THERE’S nothing quite like getting a phone call a week before your holiday begins, to tell you the house you booked and have dreamed of visiting for six months, has burned to the ground!

“Apparently there was an electrical fault and a few of the rooms have gone,” said my sister in a late night call. “But don’t worry. I’ve found somewhere else for us to go. It’s in the Loire Valley and it’s a converted convent.”

“I don’t know if I can manage that,” I replied.

“The last place was a converted monastery and you didn’t have a problem with that,” she said.

“I know but watched The Nun a few months back and I still have the odd flashback to the bit where the demon nun flies down the corridor screaming!”

“Well how about having a flashback to how you stayed at home alone for two weeks while the rest of us go to France because I’m booking it,” she snapped, determined her long awaited 50th birthday holiday would not be ruined by fire or demonic nuns.

Our arrival at the house, after an horrendous drive through endless hours of torrential rain, did little to allay my fears, as we were greeted at the spookily creaking gates by the owner and his wife.

“If we were the Scooby Doo gang they’d be the creepy caretakers who are unmasked at the end,” I hissed to the housemate as they beckoned us in.

“Not only did it used to be a convent, it also used to be an orphanage run by nuns. That’s even spookier and the man who now owns it used to live here when he was a child. His wife showed us his picture on the wall!” I added

“Shut up Thelma, we’re here now,” hissed back my sister as she contemplated how to get her car through the narrow entrance into the courtyard in the dark and drizzle of our first night.

The next morning brought a quite different view as the sun burst over the very unspooky walled garden with its spectacular view of the town’s fairytale castle.

As my sister and I enjoyed a morning swim before wandering into town for a cafe au lait and to collect some freshly baked baguettes, we considered the history of the owner.

“I think he was an orphan who came back and used his life savings to buy the house out of gratitude to the nuns who looked after him,” I said.

Later that morning when he called in to check - slightly worryingly - that we’d made it through the first night, we questioned him about the history of the house.

“I was born in this town and came home from Paris on holiday and saw the house was for sale so I bought it,” he explained.

“I bought the one next door as well, which I live in sometimes when we come here. I have a few other houses in other parts of France,” he added, explaining he’d recently retired after a career as an international marketing consultant.

“We’re not very good detectives,” I said to my sister as we sipped a brandy in the town square. “We thought the last house we rented was owned by a van driver when he turned out to be a designer for Hermes and now we thought a top consultant is Oliver Twist. We need to stick to drinking coffee and buying baguettes!”