The house
320 m² of wood, stone and glass, drawn around the view rather than the other way round. Every room faces the landscape; every material was chosen to age with it.
One room, one idea: nothing between you and the massif. Nine metres of glass slide fully open onto the terrace, the stone fireplace anchors the north wall, and the piano is tuned every spring — play it at dusk and the valley listens.
Three suites in raw wood and washed linen, each with its own bath and its own view — forest, river or peaks. No televisions upstairs, by design. The windows do that job better.
Natural oak, a honed stone island long enough for six to work at, and brass that will patinate. The window above the sink frames the peaks, which is where everyone ends up looking while the water boils. Everything is here, including the things you only miss when they are missing: a sharp knife, a heavy pan, a corkscrew that works.
An eight-hundred-kilo tub carved from a single block of river stone, set against a floor-to-ceiling window onto the pines. The one room in the house designed to be seen from lying down.
Larch decking, deep lounges, olive trees in stone pots and a long gas fire pit for the hour when the peaks turn pink. Breakfast lands here from June to September.
Cedar, wood-fired, and set at the far end of the deck where the valley opens up. It takes a couple of hours to come up to heat, so we light it before you arrive if you tell us your time. Best used at dusk, in the cold, with the lanterns on and the peaks going pink.
When the first snows close the valley down to a whisper, this is where the house gathers: dry-stone chimney, wool throws, a woodshed stacked like a library. The fire is laid for your arrival.
Materials
Nothing in the house was picked to photograph well. It was picked to look better in ten years than it did on the first day.
Facade, terrace, woodshed
Cut in the next valley and left untreated. It silvers a little more every winter, which is the point.
Chimney, bath, thresholds
Taken from the riverbed below the house. Heavy things hold temperature, and temperature is what makes a wooden house calm.
Floors, stairs, the long table
Wide boards, oiled rather than lacquered, so a scratch reads as use instead of damage.
Beds, throws, curtains
Washed linen that gets softer, and wool heavy enough to sit under with the windows open.
Photographs stop at the doorstep. The silence does not.