Tales from the hunt #4

Patrick, Cap Ferret 2026

We should say from the outset that no one was harmed in the making of this transaction. Although one bicycle did suffer considerably, and a notary’s patience was tested beyond what most professional qualifications prepare you for.

The whole thing began, as the best things often do, through an introduction.

One of our partners, a rather distinguished agency specialising in luxury villa rentals across Europe, put us in touch with Patrick.

Patrick is Belgian. We mention this not as a geographical footnote but because it becomes, over the course of this story, a defining plot point. He runs what might politely be described as a small empire back in the flat country — hundreds of stores, built entirely from scratch. A self-made man with an instinctive horror of overpaying for anything, including air.

From our very first call, his warmth was disarming. We liked him immediately, which is rather unfortunate when your job requires you to remain composed.

He summarised his entire brief in one sentence:

“I have been renting Villa Margot in Cap Ferret for two summers now, and I am completely in love with it.”

Right.

Find another Margot.

Simple enough.

Except, and we cannot stress this firmly enough, Queen Margot is not the sort of property that comes in duplicate. Hidden behind a modest wooden façade, Margot reveals herself slowly: generous volumes, high ceilings, light that seems to arrive by personal invitation. She is the kind of house that makes you exhale involuntarily the moment you walk in.

It was there, every July, that Patrick hosted his summers — friends drifting in and out, unhurried coffees beneath the pines, pétanque games that began at two and somehow still hadn’t concluded by six. Long evenings around the barbecue. Children vanishing into the darkness of the cinema room like small, contented ghosts.

We threw ourselves into the search.

We visited extensively.

We curated.

We sent Patrick a selection of what we believed were perfectly respectable alternatives, handsome properties, every one.

His replies were swift, consistent, and mercilessly Belgian: “Meh.”

Weeks passed.

Nothing sparkled. No contender survived the comparison with the reigning queen.

We began to suspect that what Patrick actually wanted was not another Margot at all.

He wanted the Margot.

So we did what any reasonable person would do when confronted with the impossible: we attempted it. Phone calls were made. Delicate conversations were had. Negotiations of the sort that require a certain elasticity of charm. Without the credibility our partner had built through years of rental history, the owner would not have entertained the idea for a second.

But he did.

The Reveal

We invited Patrick to Cap Ferret for what we described, with deliberate vagueness, as “something worth seeing.” A fine winter rain was falling over what some insist on calling the Saint-Tropez of the Atlantic — a comparison that, on this particular afternoon, required a generous imagination.

Patrick arrived. Venetian blond hair in a state of cheerful rebellion. A vintage belt bag from approximately 1993. A bicycle. And the unmistakable glow of a man who had lunched both well and at some length.

“Why here? In front of Queen Margot?”

We stepped inside. He inhaled — one of those deep, involuntary breaths, as though the house itself had reached out and pulled him in. The scent of dried pine, warm sand, and the faint memory of sunscreen hung in the air like a love letter from July.

We delivered the news.

-“Patrick, we contacted the owner of Villa Margot. Through our partner, we managed to open a conversation, not a simple one. But he is willing to sell. Discreetly.” - “No. I cannot believe this. My arms are falling off.”

We later confirmed that his arms were, in fact, still firmly attached. This appears to be a Belgian expression denoting extreme surprise, and we have adopted it wholeheartedly.

Hands over his mouth. Eyes glistening. He looked around the room as though seeing it for the very first time — which, in a sense, he was. He sat on the edge of the suede sofa. A few long seconds passed. Then he stood up.

And began his inspection.

The Audit

What followed was a masterclass in Belgian pragmatism. Margot, moments ago the love of his life, was suddenly subjected to the scrutiny of a man who has built hundreds of stores and knows exactly what a coat of paint costs.

Pointing at the pergola cladding: “This will need repainting.”

Lifting a shutter with forensic suspicion: “I am not sure this one is solid.”

Then, with the gravity of a man delivering a verdict in a court of law: “Is the cinema room registered on the cadastral plans?”

We watched, quietly fascinated, as Queen Margot was stripped of her mystique by a man in a belt bag.

Then came the offer.

“I agree. But five hundred thousand euros less.”

We kept our faces steady — a skill we have been developing with some rigour. We explained the months of effort, the careful diplomacy, the small miracle of persuading the owner to even consider selling. We appealed to reason, to proportion, to the basic laws of human decency.

Patrick listened politely.

Then he reached into his belt bag — that magnificent, anachronistic belt bag — produced an old franc coin, and said: “A euro is a euro.”

The discussion, apparently, was over.

The Call No One Wanted to Make

Slightly rattled, we returned to the car and settled the matter of who would relay this to the owner in the only civilised manner available: rock-paper-scissors.

The loser dialled.

The owner hung up with a firmness that suggested he had been practising.

We sat in the car for a while. We agreed that sleep might help. It usually does, and when it doesn’t, at least you’re unconscious.

Three days passed.

Quiet ones.

Then the owner called back. He would not accept the full discount — a man has his pride — but now that the seed of selling had been planted, he was willing to meet halfway.

We presented the counter-offer to Patrick, who, as was his custom, made us laugh so much during the call that we very nearly forgot what we were ringing about.

“Splitting things in half is never a good idea.”

He paused, then added: “If I agree, can I keep all the furniture?”

The owner agreed. Except, he specified, the children’s bunk beds.

Patrick wanted the bunk beds.

He also wanted the artwork in the living room.

The owner balked, it had come from New York. He had hunted for it himself, and he was not about to surrender it to a Belgian in a belt bag.

One of us, possessing a modest talent with a pencil, offered during a particularly desperate afternoon to simply recreate the artwork over a matcha. The offer was declined, though not without a flicker of genuine consideration.

In the end, it was Patrick’s wife who settled the matter. On a pillow — theirs, we assume — she convinced him that it would be far better to choose a piece of their own. Something that told their story, not someone else’s.

The deal was set. Contracts drafted. Everyone exhaled. We agreed to reconvene at the notary’s office in two months, a pleasant stroll from the villa itself.

The Signing

A soft April sun lit Cap Ferret as we gathered outside the notary’s office. The owner arrived promptly. Light conversation was made. The weather was praised.

And then we waited for Patrick.

Five minutes. Perfectly acceptable.

Fifteen minutes. Mildly concerning.

Twenty minutes. We began checking our phones.

Thirty minutes. A small, creeping dread.

Had he changed his mind? Had something happened? Was he at this very moment on a bicycle heading in the opposite direction, belt bag flapping behind him like a flag of surrender?

The notary, evidently accustomed to awkward silences, entertained us with a lecture on how Cap Ferret has supposedly been sinking into the ocean for the past century. We nodded along, grateful for the distraction but not entirely reassured.

Then, in the distance, a bicycle wheel, spinning upside down.

Laughter.

Pine needles.

Two figures emerging from the bushes, tangled and beaming and covered in what appeared to be evidence of a minor but spectacular cycling incident.

Patrick and his wife, fresh from what one could only describe as yet another generously watered lunch.

Our composure, which had held admirably through months of negotiation, finally crumbled.

We suggested a glass of water before beginning.

During the signing, the owner leaned toward one of us and whispered:

“I think I like them. Patrick and his wife.”

So do we. In fact, we like them very much.

Especially since, from time to time, Patrick still calls us, not about property, not about renovations, not about cadastral plans or bunk beds. Just to ask how we are.

And that, we truly love.

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