In June 2025, after many years of restoration, the writer and traveller Pierre Loti’s house in Rochefort-sur-Mer, in France, reopened to the public. That place holds many memories of mine, and I want to tell you about the most infamous one.
In the seventies, my grandparents built a house in Rochefort-sur-Mer, where Pierre Loti had been born more than a century earlier. Rochefort-sur-Mer is seven miles from the Atlantic coast, on the west side of France. I need to go back in time — just a little bit — to tell you more about the 70s in France, and what happened on the west coast. Before the 70s, that place in France was pretty raw. You only had fishermen living there. But in the 70s, developers built hundreds of apartment blocks along it. It was the age of concrete. And it’s just my opinion, but they destroyed the place. Some people were against it, but these places (and it’s not me who’s saying that, but sociologists who have actually studied this kind of thing) were, and still are, highly Catholic. In other places in France, like Brittany for example, people were not so Catholic, and did not agree with the developments. They resisted, tried their best to preserve the landscape, and that part of France has actually been preserved — in some areas, at least.
So basically my grandparents took advantage of that, and built a house in Rochefort at that time. My younger brother and I used to spend all of our summers there. We have many happy memories of the place. Don’t imagine a lovingly restored old house, the kind people renovate now, with beautiful local stone showing through the walls. No no, my grandparents’ house was a cube, fully embracing all the concrete ugliness of the seventies.
Located in the centre of Rochefort, that cube was ugly, but it made my grandparents very happy. The garden especially had been designed by a « paysagiste », a service that was, and still is, a luxury. In my grandparents’ garden, different varieties of trees had been planted, all sorts of flowers as well, and the roses were my grandmother’s pride and joy. Still, that « paysagiste » actually did a crappy job: one specific pine tree was planted just in front of the living-room window, and it has grown so tall that my mum constantly has to keep an eye on « la branche du pin », which, inevitably, gets longer every year.
Building the house took some time. Many years later, on a winter day, in their cosy apartment in the 13th arrondissement of Paris, my grandmother, at the time almost 80 years old, showed me some old Polaroids of the building work. « We were so excited about it, she confessed, that while the first floor was being built, we slept on a mattress on the garage floor. » She was laughing so hard when she told me this anecdote. When I think of it, her laugh is probably the thing I miss the most about her. Her laugh was contagious as hell. It was so precious. Still, I found it very hard to imagine my old granny, barely able to stand without her cane, sleeping in the basement on the floor. It seemed so improbable to me.
I’m sure you know what it’s like: you never imagine elderly people had a life before you knew them. They were young once, and — don’t be a fool — what you’re experiencing now has been experienced before. You’re not alone. You’re part of a whole, a community, and that’s what makes you a human being. You cry, you laugh, you’re afraid your kid will fall down the stairs, but everyone’s been there before. And in my opinion, that’s what makes life beautiful.
I love this « Maison de Rochefort », as my mum and brother call it. It was there, when I was six, that I lost my first tooth. My grandmother kept it in a box I now own, along with a lock of her hair that she gave me one day. It might seem odd to you, but that’s the way she was. The box containing both my tooth and her hair is one of the most precious things I own.
In Rochefort, when I was seven, she looked me in the eye one day and said to me: « You’ve now reached the âge de raison ». Now, « âge de raison » is a tricky thing to translate; let’s say I was no longer in the age of innocence? In other words, I was a grown girl. I remember I did not understand what the « âge de raison » was, but she said it so solemnly I felt like I had done something bad. I had no idea why she told me such a thing, and I’m sure she did not know either.
It was just one of those phrases everyone says, even if you don’t know what they mean. I nodded my head and said « Ok, if you say so. » But I want to go back even before that. Here is the real reason I love that house so much. At five years old, in that house’s basement, my grandmother taught me how to read. For long afternoons, I sat in a comfortable green armchair, trying my best to understand the Méthode Boscher. I remember my little legs did not reach the end of the chair. I used to lay my head back and look at the ceiling. Even so, in two months, I was able to read. My grandma showed me books I still own to this day. She opened a door in my mind; I could write thousands and thousands of words about the worlds I found behind it.
You see, I do not think about those things during the day. All of those memories come back to me at night. In the dead of night, I can relive a time — not so long ago — when my brother and I cleared out the Rochefort house, once my grandparents had passed away. I can see myself agreeing to throw away the green armchair I had learned to read in. I can clearly see myself saying « yes, let’s throw it away », as everyone stared at me, asking whether the chair was to be kept or thrown out. I have made many mistakes in my life. Deliberately throwing out the chair I had learned to read in is definitely in my top five mistakes of all time.
But don’t worry: in that very same summer, my grandma also taught me how to write. I traced my first letters, then words, on a very old desk, and that desk now stands proudly in the office where I am writing this piece. I can look at it, rub my hands against the dusty wood, open the drawer, look at all the random little things I’ve put inside. Suddenly, I am five again.
Growing up, I visited my grandparents in Rochefort less often. At that time, I lived in Bordeaux, and they would only spend one month a year in Rochefort, staying in Paris most of the time. She and my grandfather welcomed me with more love than I have ever received. We used to eatkilos and kilos of seafood, and I would go back to Bordeaux a few days later, drunk on the sun I had soaked up while I was there.
