The Filming of Hallmark’s Moriah’s Lighthouse! An Author’s Journey (Part 12)
April 10 Sunday
We move to Rochefort-en-Terre today, Sunday, with the rest of the crew. It’s about a two-and-a-half hour’s drive from Ploumanac’h. I can’t imagine a more exquisite town. Everything is built from gray stone. The doors and windowsills are, in general, painted a cheerful, rich blue, and flowers and vines are everywhere. We walk and walk, exploring every little alleyway. No matter where we go it is a feast for the eyes. People even open their upstairs windows to see what’s going on, lean out, and wave.
The cobblestone streets are lined with little shops, and I want to wander into every last one. Several restaurants beckon. Part of the town includes the remains of a castle. This is the town the producers have chosen to be the backdrop for Moriah’s shop and I can absolutely see why.
The place is so picturesque it feels like there should be background music, and I should be dancing down the cobblestone streets, singing a Walt Disney tune as little blue birds fly, chirping happily, around my head.
We find our Airbnb which is just a few steps from the town square, or in this case, the town “round.” The house where we are staying is more than three hundred years old. We continue to use the Google Translate to talk with our hostess, who demonstrates the intricacies of using her kitchen and shows us the rest of the house. We mention to her that her house is older than our country. She seems unimpressed.
Of course, the place has been modernized with plumbing and electricity, but I’m thinking the thick stone walls have had to make this a miserable place to live in earlier times. The living room is practically overwhelmed with a giant fireplace. I wonder how hard it must have been to live here three-hundred years ago, trying to heat and cook with only this fireplace. The stone walls would have been chilly and damp in the winter and probably permanently smudged with soot.
She’s very friendly, and we’re grateful for the milk, eggs, butter, and the cake she baked us. I keep waiting for the rudeness and contempt for Americans to show itself, but we never see any of that. I’m wondering if it might be the difference between the rural areas of France, grateful for American dollars, and Paris, where I imagine many people have grown weary of tourists.
The decorating theme in this house involves an interesting collection of puppets which she’s placed in various nooks and crannies, some of which I find a little startling.
If I could choose one place to live in Europe, this town would be it. I wonder what it would be like to live here and just write and write. I’m certain it would inspire all sorts of wonderful stories. So, just out of sheer curiosity (my kids would not be happy if I moved my baby-sitting self all the way to France) I start to look up prices of houses for sale within the town.
But I get distracted by a nearby castle I see on the realtor’s site. It’s beautiful and has lots and lots of turrets which everyone knows a castle should have. The price is listed for one and a half million dollars. Although that’s way out of my price range, it strikes me as surprisingly cheap considering how this listing is, you know, a castle! It also has thirteen bedrooms and NO bathrooms. I ponder the practicalities of that for a while.