Letter from the Loire by Benjamin Curtis

Stroll into Saumur market on a Saturday morning and you may feel slightly confused. In this quiet provincial town at the centre of France's Loire Valley, almost everybody is speaking English. The few French present may be even more confused than you are. Why, they imagine, are the British so keen to buy second homes in the French equivalent of London's Home Counties? It’s the equivalent of finding a well-heeled French community happily ensconced along Oxfordshire's River Thames.

Here in the fertile plains of this sprawling river basin (in no true sense is this really a valley) there is a solid expatriate community, selling each other houses, digging each other's gardens and restoring their compatriots' crumbling converted barns. They are drawn by the proximity to the north coast's ferry ports, fine local wines and the simple fecund beauty of the landscape, the fields planted out in symmetrical rows of those tall French trees, the limestone towns that might have been penned by Sebastian Faulkes. The river itself, magnificent, brooding and lined with sharp church spires, is rendered practically un-navigable by shallow banks of quicksand, whilst signs along its banks optimistically claim this is 'Europe's last untamed river'.

Stepping out of central Saumur and into all this fresh air, you suddenly wonder where all the British have gone. In the small towns and villages one is left alone to mingle with the locals, friendly inquisitive people who betray not a trace of the infamous Gallic arrogance. There is the generosity of the baker with died blue hair and a thing for old BMW's, or the friendly neighbour who works for the council and plies all comers with sparkling wine and a dash of Casis. Steer clear of that market and all the confusion ends.

Thirty kilometres upstream lies Angers, where an altogether more aristocratic air infects Saturday morning commerce. Here are the Parisians, just off the train for the weekend, looking out original fixtures and furnishings for their recently acquired rural retreat. Yet where the British seek out the small village property or the charming abandoned farm, the folk from the capital are a little more ambitious. For small place in the country, read 'small palace'. No longer is the trip to a Loire Chateau a boring country excursion for the children if their parents own it and there won't be anyone else there.

A reasonable size Chateau with grounds can cost less than a two bedroom Ile de la Cité flat with views towards the Eiffel tower. Less than two hours from Paris on the TGV, wealthy Parisians are attracted by the proximity of these 'castles', and the solitude they have to offer.

"Isolation is a luxury these days", says JP, a swish 40-something banker from the capital, as he shows us
into the fifth of his 19 bedrooms, leading us through the secret-bookshelf door. "Here we are completely
alone, it's wonderful... well, apart from the locals who are very, very nosy", he adds with a frown. He is taking us, as honoured, distant family friends, on a little pre-dinner tour of his new Chateau. Despite its previous occupation by a boy's school it's in remarkably good condition, all 60 rooms of it, including the ballroom, the original, cavernous basement kitchens, and all 10 of the bathrooms. The perfect size for a family of four.

"We think that this was the wife's bedroom, and that her husband came to her at night through here", continues JP, closing the bookcase behind us. The building, designed along the lines of an elegant, oblong, three-storey stately home, sits in 20 hectares of gardens, complete with two ornamental lakes and private farm. Completed in 1788, one year before the French Revolution, the owner wasn't around long to enjoy it: "Ah yes", explains JP with glee, "he was be'eaded".

Now JP and his family hope to restore the building to its original glory. Trips to Angers public records office to look out original plans, the careful unearthing of historically correct wallpaper and chandeliers is all part of the fun. The government is right behind these private initiatives, offering significant financial incentives for restoration work, and tax benefits if the property is opened up once a month for the public to come and look round. Only in the days before the original owner lost his head were the powers-that-be so generous to the upper classes.

Strolling through the ballroom, whose 5-metre ceiling could easily enclose a small family home, we step out onto the gravel terrace and survey the extensive front lawn. "This is called an English Park", explains JP, "it is copied from the English chateaux of the era, and so we think the original owner had travelled widely." The whole place is an awe-inspiring project, bringing endless questions to mind: how long will it all take? What will they do when the work is finished? And who looks after the gardens during the winter when the
family stays in Paris? "We have a peasant," he replies without a hint of a smile, "who comes onto the park and grazes 'is cows." One can only hope that history doesn't repeat itself once the Chateau is finally restored, or this particular Nouveau Parisian aristocracy may be in for a swift "be'eading", one fears.