How it began: a spontaneous visit with bewitching consequences
- sabinezwinscher
- Dec 1
- 2 min read
How it began: we arrived in Provence almost by accident. After years of fly-in, fly-out corporate lives, both of us carrying responsibilities in marketing and supply chain, we were dreaming of a “later.” A quieter chapter, slower and closer to nature—the kind where the seasons, not emails, set the rhythm. A place where richness came from soil and sunlight, from food shared at a long table, from laughter echoing late into warm evenings.
But dreams like that always begin “someday,” don’t they?
Then, in October 2011, after a disappointing goodbye to a property in Tuscany on our search-list, we suddenly had time on our hands.“You know,” I said, “we’ve never been to Provence.” And actually it was the first roman province beyond the alps...And just like that, the universe opened a small door.
The autumn light welcomed us first. In Avignon, Nîmes, and Arles, the sun hung low and golden, the mistral brushed our faces, and the colours shimmered exactly as the painters had tried to capture. We felt ourselves slowing… softening… being quietly woven into the region’s spell.
By the time we drove into Gordes—a village rising from the rocks — we were no longer observers. We were enchanted. The square felt strangely familiar until we stopped, looked again and laughed: "A Good Year". One of our favourite films. A sign, surely.
So we stepped into the local agency with hearts that had opened just enough for possibility to slip in. Our French stumbled, but the kindness was fluent. An English agent, long rooted in the Luberon, listened to us the way one listens to a story already half-written. She asked us, with a knowing smile, to stay a view days more and promised to pick us up in the next morning.
From that the moment, Provence met us not as travellers, but as future lovers.
Here the vineyards stretching into the horizon. The houses breath history. Dinners are slow with unfolding of flavours and laughter. And in that enveloping calm—where time itself seemed to exhale—we felt something shift. The life we thought would begin “one day” was suddenly illuminated with a simple truth: Why not here?
The next morning, guided by instinct, we visited a forgotten farmhouse near Bonnieux. Stone cracked, shutters broken, years of neglect. Once an old farm and already once renovated by a famous journalist and photographer. Wim looked around and said, “It has potential.”I added, “And it will take blood, sweat, and investment.” We were both right.
Five years of renovation later, Mas des Sens emerged—our home, our offering, our new rhythm. Today, from April to November, we live the life we once only imagined. We host couples, families, friends—travellers seeking slowness, connection, joy. Some have even become neighbours and new friends.
All because, in October 2011, Provence just didn’t give us a short trip. It gave us a new life.
