A beguiling black and orange butterfly lands silently on my skin. For a moment, I still, for fear of disturbing that brief second of cosmic simplicity that a set of fluttering wings can bring.
Plus, it’s meant to be good luck, right? At least it seems that way, for I’m calling the ethereal Loire Valley Lodges home for the next few days.
It may have taken an abrupt 4am wake-up, contrasted by a rather relaxed jaunt through Tours’s border control and a dozy 30-minute drive through sunflower fields before reaching Aurèle’s ‘Lost Dog’ sculpture that greets our arrival, but it’s only 10.30am and we’ve still a whole day ahead.
The hotel’s sylvan surroundings unravel slowly, as dense forest morphs into manicured gardens, peppered with sculptures (some small, some sizeable) and gleaming under clear blue skies – which, we’re joyously informed by smiley staff in jumpsuits, are here to stay. With that in mind, I head to swap my sweatshirt – nabbed blindly in the dimmed dawn light this morning – for a swimsuit and dive straight into the fir-fringed pool.
A few laps later we’re beckoned over for our first sampling of the decadently displayed fare at alfresco restaurant, Ardent. Fresh cucumber gazpachos, salmon-centred salads and just-picked strawberries are savoured to our chattering tune as we debate the personality behind each sculpture scattered within sight.
Spread across 750-acres of the Duporterie forest, each of the 18 lofty lodges here represents an escape from the valley’s château’d reputation, with four-metre-high stilted designs from French-architect Isabelle Poulain that stands each in good stead with the dashing deers and wild boars that bed beneath the birches.
Once any semblance of phone service has been well and truly lost (fear not avid Instagrammers, there are trace remains at reception) and I’ve clambered up to my front door, suitcase in tow, I’m greeted with interiors far from the self-tacked treehouses that hosted hours of childhood play-pretend.
A bein bed, dressed in brightly-embroidered textiles, fronts floor-to-ceiling windows that replace a TV for live wildlife showings (you have to provide your own Attenborough commentary, mind), Aesop bath products line the open-plan ensuite, and a gentle rumble from the private hot tub is the only non-natural sound I hear from my sun-speckled terrace.
The staple hotel robe has been donned, a glass of local Loire rosé poured, and I’m ready to ponder the hooded figures that seem to be the protagonists of my lodge’s artwork.
I’m staying in Houppelandes, but each lodge has been uniquely designed by different artists; some are bold, with bright graffiti-style sayings, others take on quieter tones, but mine seems to sit somewhere in the middle.
Created by artist Elizabeth ‘Babeth’ Riou, the brown and orange hues take inspiration from the natural palettes of North Africa and artwork is inspired by the region’s traditional tribal capes – she’s even left two to try at the front door.
The following morning, after a sleep drastically improved by the absence of late-night screen scrolling, I’m woken by a breakfast basket tied to the base of my lodge’s rope pulley. Knowing there’s warm pastries and homemade honey a few tugs away, I muster up my morning energy and haul the goods up to my terrace that’s currently blessed with a gentle dawn light.
Full with fresh croissants and emerged from my treetop cocoon, I head to regroup with nature-extraordinaire Sélene for a morning of forest bathing – an activity that doesn’t frequently fall within my repertoire but one I’m happy to bask in nonetheless.
An hour of cathartic breathwork, blinded (and guided) walks under the looming trees and a – surprisingly serene – session of tree hugging, brings us to the famed cinq chênes: a set of, you guessed it, five oak trees.
No longer carrying the thick leaves that once coated their elegant arms, we’re briefed that the bittersweet beauty of these now-bare oaks has inspired the owners to one day eternise each enlaced branch with a gold coating to ‘display the cruciality of nature’.
A meditative moment sweeps over us as we admire the silence and wisdom that subsumes each of these five intertwining oaks, until we’re brought back to earth by the gentle tickle of another resting butterfly.
‘Some leave with energy, others are drained. Let yourself feel either,’ Sélene informs us as she departs with a smile.
I seem to fall into the latter, so I pick up a free-to-borrow bike at reception and cycle back through the labyrinth of lanes to my lodge for a few hours of reposeful reading, before a masseur comes knocking, to de-knot any possible remains of tension.
But before long, it’s time to break from my wildlife-soundtracked Snow White trance as we’re set to dine with Loire Valley Lodge royalty this evening: owner Anne-Caroline and her husband, Bertrand.
Our evening is spent at the Lodges’ second restaurant, Asperatus, discussing every intricacy of these huts’ humble roots over grilled trout, fragranced aubergine and pomegranate salads, and home-grown potatoes plated with pesto by chef-of-the-month Juliette Barry.
We ask of motivations for seeking out such a stark change from their former life in Paris, and with seven kids (and as many dogs) quickly learn they simply sought something easier, quieter. Which, we soon realise, is why we’re all really here.
After years of searching for the perfect property, they stumbled across a run-down stone hut, once used for hunting, in acres of untouched forest.
Now, that very hut houses the Lodges’ relaxed reception, the courtyard has been reformed for alfresco diners to sip sauvignons to the sound of local jazz musicians, and though the forest remains untouched, look up and once empty space is sporadically filled with the 18 creatively configured treehouses.
The sun has dimmed and hours have passed, yet our conversation feels as if it’s only beginning. As we savour the final flavours of Juliette’s dishes, we’re commended by Bertrand for our appreciation of his wine selections – a Vouvray produced locally by his sons, Guillaume and Baptiste, has us all enamoured – and bid adieu to an evening spent in such compelling company.
As we arrive back into Paris the following day, swarmed by a frenzy of commuters, I’m reminded of the butterfly that had landed on me just days before. Stillness, it turns out, is impossibly hard to acknowledge until you’re far removed from its confines.
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