Pepito and I agreed that this would be our Spanish room, because obviously, every French château needs to relax a little bit. Let’s just all drink a Sanguinello, sleep the afternoon away and forget about those unpaid debts to the Crown. And those mistresses. YOU are the queen of the castle.
Unfortunately, the amazing trove of terracotta tile that I scooped up from a crumbling convent outside Seville got overshadowed by some loose interpretation of Greek mythology. My buttressed ceiling is covered in flying babies and there’s a nymph turning into a tree, and NO, Pepito, it isn’t fantástica. It’s awful and paint over it. And get rid of that plant stand while you’re at it.
But the floor. The floor is amazing, right? There’s a two hundred year-old story in each of those beautiful, weathered squares. I shall uncover them all.