When observing the 18th century pile of stones crumbling in a Provence countryside, the author's father-in-law exclaimed, ""A catastrophe!"" However, the author, a former Vogue editor married to a Frenchman, had the Provence proclivities of those who are transported by Provencal scenery, and pale wine twirled over pate of thrush and truffles. So after mighty reconstructions (one item was the demolishing of 636 square feet of roof and repaving) and mightier bills (the author quickly pricks the myth that costs are cheaper abroad), the old farmhouse after five years emerged into a handsome mansion and the vineyard gave forth wine in its season. Be-whiles Mrs. Henry became acquainted with the neighbors, visited the market, and was really an inhabitant of Provence. La-di-da.