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There is a seasonal rhythm to owning a vacation house that makes us feel all too keenly the passage of time. Summer’s end brings with it a round of closings. It begins with the closing of the house, which we have to batten down for a long absence. Then there is our wistful circuit of goodbyes. We have developed a ritual of farewells that once established cannot be broken without hurt feelings. We visit our friends and neighbors, clink glasses, and wish them health and a happy new year in advance. There are going-away presents for the young. “Until next summer!” we say. With the old there are hints of melancholy as we talk confidently about next year’s return. We begin the countdown to departure the afternoon before we are to leave. I start by defrosting the refrigerator , which entails controlled flooding in the kitchen 11 c l o s i n g s over several hours. I pack away dishes and silverware and jettison foodstuffs, while Michael tidies up outside and hauls away garbage. The night before, we pack our suitcases, shower, and eat a late dinner out, leaving the mechanical work for morning. As we mount the path to the house, we take a last look at the castle at night, illuminated against the inky sky. After a quick breakfast in the morning, Michael packs the car, while I finish stowing the kitchenwares and empty the flowerpots outside so the earth won’t hold water that could freeze and crack them. Then we start at the top of the house and work our way down by floors. In the attic we strip the bed, leaving a thin, washable bedspread on top to catch droppings from visiting mice or bats. Pillows go into the bureau drawers, where they will stay dry over winter. The screen for the large window comes in, and we pull tight the shutters, lock the casement into place from inside, and unplug the lamps and fan. Then it’s down to the séjour for a similar routine. The sheets from the bed go over the couch and armchair to protect them from dust. Cushions go into the armoire , on top of the blankets. Whatever is outside comes inside, including the picnic table and chairs, parasol, ladder, flowerpots, and gardening tools. We wedge a board into the fireplace chimney to block birds and animals that might try to enter. Everything but the phone is unplugged. We lock the shutters and panes and pull closed the outside door to the terrace, which is solid wood and bolts into the stone door frame. As we do so, the room suddenly goes black. This moment always feels threatening to me, as if we’re losing our home, along with the light, forever. We close and lock 2 3 4 t h e b at t l e o f c a s t e l n au d the interior door. Feeling our way to the stairwell, we descend to the cuisine. There, water control is the principal concern. The only time we’ve had a problem was one winter when our water pipe and water heater froze because they hadn’t been properly drained. Now we have a clipboard outlining a set of steps that we check off meticulously to prevent a repetition. A single narrow pipe carries water into the house from a distribution box outside connected to the town’s supply. In the kitchen, it branches off into the sink and water heater on the wall above it, then continues through that wall into the bathroom, where it branches again to serve the sink, shower, bidet, and toilet —simplicity itself as far as plumbing goes. The houseclosing strategy is to drain the main pipe thoroughly and then dry out the traps of the receptacles. The operation is carefully synchronized. I turn on all the taps at once while Michael goes outside and around the house to the stone water box. With the precision and drama of a space launching, we shout signals at each other through the kitchen window. When all the taps are running , Michael smartly cuts off the water from the outside main, and the flow trickles to dribbles and drops until the taps are dry. Next we pour alcool à bruler (white spirits) into the drains, to help evaporate water remaining in the traps and to work as antifreeze during the winter. One final step—the water heater above the...

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