Chapter 3: Dreams, Reality, and a 300-Year-Old French Temptation

You know that moment when your dream starts to feel almost within reach — but you’re not sure if it’s destiny or delusion? That’s exactly where we were.

We’d been scouring the internet again, this time focusing on Umbria and Puglia. But after months of looking, every listing started to blur into one long string of “stone house with potential.” Our inbox was overflowing with daily updates from agents. Each email promised the one, yet each house was somehow... not it. Six months had passed since our last trip, and our enthusiasm was beginning to feel like a long-distance relationship — full of longing but light on progress.

Then it appeared.

  

A little advertisement popped up in both our inboxes — as if the universe had coordinated it. A 300-year-old farmhouse with just an acre of land (we’d long since realized that “too much land” was code for “too much work”). It even came with two barns and a separate forested lot along its southern edge. Rustic charm, a manageable footprint, and — cherry on top — an irresistible price tag.

No pool. No guesthouse. But we figured, we can fix that!

A Little Advice and a Big Reality Check

One of the many agents we’d spoken to early on had given us what turned out to be brilliant advice:

 “Take your wish list and your budget — and halve it.”

At first, we laughed. Then we realized he wasn’t being cynical; he was being honest. “It all seems very romantic and appealing at first,” he told us, “but that fades once the running costs come in and the novelty wears off. So go smaller. Buy something you can love and manage.”

It was sobering wisdom — the kind that gently taps your dream on the shoulder and whispers, “Reality check.”

We no longer wanted sprawling land or endless outbuildings. Who would look after it all? We weren’t moving to France full-time. 

So our dream became simpler, sharper, and more realistic — yet still exciting.

You Should Go See It — This Week!

When we saw the listing, Wolf didn’t hesitate.

“You need to fly out this week and see it,” he said. “You’ll know right away if it’s right.”

“Alone?” I replied, horrified. “No way!”

Yes, I have opinions — strong ones. But this was our adventure, not just mine. We’d dreamed this up together, and I wasn’t about to turn it into a solo expedition.

Wolf, ever the strategist, suggested I take our youngest daughter, Georgie. She’s an architect, speaks fluent “design,” and loves all things French. A perfect partner-in-crime.

Still, something inside me said we needed both daughters on board. We’d been sharing our adventures secondhand — the photos, the stories, the daydreams — but they hadn’t seen it firsthand. This was their chance to understand the pull, to weigh in, and maybe even catch a little of our madness.

So I made a deal: I’d go to see this house, but only if both girls could join me. If we all loved it — truly loved it — we’d summon Wolf to France for the final verdict.

To be or not to be, that would be the question.

Enter the “Maître d’Oeuvres”

That Sunday, we Zoomed with Bob, the realtor, a British ex-pat, with the patience of a saint. He walked us through the property virtually, explaining the layout and condition. We were hooked.

Then he dropped a gem of advice: “You should meet John,” he said. “He’s a Maître d’Oeuvres — a Master of Works. An expat builder-engineer who’s lived here for 30 years. He knows these old farmhouses inside out.”

John sounded like exactly what we needed — a bilingual expert who could spot potential disasters before we fell head over heels for them. He offered to meet us at the house, do a full inspection, and provide a detailed report on its structure, condition, and renovation possibilities.

Yes, it would cost us, but it was worth every euro for peace of mind. Think of it like a home inspection in the U.S. — but with extra flair, a dash of French style and a side of expertise in medieval stonework.

If you ever consider buying a centuries-old farmhouse in a foreign country (and really, why wouldn’t you?), this is my top piece of advice: find your John.

The Dream Lives On

So there we were, with a property that looked promising, daughters willing to join the adventure, and a builder ready to guide us. The dream was alive again — not the naive fantasy we started with, but something sturdier, wiser, and somehow even more enchanting.

Maybe this was the one.