Discreet luxury

just minutes from Lectoure

There are places you don’t stumble upon by chance. This is one of them.

A winding road, cypress trees leaning in the wind like in an old painting, the Gers at its gentlest. No noise, barely a church bell in the distance, and the Pyrenees on the horizon, like a promise.

Close to Lectoure, but not too close. Just near enough to go for coffee and read the local paper in the morning, to greet a few familiar faces, pick up lunch, and head back. To find peace again. To close the gate behind you.

It resembles the Luberon, but it isn’t — and that’s a good thing. No crowded terraces, no lukewarm rosé under overdone pergolas, no sunglasses-wearing “personalities” pretending to be anonymous. Here, luxury lies elsewhere. In silence. In space. In the quiet art of not being noticed.

The house seems never to have wanted to be anything other than what it is: a cluster of stone buildings, settled there with quiet confidence. Like a private hamlet, but without the pretence. The roofs are right, the materials seasoned, the walls thick. There’s a sense of discretion in the very air.

Nothing is flashy. Yet everything is there. The proportions. The light. Materials chosen for their truth rather than their effect. Wood, stone, lime. Sometimes a more contemporary touch, just enough to enhance. There’s taste, authenticity — none of that ostentatious “good taste” that exhausts. This is a house that knows restraint. And that’s rare.

First, the main house — spacious, understated, comfortable without pretence. It makes you want to stay, to cook, to read, to let the phone ring unanswered.

Two living rooms: one for losing yourself in a book, the other for talking too late and forgetting the time. And a billiard room, to stretch the evening further, a glass of Armagnac in hand, jazz (or something else) playing in the background.

A kitchen made for endless meals.

Five large bedrooms, each with its own bathroom — nights spent as if in a luxury hotel.

The pool? The word hardly does it justice; it’s more of a retreat, a destination. Days drift by here, far from everything. Barbecue lunches, long meals under the shade with a chilled rosé, eyes wandering toward the Pyrenees.

And a little apart from the main house, there’s the guesthouse. A real one — not a weekend annex cobbled together for profit. No, a place apart, independent, cared for with the same attention. A space for hosting without intruding, sharing without disturbing.

A house within the house, really. For friends, for family, or for no one at all.

Inside, a large, open space where the living room, kitchen, and dining area coexist effortlessly.

One bedroom on the ground floor, three upstairs, three bathrooms so everyone has their own haven, and even a laundry room — the kind of thoughtful detail that makes life simpler.

And of course, the pool. Just for the guests.

A world of its own, closed off from the rest, where you forget everything except the joy of being there.