A postcard from Provence
In a quiet corner of Provence one writer is building the creative colony of dreams -and I was lucky enough to spend one magical evening with them.
*PS: This is a LONG post. If you’re reading it in your email make sure to ‘download entire message’ which you’ll see at the top of the email.
Today I wanted to write to you about something a bit different. It’s a story of sorts, about a magical evening I was lucky enough to be part of last weekend in a place of dreams called La Gonette.
And I have literally dreamed about La Gonette over the years. It was the Provencal home of the late interior designer, Robert Kime for many years. I used to scrimp and save to be able to step into the Robert Kime store on the Pimlico Road, to buy something, anything, believing as I did that one of Kime’s papyrus paper lampshades would jettison me into the taste echelons of the British upper class. (Kime worked on a couple of King Charles’ homes, I believe.)
There are glimpses of La Gonette in a book Kime published some years before he died. It stands, a pale, bisque-hued stone house, not far from a hilltop village surrounded by a sea of irises in every colour imaginable.
And then, a few years back, Kime passed and the contents of La Gonette were sold off, piece by piece at Dreweatts auction. There were large painted dressers for sale, beautifully faded armchairs, pottery lamps and even a giant pair of clam shells Kime had collected over the years. But the funny thing was there was never any mention of what would happen to La Gonette.
I thought about it a lot of over the years. I searched for it on every residential sales site, but it never came up. I prayed it had not been sold off to some ‘money guy’ who would use it as a summer playground for the rich and careless. And then, I sort of forget about it.
Until last month when I bumped into the wonderful America writer
in Paris who told me she had just come back from the most inspired writers retreat in Provence with the Pulitzer-prize winning author, Michael Cunningham. (Cunningham has written many marvellous books, but you will mainly know him for his novel, The Hours.) She talked about candlelit dinners that drifted late into the night and little embroidered ‘pochettes’ that were left in every guest’s bedroom and filled with embossed notebooks and little chocolates. As well as the tuition- Cunningham also teaches creative writing at Yale,-there were picnic lunches in private olive groves, trips to the local market and wine sipped amongst secret vineyards.When she told me where it took place I almost couldn’t believe it…La Gonette.
It was, she told me, now in the hands of a writer, a woman called Alice Nelson, who lived there with her family and three dogs. (You may actually be aware of Nelson who herself has written several critically-acclaimed novels.) It turns out Nelson knew Kime and so, in an act of breathtaking faith, love and generosity sold her own home in Provence to take over La Gonette, slowly breathing life slowly back into the bones of the place again.
I am not one for ‘reaching out’. I think it’s the Brit in me. But I was in Provence for a few weeks over the summer and so I reached out to Alice via Instagram, expecting neither reply nor invitation. I had seen on her Instagram that La Gonette has occasional writers who passed through the house and who gave talks-open to the public, in the gardens over a glass of wine.
Were there to be any more, I asked?
Alice replied the very next day.
‘Come for dinner!’ she said. ‘Stay the night…’
There are moments in one’s life where fear must fight curiosity. In my life fear has often won. What I mean by that is, I rarely take chances. Risk is something I prefer not to lean on. And I all too often decline invitations from those I do not know, worried that I will invariably disappoint them in some way that I will never be aware of.
And yet, here was an invitation to a home I had thought so much about over the years. And so I agreed.
Which is how I found myself one Sunday evening driving across the Provencal countryside to dine at La Gonette.
La Gonette sits at the bottom of the small village of Simiane- La- Rotonde and Alice had thoughtfully draped a French fabric flag at the entrance so I would not get lost.
I wandered up the path, where La Gonette (which is affectionately called Sleeping Beauty- I mean, how romantic is that?) rose like a pale pink iceberg in front of me. I passed a blue Moorish-style swimming pool to my left where wet robes and swimsuits dangled from hooks. There was a small border of wildflowers to my right- cornflowers and poppies the colour of a cardinal’s robe. Finally I stumbled upon a large wooden door gently ajar. There was no bell to ring, or knocker to wrap- at least not that I could find, and so I wandered in. A giant 5ft high floral arrangement of dried artichoke flowers greeted me in the hallway before I heard the soft clatter of plates coming from the kitchen, smelt the sweet fug of something delicious on the stove and heard half a dozen voices engaged in warm conversation.
La Gonette is nothing if not a complete sensory experience.
And then just like that Alice appeared, a small dashhund cradled in her arms, a mile-wide smile on her face. Two other dogs joined her, dancing and barking affectionately at my feet before Michael Cunningham appeared with a bright orange cocktail in each hand, the lip of each glass dusted with sugar.
Do you want one of these, he asked, smiling like an old friend. (They do smiling very well around here.)
It was the sort of welcome you see only in movies.
That evening Alice walked me though the house, a home she has kept faithful to Kime, whilst also infusing with her own innate style. She told me where to buy the French linen sheets on the beds (a secret source in Isle Sur La Sorgue); the best local markets to go to before I left Provence (Banon, for sure, but also Forcalquier, if only for the drive there) and who makes the best bread in this part of the region.
As we wandered from room to room a new character was introduced to me. (I say character because everyone looked like someone from a Woody Allen movie- stylish, funny, usually with excellent glasses). I did not know any of these individuals- though it turned out one was an eminent Harvard professor, another an acclaimed writer and psychoanalyst. There were two young men whose names I did not quite catch but who wore beautiful shirts and lived in Venice. And then there was Harriet and Jeni.
