Even so, a "sauver l'abbaye" petition was posted on the Internet by a disgruntled local architect, and some residents will undoubtedly miss their impromptu picnics next to the delightful rivulet that runs through the park. The archbishop acknowledges, "This was an emotionally difficult decision, but with the Cummingses, the abbey will have a future." He explains that many church structures (including La Bussière) were secularized during the French Revolution, and specifically cites Royaumont Abbey, built by Louis IX near Chantilly. An impeccably restored Gothic complex, it currently functions as a privately funded arts colony that holds seasonal performances open to the public.
The Cummings family has definitely rolled up their sleeves to make the abbey spiffy again. It's still a work in progress, as I note when their son Clive, who is resident manager, walks me around the grounds. The antiquated steam-heating pipes remain visible in the reception hall, and massive fireplaces are blocked shut. However, the new caretakers have revitalized exceptional ornamental details: limestone arches supported by laughing gargoyles, heraldic frescoes, stained-glass refectory windows, and a marble spiral staircase to the adjacent convent, where most of the 10 guest rooms have whirlpool tubs and canopied beds more suitable for a marquis than a monk. Since they bought the abbey lock, stock, and wine barrel, the Cummingses have been especially excited by the giant wooden grape pressoir in a stone barn behind the turreted structure. The hotel certainly benefits from its proximity to the classic vineyards of Beaune and Nuits-St.-Georges: the restaurant's cellar reflects a reverence for the vine. And while the Cummingses are yeoman English, the chef at the abbey, Olivier Elzer, is haute French. His peeled fresh asparagus with poached eggs and seared Charolais beef fillet with a marrow reduction are wonderfully paired with flinty Chardonnay and ruby Pinot Noir from the region's best winemakers for my final meal there.
Relais San Maurizio, Santo Stefano Belbo, Italy
The connection between monasteries and great vineyards is long-standing. I am reminded of this as I steer an enormous Mercedes up narrow switchbacks surrounded by Moscato grapes en route to Relais San Maurizio, about two hours southeast of Turin in Italy's Piedmont region, where the white truffles of Alba are paired with delightfully fizzy vintages from Asti. In chapters 39 and 40, Benedict exhorted his followers to practice austerity and engage in manual labor, but he didn't recommend abstinence from drinking. That would be hell for an Italian. A group of Franciscan monks tilled the vines surrounding this 17th-century monastery until Napoleon's army came to town in 1802. (Apart from Henry VIII, who dismantled abbeys in Britain because he wanted a divorce, Napoleon's political ambitions did more damage to the monastic system in Europe than anyone else, with the possible exception of that wild-eyed revolutionary, Martin Luther.) The monastery was eventually purchased and converted to a private res- idence by a local noble in 1862, and just recently, when the noble's descendants couldn't afford the upkeep, San Maurizio was again transformed to receive souls in need of breathing space.
The relais consists of 31 rooms and suites spread between a butter-yellow Italianate villa and a renovated limestone barn. A broad flagstone patio leads to a small park of olive and larch trees. In keeping with the grape theme, San Maurizio also has a Caudalie vinotherapy spa, housed in an annex to the old wine cellars. In the modest chapel attached to the villa, an old pump organ occupies the apse. Hotel manager Nadia Finelli mentions to me that the local priest will not permit weddings in this sweet little church, but he doesn't mind if guests practice yoga there.
Opening the green shutters of room No. 115, I look out on a formal boxwood garden and distant hills covered in cedars and grapevines. Cobbled together from three monk's cells, my room has a creaky parquet floor, carved oak doors, floral brocade fabrics, and a trim writing desk where I can pen postcards to my forlorn husband, who remains uncertain about my sudden interest in solitary confinement. And even though I am not a fan of lilac Murano chandeliers or mauve-pink silk curtains, the terra-cottapaved hallways and sitting rooms on the first floor are pleasantly underpopulated during my stay. Walking through a glass-enclosed winter garden designed by I. M. Pei, one of the bar staff casually hails me by saying, "Salve." It's a common Italian greeting, meaning "hello," but I'm stopped in my tracks, knowing that the Latin root salvus means "safe and sound."
That evening, in the brick cellars where the Franciscans once stored their wine vats, I reflect on my temporary hiatus from the Wi-Fi world as I enjoy a plate of buttery agnolotti patiently and lovingly formed by restaurateur Andrea Alciati's septuagenarian mother. Only one other table is reserved for the evening, affording me a quiet chance to consider the continued relevance of withdrawal in an era of relentless coverage of mosque bombings and imminent bird-flu outbreaks, not to mention the latest antics on The Apprentice and American Idol. As I linger over a glass of Barbaresco, the background music catches my attention. The orchestration has taken a familiar turn, and even though it's an instrumental version, with a classical string section striving mightily to camouflage the song's provenance, I suddenly recognize the improbable melody bouncing off the herringbone arches of the subterranean vaults of this former monastery: it's Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven." Amen to that.
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