French Manor Houses

Preparing for my tablescape tomorrow night, which features a transferware pattern depicting a French Manor I did a bit of research and came across some beautiful French Chateau's and Manor's. 

In France, the terms chateau or manoir are often used synonymously to describe a French manor-house. 

Although not typically built with strong fortifications as were castles, many manor-houses were partly fortified: they were often enclosed within walls and included various outbuildings.  

 

  This particular manner was rebuilt in the 18th Century.  The pepperpot towers framing the pediment were added in the 19th Century. 

I love these rooms of the home. In fact, this is kind of my dream interior.  I'd decorate differently and not so sparsely.   I think my needlepoint rugs, traditional Old World furnishings and of course my English transferware would fit right in.  Oh, to dream.

One of the outbuildings on this property is the barn, whose originations have been dated to the 15th Century.  Don't you love those arched doors?  I'd be happy just to have the barn to renovate into a home.  An old church would suit me fine to.  My Mom went to high school and college with a man who bought a barn and renovated it into his home.  Everyone thought this to be strange since it was not common 35-40 some odd years ago to move into a barn or church.  You may have heard of him, his name is Charles Faudree.

This Manor is in need of restoration, oh but what potential it offers. It origins date to the 16th Century.

The property is enclosed by a large stone wall and the house can be seen through the gate.

Close up of the front door.  Charming.

Now you cannot say you've never seen a clothes line strung across a living room.

I love the beams, wood ceiling and the stucco walls.

Would this room not be beautiful fully restored to its original state and used as a study or den?

Another room in this house I'd love to get my hands on...

I hope noone really sleeps here.

 I like the beams here to.

 Another lovely Manor Home

Look at the mossy steps leading to the front door.

A side view

 The back of the house...see the lanterns hanging in the tree?  

More lovely, French facades

  I love the roof!

All of the properties above are in France, and they are all for sale. 

A French poets poem... The Old Village  ~ by Frances Jammes~

The old village was with roses filled, And I went wandering in the heat of the day, And, after, o'er the sleeping leaves that chilled The feet that walked among them where they lay.   And then along a worn-out wall, the belt Of a wide park whence came a gentle breeze, And there an odour of the past I smelt In the white roses and the mighty trees.     Now uninhabited by anyone ... They used to read here when this grass was cropped ... And now, as though the rain had but just stopped, The ebon-trees shine under the raw sun.   The children of old time went, linking hands, In the park's shade, and romped around these roots ... Playing about red plants with dangerous fruits That had been brought from very distant lands.   Their parents, pointing out the shrubs that thrived In the rich soil, would say to them: Take care! There's poison here ... from India this arrived ... And that is belladona over there.   They said besides: This tree here by the wall, Your uncle brought it with him from Japan ... Then it was very delicate and small, With leaves as big as the finger-nails of a man.   They said besides: We can remember yet The day he came back from the ends of the earth; He galloped through the village in a sweat, With pistols sticking in his saddle-girth.   One summer eve. The girls ran to and fro In the park's shadow round the great tree-stems, Round the black walnuts where white roses grow, And laughter underneath the black yoke-elms.   They shouted: "It is uncle!" seeing him, And he, dismounting from his great horse stood In his great coat and hat with the broad brim ... His mother wept: My son ... O God is good ...   We've weathered many and many a storm, he said ... We ran short of fresh water for a week. And his old mother kissed him on the cheek, Saying through tears: My son you are not dead ...   But where is now this family? Are these But dreams of things that never have existed? Now there are only shining leaves on trees That might be poisoned, they are all so twisted.   Now in the great heat all is hushed and still ... And the black walnuts' shadow is so chill ... Now uninhabited by anyone ... The ebon-trees shine under the raw sun.