Château Beginnings: Chapter 3

Musings from the Turret: folk dancing, hot-pants and honorific titles

Château de Bourneau before we re-painted the bridge

Before we found Château de Bourneau, we had lunch with a family friend who owns a château in Burgundy. Over a crisp Chablis in the afternoon sunshine, he gave us some insightful pointers about the practicalities of running big estates, renovation and business. [You can read more about our Château shopping adventures and the châtelains we met along the way in my château shopping series here:]

But there was one particular remark he made that resonated with me:

“It’s not just buying a house, you know. A château often has more symbolic meaning to a community and it’s important that you understand that first. You are inheriting a rôle.”

I scoffed at that - no one would be interested in us: we were just normal people buying a house and it certainly would not confer any kind of duty beyond what we had agreed to take on in practical terms with the custodianship of an old building. However, it soon dawned on us that he was right. Just after we arrived at Château de Bourneau, we realised that there was a certain expectation that came with the territory. A pew was saved for us in the village church on the assumption that we would attend the first mass of the season, which we did, and JB was unquestioningly escorted to read a reading as everyone took a good look at us and sized up the new “châtelains.” I also almost made a faux pas for the 8th May ceremony and missed joining our village at the monument aux morts to honour Bourneau’s war dead simply because the 8th of May isn’t a public holiday in the UK and so I didn’t realise this was a moment of reverence in France where the community gathers together. I was still learning the language and the cultural ropes and that morning, I was blissfully unaware that it was even a bank holiday as I sat at my computer dealing with emails. It was JB’s French memory that was suddenly jogged by noticing the solemn procession through the village and he realised that we should be there. After the quickest change of clothes ever, we joined the procession but late and this had not gone unnoticed.

In the early days, we also received various respectful visits of welcome from local dignitaries at the château who came to meet us and kindly welcome us into the community. One hot summer’s day, the local mayor arrived without warning. I had made an error of judgment that I would not be seeing any member of the public and so it was safe to continue to look like a mad DIY-woman. I had hair caked with plaster from sanding down a wall and arms covered in black paint from painting the metal staircase rail in the entrance hall back to the original black from luminous Smurf-blue. Given the heat of the afternoon sun, I had the doors wide open and had decided to change into shorts but the only item of clothing I could find in our still unpacked boxes was a ridiculous pair of hot pants from a Daisy Duke student costume party. And of course this was the precise moment that Monsieur le Maire decided to come on an official business visit of welcome. Even if he registered a degree of surprise at the new “châtelaine’s” appearance, he had the grace to hide his shock (save a tiny smile) and still very kindly welcomed me to Bourneau.

It was a huge task repainting the metal balustrades back to the original black from Smurf-blue

Similarly, one of the other most unusual visits was the local folk-dancing society’s surprise arrival to welcome us into the community with a special dance and bottles of local home-made pinot. This would all have been lovely had I known anything about it. My first warning was the sound of a trumpet that seemed to be coming from the garden. I assumed it was the local hunt happening in the adjacent forest but when I heard it again (and this time accompanied by an accordion that was suspiciously loud) I knew something bizarre was up and occurring much closer to home.

JB was away on a stag-do so I was holding the (literal) fort for the weekend and was gearing myself up for having to do the holiday cottage turn-over on my own. I was heading over to prepare the cottages for guests, hauling towels and cleaning products down the marble staircase, when I opened the front door.

“What the-?”

It took me a couple of seconds to register what I was seeing.

This was the vibe but think longer skirts and bonnets…

A surprise folk dance

On our moat bridge, a surprise troop of folk dancers in 19th century costumes were mid-jig, accompanied by trumpets and an accordion. This was the last thing I expected to see and there was a moment when I wondered if I was hallucinating from the paint fumes as I watched what looked to me to be a group of Victorians in bonnets engaging in some kind of quadrille in front of my house at 10am. I ventured into the fray, still clutching a bottle of window cleaner, accompanied by a fanfare of trumpets. They seemed to be expecting me and I was introduced, quite inexplicably, as the “Dame de Bourneau,” like some kind of ribbon-cutting honorific title and everyone turned to me with smiles of welcome as if this was the most normal activity in the world. I was rendered momentarily speechless as they escorted me to an awaiting special chair. For the next half of the dance, I desperately searched in vain for some suitable French folk-dancing vocabulary and mainly how I could somehow enquire what was going on without coming across as an ignorant foreigner blundering into some delicate cultural misunderstanding. I surreptitiously messaged JB to ask whether he knew anything about this but received no response (he too was having a “cultural” experience in Munich. Apparently the beer is very good…)

I think I was as much of a surprise to them as they were to me. I am sure I did not fulfil their expectations for the new châtelaine at all: I was in my dirtiest DIY clothes with my signature messy hair, still carrying bottles of cleaning products and heaped towels that was certainly more Cinderella than Châtelaine. I was no duchess in an elegant silk tea-dress ready to extend a gloved hand to receive the bouquet of flowers and local pinot at the presentation on the “throne” they had prepared for me after a morning session of folk dancing. JB’s empty “throne” beside me only highlighted that we were entirely unprepared for this welcome and I wondered if we had somehow missed an invitation and so his absence and my unpreparedness was rude to them. I felt embarrassed that they were stuck with a bemused English cleaning woman rather than the duchess they had in mind and my awkward attempts to explain that I was working seemed to cause a further wave of disappointment and I did not want to cause any offence for this kind gesture but I was fully aware that time was ticking on and my new clients would be arriving that very afternoon.

