I didn’t plan to live in the Dordogne. In fact, it happened entirely by accident.

At the time, I was living on a boat in the Mediterranean, chasing the sun and the slow rhythm of life at sea. We had sold up completely in the UK—no house, no ties—and were looking for a place we could buy, rent out during the summer, and use the income to keep our sailing dream afloat.

It was my father-in-law who first mentioned the Dordogne. He’d holidayed there and spoke of its charm, the rolling countryside, the market towns. We, however, had never set foot in the place. Still, curiosity (and a tight travel schedule) led us to make a quick trip to view properties.

Time wasn’t on our side. Before we knew it, we were signing papers for something we hadn’t been searching for at all—a half-finished smallholding tucked away in the French countryside. Not exactly the neat, rental-ready holiday home we’d imagined, but somehow, it became ours.

For the next two years, our life found a rhythm: summers on the boat in Turkey, winters in the Dordogne renovating our accidental purchase. The house proved a success. At the time there were a lot less properties available for summer lets. One year, we rented out for 24 weeks which funded more of our adventures at sea.

But somewhere along the way, the romance of being a “blue water wife” began to fade for me. I found myself craving stillness and a place to truly call home. Eventually, the pull of terra firma won. The boat was left behind, and the Dordogne—once just a stopgap investment—became the place where I finally dropped anchor.

And what a place to anchor. I’ve moved house a few times since then but always stayed in the Dordogne. Here, the sound of the church bells and shared market-day gossip with neighbours has quietly woven itself into the fabric of my life, and I can’t imagine ever having chosen differently.

Sometimes, the best chapters of our lives are the ones we never meant to write.