When my parents retired, they decided to buy a sixth of a farmhouse near Saint-Quay-Portrieux, a charming little seaside resort in Brittany. Now, French property laws are notoriously convoluted, blame Napoleon, so to bypass the legal nightmare, my parents and five other couples became "Directors" of a corporate entity created specifically to hold the house. It sounds like a high-stakes tax haven maneuver, but it was really just six sets of retirees pooling their pensions. It certainly helped that the company Chairman had spent 15 years as a lawyer in Paris, making him fluent in both French and the dark arts of French bureaucracy.

On paper, my parents got six weeks of holiday a year. In reality, thanks to "opening up week" in the spring, "closing down week" in the autumn, and sneaky overlaps with their fellow Director friends, they’d routinely squeeze out a smooth ten weeks a year in France.

Naturally, I took full advantage. I was in my twenties, desperately trying to forge a career in sales, and grinding out 60 to 80 hour workweeks. Whenever I could escape, I’d take the ferry to Saint-Malo and tackle the two-hour drive down to Moulin Veil, the ultimate sanctuary. Honestly? I didn't spend my holidays sipping cider or touring the coastline. I went to Brittany to sleep. It was pure, unadulterated rest.

There was, of course, a catch. Free lodging didn't come without a price tag: my dad’s mandated "rent" was that I had to mow the lawn. And this wasn't a quick twenty-minute push-mower job; it was an all-day, soul-testing marathon. But a day of labour in exchange for a week of quiet bliss was a trade I’d make every single time.

Those trips spanned generations. My parents cherished having the grandchildren over, and there’s still home video of my niece, who’s now in her thirties with a family of her own, splashing around the rock pools on those gorgeous Breton beaches as a tiny kid.

As with all great eras, though, the sun eventually set on Moulin Veil. The original band of friends gradually moved on, replaced by new owners. The old "make-do-and-mend" spirit slowly mutated into a "just write a cheque for it" culture, stripping away the charm. The final blow came when travel insurance for my dad’s dementia became impossibly expensive, making the journey too hard to justify. Eventually, my parents sold their share.

The farmhouse is now left behind, and my lawn-mowing days officially came to an end. But that slice of Brittany, and the glorious exhaustion-curing sleep it gave me, will always be unmatched.