Chapter 2: The Farmhouse Illusion: How 25 Houses (and One Baguette Vending Machine) Taught Us What We Really Want From France

In the soft, rose-tinted haze of early 2024, Wolf and I set out on a pilgrimage familiar to many romantics with passports and Pinterest boards: the dream of owning a farmhouse in the French countryside. We called it our “La Vie en Rose” expedition, equal parts real estate reconnaissance and slow-living fantasy.

Our target? The Southern Touraine region of the Loire Valley — a land of bike trails, medieval châteaux, and villages that seem to have stopped time somewhere around the invention of the baguette.

We imagined ourselves gliding along country roads, crusty bread poking out of our bicycle baskets, past fields and stone houses and friendly cows. After discovering that Touraine was significantly cheaper than Umbria or southern Italy, we arranged viewing 25 houses within a week. What could possibly go wrong?

The Airbnb That Set the Bar (Too?) High

We anchored our search in Chaumussay — a tiny hamlet whose name sounded both charming and like a secret password. Our Airbnb host, Jeremy, had crafted a stay worthy of a lifestyle magazine: whitewashed walls, exposed beams, and a rooster alarm clock that took its duties seriously. We called it Jeremy’s Place, and it lulled us into the belief that our French dream was very much within reach.

Then we began house hunting.

25 Houses, One Mild Identity Crisis

Over the next six days, we visited 25 properties, each one bursting with character, possibility, and, frequently, the lingering smell of mildew. Some had been lovingly maintained; others had not seen affection — or a contractor — since the Minitel era.

We saw homes with green bathrooms, 

kitchens trapped in the ‘60s, 

and staircases that defied modern building codes. Some houses had barns collapsing into poetic ruin. Others had been converted into minimalist spaces so sleek, they felt like co-working lounges for vineyards.

Every home had its own charm, and every charm came with a compromise. And then there were the septic tanks. Almost all were “non-conforming” — a phrase we quickly learned was code for “you’re going to be spending a lot of money on something no one will ever see.”

The Wishlist That Grew a Life of Its Own

Our vision was simple — or so we thought: a stone farmhouse, a bit of land, maybe a barn to convert into a guesthouse. By the third day, the dream had ballooned into a full-blown fantasy: we’d have a pool! A lavender field! Perhaps a small orchard. 

But somewhere around property number 18, it all started to unravel. We stood in a muddy field staring at a dilapidated stone building and asked each other, “Do we even want to grow olives?” The answer was a resounding no.

The houses continued to dazzle and disappoint. One was perfect, except for its tragic location. Another had it all — if we were prepared to take on a ten-year renovation and had an emotional support architect.

Baguette: The Unexpected Hero

One of the most surreal discoveries of the trip was the baguette vending machine. In several villages, where the local boulangerie had closed or never existed, we found machines that dispensed fresh baguettes with the press of a button. There was something both profoundly practical and wonderfully absurd about it — a quiet reminder that in France, bread is non-negotiable.

The House That Never Was

In the end, none of the 25 houses were “the one.” They were lovely, they were quirky, they were absolutely not what we were looking for — or perhaps not what we needed. Each property whispered possibility and shouted renovation. The dream we’d carried with us — of simplicity, serenity, stone walls, and slow mornings — had clashed with the reality of rural logistics, building permits, and septic systems.

But something else happened along the way. We began to let go of the checklist, and the fantasy softened into something real. Maybe the French farmhouse lives best in the imagination — a place we visit, not a place we buy. Maybe, for now, a baguette from a vending machine and a rooster crowing outside the window is enough.

We didn’t leave with keys. But we did leave with stories, a new sense of what “home” means, and the quiet suspicion that we’ll be back — a little wiser, and still a little foolish.