Saved by the bells

However bizarre this all was to me, I realised that I had to attempt to rise to the occasion. I had no idea what was going on or why this was happening but I dutifully took the seat they had prepared for me, trying to channel Kate Middleton and to maintain a serious expression even in the face of dances that were not too dissimilar to something out of Monty Python. I told myself that I would watch one more dance and then I would politely explain again that I was so flattered but unfortunately, I had to get back to work because I was awaiting clients. One dance turned into three. Sticks suddenly got inexplicably involved. All the while, the medieval bells tolled the hours and my anxiety was rising. I didn’t want to be impolite but I still had 18 beds to make and the cottages to clean on my own and my fear was that the lovely French weekend-mode of slow-living would mean this generous welcome could potentially go on all day. A special dance ecossaise had been prepared just for me, in reference to my years spent in Edinburgh, and after the second rendition I tried to prepare some polite French to excuse myself from this unexpected event that was happening in my garden. Before I could launch my clumsy explanations, the medieval church bells tolled the midday and with a triumphant shout of joy, everyone exclaimed it was lunch. I have never seen people mid-activity leave so rapidly: the accordion and trumpets were swiftly packed into the mini-bus and the 19th century dancers were whisked away with happy smiles, waves and a cloud of dust as I was left standing on the bridge with the window cleaner still in hand wondering if I had dreamed this all up.

I spritzed through the holiday cottages with a speed and energy I didn’t think I possessed, buoyed by the hilarity of what had just occurred. To date, this is probably one of the most surreal and delightful moments of my life in France (along with the surprise pilgrimage. I’ll save this story for another chapter, if you would like to hear about a similar morning when we found the Virgin Mary on our bridge with boy scouts and a priest wearing a cowboy hat?) And of course, when JB returned somewhat “tired” (ahem!) from Munich, he couldn’t cast any light on what that was all about either!

I was learning that these old châteaux came with a certain duty and history: it wasn’t just our home, it was a building set in the hearts of the community with shared stories and histories that deserved respect and preserving.

When my little nieces and nephew came to visit, I was told quite seriously that they had never seen me wear such ugly clothes. I explained that these days, I spent a lot of time gardening, cleaning and trying to fix the château and so I lived in a boiler suit. This clearly was not the correct response:

More Cinderella than Châtelaine!

“But how can you live in a castle if you wear such ugly clothes all the time?”

This made me laugh a lot but clearly I was not conforming to the traditional ideal and perhaps my practicality was also disappointing locally so for the next public event, I tried to meet expectations and discarded my paint-spattered jeans in favour of a floral dress. A lady from the village told me that I had made her little girl’s day because I was wearing a dress and could she come and meet the princess? I then spent a very surprising afternoon, like some character out of Disney, receiving drawings from little girls and posing for photographs with tiny princesses and fairies wanting to know if sleeping beauty had ever been inside the turrets. It made me think that perhaps the details do matter and maybe sometimes Château de Bourneau requires me to dress for the part as a gesture, just so I don’t disappoint and I am happy to do so for my little friends.

For over 100 years, Bourneau brides have had their wedding photographs taken in front of the château and it’s a tradition we love continuing. The château also used to host the annual village fête that was stopped over 20 years ago with a change of ownership but it is something we were pleased to allow the village to restart again. Many of our neighbours have a connection to the château and I am always excited when someone takes the time to send me an old photograph or carte postale of the château or shares their stories with us that often speak of a whole village and its social history, not just our home. We may own the walls for this generation but the memories, stories and history are owned by our community and it’s what makes these monuments really live. We feel very privileged to be a part of it and so warmly welcomed into their new chapter too.

7 years on, it still makes me laugh when I book a table at a local restaurant and give my real name and surname but when we arrive we find that the table is still reserved under “Madame de Bourneau.”

“Don’t see it as a silly pretension,” one of my French friends reassured me. “You should see it as an honour.” Perhaps they’ve accepted this mad-haired foreign woman in ill-fitting hot-pants after all and honestly, I can’t tell you how much that means to me.

Best Wishes from Château de Bourneau,

Erin, The Intrepid Châtelaine

Incase you missed the start of the Château Beginnings Series: