The house.

The bastide was built in 1846 for a single family and has stayed in one ever since. Three floors of pale Provençal stone, a sage-green shutter at every window, and a single sun-dial above the front door — the only clock the house keeps.

Inside, a butter-yellow kitchen with sage cabinets, a long pine table worn smooth, terracotta floors and beams overhead. The rooms are plain and generous: white walls, good light, nothing that asks to be noticed.

It is a working house, not a museum — the kind where the shutters are opened by hand each morning and the day arranges itself around the table.

Beyond the gate: a parterre of clipped box, the long allée of plane trees, an olive grove, and a still pool set apart in its own clearing. A stone fountain runs cold all summer — the place to leave a bottle of rosé before lunch.

There is a pétanque court in the shade, a kitchen garden, and lavender along the south wall. The grounds run to twelve hectares, most of it left to the trees, so the house keeps its quiet on every side.