Before I get to the dream here, I feel it is beneficial to describe the setting with a bit of context. I dream in such random milieu that I feel it is particularly important to mention certain scenarios that are actual manifestations of events or discussions that have taken place in reality.
Ever since I first read Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility in high school, I developed what some might call a desperate longing to exist in England’s Regency Period. Those unflattering empire waistlines, men wearing cravats riding horses, panoramas of green rolling hills, fog, moors!
I digress… One day whilst searching around online for the perfect location for my pending nuptials to Mr. Darcy, as one does at the age of sixteen, I came across the most quintessentially romantic country getaway.
Not in England, but in Laperche, France you can rent out a country home for a week for up to twelve guests to live the dream and “summer” like nobility on holiday. Laperche itself is beautiful, and as it’s name may suggest to the seasoned equestrian, it is the birthplace of the breed Percheron, an exquisitely proportioned draft horse.
So, keeping in mind that I did extensively plot and chart my hypothetical journey into the past at one time, on with the dream!
I am with my wonderful friend, and we have arrived fresh off the boat in Laperche, France. Dead set on acquiring lodging at one of the famous country villas, we hop into a mint green convertible that takes us on to the property. As we walk up the main steps I cannot help but look around at the rich detail worked into every facet of the home. Impossibly detailed, the carvings on the ceiling seem a never-ending optical illusion, lions upon lions in an immense fractal pattern.
Abruptly bringing me back to reality, the matron of the establishment barks something at me in French.
Ruffled a bit by such a sudden departure from my revelry, I explain our position and wishes as politely as I can, and inquire as to the process of securing a rental home. Very coldly she informs me that it is very expensive, and that they are booked up in advance for three years. I notice belatedly that we are still dressed for traveling and look a bit haggard, I assume this is the main factor contributing to her condescension.
Annoyed at her treatment of my friend and I, I angrily ask where I can sign up, to come back in three years. At this point she has begun to pretend not to understand English, and recognizing a lost cause when I see one, I back down.
Still though, the grounds are gorgeous, and though she’s hinted that we should leave, she hasn’t forbade us from touring around a bit. We eat cucumber sandwiches next to a fountain and peruse the gardens, making the most of our sorry situation, until finally the brusque matron makes for us, and we flee back to our vehicle to avoid a stern upbraiding.