguing, negotiating, competing? Loud and insistent bursts of song. Whatever they’re doing, it lifts the whole place.

A small machine I’ve named Bruno trundles about cutting the grass. He bumps into fences, shakes his head, backs up, pauses to reconsider his career choice, then heads off again with unflappable determination. We are basically best friends.

There’s a pétanque court, table tennis, board games, a little watercourse, cowslips everywhere, huge huggable trees, gorgeous gateways, mysterious little sheds, and a fence made of sharpened sticks fixed together with twitched wire like something from another century. Maples, lindens, oaks, cherries. The lot.

And the indoor pool.

The carriageway through the oldest part of the house has been sealed at both ends with vast panes of glass so clear you could walk straight through them.

This manoir has soul. Life. Warmth. A lived-in wisdom in the walls. Nothing forced, nothing staged—just everything that matters in place.

My room is perfect. A proper desk. Hairdryer. Magnifying mirror. Tissues. Even a tablet of soap—bless them. The bed linen is crisp and ironed. And a modern orange mirror that matches my bag and my nails and the cahier I‘ve been given—I am meant to be here.

We have a chef, Mirco—pronounced meer-koh, good-natured saint and food magician. Last night’s dinner confirmed it. Such clear, fresh, crisp flavours. Today's pear and goat's cheese and fresh salad greens, and last night's duck. The duck! So good I forgot to take a photo. I‘m ruined for all future catering.

The rhythm of the days will be simple: breakfast together at nine with a handout for later discussion, then a session at eleven. Lunch. Afternoons to think, walk, write. Then back together for discussion at 6pm, dinner, wine, laughter.

And my fellow writers are the full inventory of mankind. Young, old, experienced, new, unsure, confident. Fascinating, friendly, safe harbour.

But the secret ingredient is the dual combo of our tutors, Lisa Howe and Scott Stavrou. They don’t lecture. They chat. They say wise things. They draw things out. Never searching, always inviting. Asking questions that land somewhere deeper than you expected. You answer with things you didn’t know you knew.

Last night, lying awake, I had the oddest thought. I imagined myself out in space, looking back at earth, then zooming in closer and closer—down through clouds and continents and countries to a manoir near Nantes. The birds asleep. The house quiet. And one writer person floating under a feather-light doonah, perfectly content.

That would be me.

Je t‘attends toujours. And I‘m pretty sure the manoir is waiting you too.