Harriet Davidson is a culinary chef and writer who, along with Jeni Glasgow, is helping Alice shape La Gonette into something special. More of this later. She is a tiny, chic little presence - part mother hen, part culinary fairy. Together with super stylist, Jeni, the two of them set about the house creating delicious tablescapes for dinner, lighting candles and roasting apricots. Harriet reminds me of a young Skye Gyngell, not because they are both Australia (which they are) but in terms of her ability to make food a thing of breathtaking beauty. She can make a basket of eggs look like a Cezanne and a plate of sculptural cheeses as chic as a Rodin. Jeni meanwhile has the most astonishing eye I’ve ever seen. She went about placing fig leaves under candles (a thing I will definitely be trying at home) and scribbling little faces on the boiled egg shells to bring unexpected moments of joy at the breakfast table. Harriet regaled me with a story of how her and Jeni had driven across the valley to a local flower farm in Goult to fill their car with 400 peonies for the rooms of each guest that were coming to the retreat. Jeni would then stop the car every now and then to jump out and forage bits of smoke bush from the countryside to zhuzh it all up a bit.
But it is Alice, along with her husband, Danny Shub who are the real painters behind this most pleasing canvas. (And make no mistake, stepping into La Gonette is like walking into a still-life.) This year, as well as Cunningham’s retreat they have thrown a few suppers in the garden; whilst I just missed out on an old friend of Leonard Cohen’s who’d stopped by to give a talk about their friendship beneath the plane trees in the garden.
I think what Alice has on her hands here is the closest thing I’ve ever come across to a true creative community. I told her she reminded me of a modern day Gertrude Stein- the American writer, patron and mentor whose home in Paris became a magnet for every writer that passed through the city. (Hemingway, F.Scott Fitzgerald and T.S.Elliot were all regulars). What she is building is a home for creative ideas set against the chicest, most nourishing backdrop.
That night I stayed up talking until midnight with people I had only met hours earlier. I never do this. We talked about the important things- life, family, moving on. But also the other important stuff- face creams that are better than surgery, good French pharmacy buys, why Japanese eye drops are the best thing ever.
You’re going to have intense dreams here,’ said one of the guests before I took myself off to bed that night.
When I woke the next morning, in a four poster bed overlooking a sea of lemon wild grasses, light streamed through the window. Downstairs Harriet was already hard at work, buttering a baking tray to make a batch of brown butter Madeleines for guests who were heading back to New York that day. Fresh out of the oven, she placed a small dipping bowl filled with olive oil from a local farm in which to place the tip of each cake. We dipped. We ate.
A few moments later a beautiful Dutch woman arrived from the nearby village with a dog by her side and a dish of freshly made cinnamon buns for everyone to eat.
Honestly, it was like being in a Luca Guadagnino film; and here was I, very much a minor character (though made to feel like a major one) taking it all in.
As I bid my farewells the next morning- Alice sending me off with two fresh cinnamon rolls (one for me, one for my husband), I realised the guest I had spoken to the previous evening had been right. La Gonette did inspire intense dreams, because it was itself one long, languid dreamscape.
One I know my mind will drift to again and again.
*With thanks to the incredible Doreen Kilfeather for all the pictures (unless otherwise mentioned.)
NEWS!!!! A Week In the Country Writers Retreat with Michael Cunningham 2026
So the good news is I have it on excellent authority that La Gonette will be running another week-long writer’s retreat with Michael Cunningham and Alice Nelson next May. Applications will open shortly and if you are interested then you can email hello@lagonette.com. The dates so far are pencilled in for May 18-24. Obviously places are very limited because this is a private home, so the best thing to do is to reach out. You may well see me there…
Finally….I thought you would love the recipe for ‘apricots and brousse’ that Harriet and Jeni made us for dessert- a simple but absolutely delicious dish. I think even I could probably rustle this up.
La Gonette’s ‘Apricots’
You will need:
Two handfuls of apricots
A tub of brousses
A few sprig of rosemary
Tablespoon of honey
A knob of butter
This couldn’t be simpler! Pop a few knobs of butter into a baking tray, then place the apricots with the butter. Drizzle with honey, not too much, and a few sprigs of rosemary. Pop the baking tray in the oven at 150 degree Celsius for about 30 minutes, but check them at 20. You want the apricots soft but not falling apart.
Then you want to get out your brousse. Brousse is a lovely, soft whey cheese, usually made in Corsica or the south of France, and you can find it in most French supermarkets and some British ones if you’re lucky. If you can’t find any, Harriet says use ricotta. Then to a tub of about 250 grams of brousse/ricotta add a few heaped tablespoons of mascarpone and a tablespoon of honey. Whip with a whisk until well combined.
To serve, tear open each apricot and pop two on a plate. Top with a good spoonful of the whipped brousse. Et voilà!
With thanks to
the author of and Jeni Glasgow
How lovely of you to take me to such a magical place. A friend ran his shop near the British Museum so I was able to spend happy hours there, hoping that all the lovely things and beautiful taste could become part of my life via osmosis.
Oh Farrah. A most moving read, thank you for capturing all that La Gonette is, and is becoming, with such thoughtful observation and sensibility. I am so glad we got to have you for a night, and we can't wait to have you back. With love. X