The house is a century old, built by a mason who never drew a straight lintel if an arch would do. The result is a sequence of thresholds that frame the day: low arches for shade, high arches for breeze, round arches for the sun at noon.
Architects call it “thermal mass with manners” — thick lime plaster walls that keep the heat out until evening, when the stone gives it back gently.
We spent a week tracking the light through the rooms, and the house arranged itself like a sundial: breakfast in the east kitchen, reading in the north library, dinner on the west terrace as the light turned to amber.
Nothing here was designed to be photographed. Everything was designed to be lived in.