The third Saturday in April 1985 — I’d been looking for what I described as ‘my house by the sea’ for 10 years, looking all over the world, wherever I was filming or working.
I’d found one or two things that were suitable or within my modest budget, but for one reason or another they never came to fruition.
In 1984 I was filming a mini-series in Australia. The producer, Michel Noll, met me in the hotel in Sydney and invited me out for a drink. Next evening we had dinner and he asked me to marry him. I didn’t accept — I was a bit taken aback!
We started seeing each other when we were back in Europe. We moved to Paris, lived in a tiny studio — 20 square metres full of love. The following spring he was attending the then Cannes TV and Film Festival. He encouraged me to come along.
While he was doing business, I went looking for my house by the sea. The estate agents were very snooty about the money I had to spend.
On that April Saturday, an estate agent said he’d take us inland, show us what was available. Michel came too.
The first thing he showed us was a wall in a field — the rest had fallen down. Michel said this was too much of a ruin, and asked if there was anything else.
And we climbed up a hill to this jungle of land — blue skies, swallows diving into an empty swimming pool, a house covered in ivy, overgrown.
The place was empty, for decades it had been squatted in. It was falling to pieces but it had stunning sea views overlooking the Bay of Cannes.
Inside was a curtain of cobwebs. I fell completely in love. Don’t ask! It was a crazy love. Something inside said ‘this is it’, like when you meet a man and you know this is the one.
There were two moments — the first, standing inside on my own in the sitting room, which had a fireplace. I looked out the window, all gunged up with rusty mosquito netting.
I was thinking of the families, the love and laughter, the children, of what had already been here and how we could do the same. I heard the ghosts, voices of the past.
And the second moment: when we stood on the upper balcony and looked out to sea — the blue sky, sun shining. I thought ‘this is totally magnificent, more than my dream’.
It wasn’t right on the sea but it had beautiful sea views. I felt I’d come home, spiritually, inside.
It’s hard to pinpoint a dream, where it comes from, how it grows. My parents had what could be described as a rather turbulent marriage. My mother was Irish, my father born in London. There was that split.
It seemed to me, as a child, that we were all happiest as a family when we went on holiday by the sea. The rows weren’t there then.
At the sea there was harmony, which there wasn’t at home. I find being by the sea very healing — I’m never comfortable when I’m far from it.
Michel and I, both being freelance, never had a salary or proper pension between us. It’s always been touch-and-go with money. There were times it got very sticky and I did wonder if I’d made a mistake.
The biggest moment was when Michel and I split up. My mother said: “Come home.” I said: “But this is home.” And I stayed here, battled away until we got back on track again.
When I make up my mind, I’m very dogged in my determination. Resistance works in my favour — it determines me to go at a thing stronger.
So many of our family want to spend time here. They’ve had birthdays, holidays here, and now they come with their children for birthdays and holidays, and that’s very special.
What we’ve created here goes beyond us, it goes on through the family line. It’s our special place, but also something we share with others.
Once we started farming, developing our olive farm, reading about the history of the olive, it opened up my mind to taking care of the earth, to deciding we must be organic here. Things that weren’t in my mind when I was young and concentrating on being an actor.
As we get older the question comes up — ‘what if something happens to one of us? How would one manage without the two of us?’ I say I’d sell it and go to Ireland, but who knows?
If I ever say to Michel ‘maybe we should sell it, do something more sensible’, he gets mad. Which is great — it was originally my dream but it has become our reality. He took it on, embraced it with open arms.
Financially, it has been a never-ending money pit. We never have spare money. But that’s ok — what we have is beyond our bank account. We’ve had so much love here. It’s really very beautiful — there is magic here.
- An Evening with Carol Drinkwater, at West Cork Literary Festival on Tuesday, July 15, in The Maritime Hotel, Bantry. Carol Drinkwater’s new novel, One Summer in Provence, is out now.
westcorkmusic.ie/literary-festival
