The train pulled into the Montpellier station.
We felt a longing for something new, but it wasn’t time for that yet.
We walked from the station toward our Airbnb.
Waiting for us was a charming little townhouse with a sign above the door that read Bijou, meaning jewel,
along with our friendly hosts.
Our summer home in Montpellier was waiting for its new residents.
If you prefer to read in Finnish, continue here / Jos luet mieluummin suomeksi, jatka tänne: Paikka joka muutti elämäni, vaikken edes pitänyt siitä.
The place that changed my life, but I didn’t like it
A year before our nomad life began, we were sitting on a train in southern France.
Only fifteen minutes left until the final stop.
Our summer home in Montpellier was waiting.
The train paused for a moment.
I stared at the seaside landscape unfolding behind the window.
And I wondered: what if we just got off here?
Stayed here.
Never went back.
We could settle in an old fishing village.
Rent a small whitewashed house with its own little garden.
What more would we even need?
I asked Ismo what items we’d have to buy if we stepped off the train now, with just our little bags. Permanently.
We wrote the list down.
But nothing changed – yet.
We already felt a longing for something new, but it wasn’t time for that yet.
Moments later, the train pulled into the Montpellier station.
Our summer home in Montpellier is as pretty as a jewel
Montpellier did play a part in changing our lives—but this isn’t the place we didn’t fell in love with.
Quite the opposite: we could have stayed here forever.
We walked from the station toward our Airbnb.
Waiting for us was a charming little townhouse with a sign above the door that read Bijou, meaning jewel,
along with our friendly hosts.
Our summer home in Montpellier was waiting for its new residents.
The hosts were mopping the floors frantically, apologising that everything wasn’t quite ready. Turned out we were their very first guests.
We waited in the yard, petting a couple of cats, while they scrubbed the house spotless.
We insisted they didn’t need to go to such lengths for us, but they wouldn’t hear of it.
When everything was finally ready, we could explore our temporary home.
Downstairs was a combined living room and kitchen, and a bathroom mainly used by the cats.
At the top of a lovely wooden staircase was the bedroom and another bathroom.
A grey cat watched us shyly from the stairs, while the black one had already allowed plenty of cuddles outside.
When we were lounging in the deck chairs, it lounged right beside us.
The townhouse garden was modest in size, with no plants needing watering, mostly cacti.
But there was a Weber grill.
We knew exactly what we’d be doing in the coming days.
When the hosts were ready to leave, I joked, “The cats are included in the rent, right? Cats don’t exactly love moving to new places!”
After a short negotiation, the surprised hosts really did leave the cats in our care.
For the first time in years, I had my own cat again—or at least a borrowed one.
My own had left for the great hunting grounds four years earlier.
Life around a tiny square
A short walk from our home was a slightly larger square—
really a roundabout, around which life continuously revolved.
On its edges, you’d find a bar, a restaurant, a barber, a greengrocer, a butcher, a flower shop, and of course, a church.
A person could live their entire life on this square, from cradle to grave.
I wouldn’t be surprised if some had done exactly that.
Even we outsiders were warmly welcomed.
We visited all the shops except the church.
We got haircuts. We picked up cheese at the greengrocer.
We chatted—very clumsily in French—with the butcher about the best cuts and oh yes, the best meat-producing regions.
We admired the southern French running around with bottles of rosé tucked under their arms—it’s not just a stereotype!
We drank our share too, in our little garden.
Restaurant and bar visits remained a one-time thing; our summer home kept pulling us back.
The flower shop ended up being just something to admire.
We grilled fresh vegetables and steaks on the Weber.
We learned the basics of the French waste-sorting system.
On the street leading home from the square was a grill selling delicious rotisserie chicken.
We brought some home several times, pairing it with our grilled vegetables.
Once we escaped to the beach by tram. Maybe twice?
We swam, walked along the shoreline to the next village, and ate mussels.
Trams and buses to Palavas left practically from our doorstep, so why not.
We wandered around the city too, but always hurried back to cuddle the cats.
I began to understand people who live their entire lives in one place.
Everything is here.
What more could a person need?
We slept with a cat at our feet and eventually won over the other one too.
Why couldn’t we live like this forever?
But no one lives forever.
Midway through our stay, we received sad news.
I stared at the giant old iron cross leaning against the wall.
We still had time to change our lives.
The fishing village that never became our home
But what was the village where I daydreamed about getting off the train and settling down?
It was the former fishing village of Sète.
In our dream life—our nomad life—we returned to Sète a few years later.
We didn’t particularly fall in love with it.
Even so, the old fishing village holds a special place in our hearts.
It reminds us of the moment we decided to change our lives.
Back then, Ismo’s application for a sabbatical wasn’t approved, but the following year… it was.
No advertisements, please — we already know our place.
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