I had noticed the advertisement more than a year earlier. It wasn’t flattering: a small bungalow in poor shape, badly photographed, nothing inviting about it — except for one detail that wouldn’t let go of me: 9,000 m² of land. My husband wasn’t impressed. I didn’t quite know why, but something kept pulling me back to it.
And then one day, we went there to visit.
There was no one to meet us. No gate. No sign. Just GPS coordinates and a vague track leading upward. The climb was rough — deep holes, soft clay, and the constant doubt that our car wasn’t meant for this kind of road.
Wind everywhere. Cold. Silence. We weren’t even sure we were going the right way.
Eventually, we reached the plateau.
The first thing I said — without thinking — was:
“That’s exactly what I was looking for.”
And for once, my husband agreed.
The ground was covered in dry yellow grass. Mediterranean pines stood nearby — beautiful, but already hinting at danger. On the left, a small shepherd’s hut appeared, simple and solid. We hadn’t yet noticed the view over the vineyards, nor Carcassonne in the distance, nor the mountains beyond. That would come later.
We walked toward the bungalow.
No windows. Broken doors. A roof that clearly wouldn’t survive another year, already scarred by leaks. The veranda — once built with care and effort — was so damaged that getting inside felt like a challenge in itself. Inside, nothing contradicted the outside. It was rough, fragile, and far from livable.
And yet.
This was the moment when the brain stepped aside and the heart took over.