On a few occasions, I came with a friend of mine. Most of the time, it was a broke student like me, who could not say no to an invitation that included a free seafood platter (who can?), even if that meant two hours on a train. There are two things you need to know about my grandparents and the way they were. Firstly, they loved every new person who came into their life.
They were not just nice to me, they were nice to everyone they met. They loved to meet my friends and were instantly fond of them. For days after a visit, they would go on and on about how witty that friend was, what fun they’d had when he or she told that joke. Secondly, my grandad was obsessed with history, especially the twentieth century.
So when, one summer, I visited them with a history student — a former boyfriend of mine — they were delighted. They were so excited at the prospect of a long, clever conversation with him.
History has never been my forte. Even though, many years later, while my grandparents were still alive, I married a geographer (history’s sister), I never really got the hype around history, dates, famous events. In high school, I had to write a paper about Marxism. And even if today I’m very ashamed to tell that story, I must confess that at 16 years old I wrote « Groucho Marx » instead of « Karl Marx ». My lack of knowledge was the fundamental reason I was not fond of history. I misplaced countries, mixed up dates and people, and when I was wrong, my audience would look at me and say in a gentle tone: « But Juliette, you know that was 20 years before…? Don’t you know it was Louis XIII and not Louis XIV…? Pay attention, you’re embarrassing yourself… »
Today, I love history. There are so many reasons why: number one, I am older, and hopefully wiser. Dates and countries are no longer a mystery to me. I grew to love history when I realized kings and queens were just people like me, that they were made of flesh and blood. They had feelings, just like I do. The truth is that I grew to love history when I realized everything comes to an end. The truth is that I grew to love history when I lost my grandparents.
My history student friend did not know Rochefort at all. What a chance for my grandparents to show him everything they knew about it! During lunch, they rambled on about La Pérouse, the famous explorer, the Hermione, the boat, Les Demoiselles de Rochefort, the sixties film starring Catherine Deneuve. They were having a great time. I sat silent, listening to the same stories I had heard hundreds of times before. Yes, I knew « Demain dès l’aube » had actually been written in Rochefort; you’d told me a hundred times. Today, I would give my life to hear my grandmother’s voice telling me that again.
And of course, Rochefort was the home town of the writer Pierre Loti. Ah, Pierre Loti, said my grandfather, raising his two very old arms in the air. Pierre Loti, our local treasure! His depictions of Polynesia and China were breathtaking, don’t you think? What a character! Wearing make-up and constantly dressing up for guests! He was amazing. To this day, Pierre Loti is everywhere in Rochefort. In street names, painted on walls; he even gave his name to a pastry you can buy in the best bakery in town. His house, especially, is a regional curiosity. Built in an oriental style, it looks like a very normal house from the street, but is actually filled with objects from his travels.
It has a fountain in the garden and is one of the most famous writers’ houses in France. That afternoon, my friend was having a blast with my grandparents. His belly was filled with exquisite seafood and white wine. My grandad was so happy to have a good conversation with him. Everyone was celebrating. Except for me. For some reason I can’t explain, I was jealous of my friend. For once, someone else was stealing their attention from me. So when, after lunch, someone suggested we should all go to Pierre Loti’s house, I said « No, thank you ». When I said I wouldn’t go, my grandfather looked at me suspiciously, said something like « Are you sure? » and then quickly took my friend by the arm and left the house. My grandmother looked at me with disdain and said I was « une bécasse ». I was not able to appreciate their happiness, or the delight my friend, whom I had invited, gave them. I realize how ridiculous that was, and believe me, I’ve regretted that reaction ever since. I’ll always regret the way I reacted that day.
In 2021, my grandmother was one of the first people I knew to catch COVID-19. She died only a few days after testing positive. My grandfather was devastated and did not survive her. He died of sadness one year after my grandmother had passed away. They had been married for fifty years.
I go to Rochefort with my kids as much as I can. When they run around in the garden, I can’t help remembering the time I had there when I was six. This year, my eldest daughter is six. One of her teeth is loose. She wiggles it between her tiny fingers, hoping it will fall out soon.
When we visit, I have strange feelings towards the now empty house. During the day, I wander through the rooms, looking for nothing. At night, when everyone sleeps, I stand in the kitchen, where my grandmother told me about « l’âge de raison ». The kitchen light flickers and turns the room pitch black for a moment. Then it comes back, and so do all the memories I have about
the people I’ve lost. I remember my grandmother’s face, her hands, her skin. Je me rappelle sa douceur. In June 2025, after many years of restoration, the writer and traveller Pierre Loti’s house reopened to the public. When I tried to book tickets to finally visit it, it was sold out. It looks like I’ll never see the place. It’s fine. As with many things in life, I still have my books, and every story Pierre Loti has ever written. I read them regularly, and I am transported, just as I love to be, to a time and a place where the most important people in my life were still alive. But I am moving. I am just like that pine branch that can’t stop growing, and I’m sure, from up there, two of the people I’ve loved the most in my life gaze at me with a smile. And because you, dear reader, are my friend, I know they gaze at you too.