There are places that you don't find by chance. This one, for example.

A road that gets lost, cypresses that lean in the wind like in an old painting, the Gers at its sweetest. Not a sound, barely a bell tower ringing, and the Pyrenees in the distance, like a promise.
We are close to Lectoure, but not too close. Just enough to go for a coffee and read the local press in the morning, meet two friendly faces, grab something to eat and then come back quickly. To find calm. Close the rack.

It looks a lot like it, but it's not the Luberon, and so much the better. No crowded terraces, no warm rosé under overplayed arbours, no snobs with sunglasses so that we don't see that they are complete strangers. Here, luxury is elsewhere. In silence. In space. In this way of not being noticed.

The house seems to have never wanted to be anything other than what it is: a set of stone buildings, placed there with a certain obviousness. Like a private hamlet, but without folklore. The roofs are just right, the materials have lived, the walls are thick. There is a certain idea of discretion.

Nothing is garish. Everything is there, however.
The volumes. Light. Materials chosen for their truth rather than their effect. Wood, stone, lime. Sometimes a more contemporary detail, but slipped in just to emphasize. There is taste, real taste, not this ostentatious good taste that tires. It is a house that knows restraint. And that's rare.

First of all, there is the main house — large, sober, comfortable without pretension. It makes you want to stay, to cook, to read, not to answer the phone.
5 large rooms, each with its own bathroom, to live your nights like in a luxury hotel. A kitchen to make endless meals. Two salons: one to bury oneself in a book, the other to speak too late, forgetting the time. And a billiard room, to prolong all this, a glass of Armagnac in hand while listening to jazz (or something else, depending on your taste!).
The swimming pool? The word is weak, it is rather a place of relaxation, a holiday destination. We will spend whole days there, far from everything. Barbecued meats, lunch in the shade washed down with fresh rosé, looking lost all the way to the Pyrenees.
And then, a little apart, there is the gîte. A real one. Not a DIY annex to make weekends profitable. No. A place apart, independent, cared for with the same high standards. Enough to welcome without imposing, to share without disturbing. A house within a house, in short. For friends, family, or no one. A large room, as we like them, where the living room, the kitchen and the dining room share the space without ever getting in each other's way.
One bedroom downstairs, three upstairs, three bathrooms so everyone has their own kingdom, and even a laundry room — the kind of detail that makes life easier.
And then, of course, the swimming pool. Just for the hosts.
A world of one's own, closed to the rest of the world, where one forgets everything except the happiness of being there.

It is a house to live in all year round, or to be found each season as one reopens a beloved book. A house apart, in its own right. It doesn't try to please everyone — and that's what makes it valuable. It awaits those who know. You can come there with books, records, silences. Or do nothing about it. That would already be a lot.

Everything is ready. Turnkey, as they say. But the key here is above all that of intimacy. A door that you close gently behind you.
And the world can go on without you.