Auberge de Chassignolles, my Hotel California in the Auvergne

Hannah's further adventures off the beaten-track in South-Eastern France, as she's abandoned in a hot, sticky Ardeche but reminisces about the perfect lunch

The Ardèche is hot in August. Fridge-cold pan of gazpacho gripped to my face two centimetres from the fan shutters permanently closed not many clothes and still hot-kind of hot. More detail I can’t give because the thermometer’s broken. It shows a 3 and a 9 but is missing the third digit so it’s anyone’s guess whether it’s 390°C, 309°C or even °F. Not that anyone is here to guess or, more critically, find me when I not so much spontaneously as inevitably combust. I’m alone for the next twelve days and I don’t have a car. Should you wish to send condolences you can c/o Andrea Calek but don't feel too bad. I found the place I want to spend the rest of my life and it's got a bar, so feel free to send cash instead.

I found it two weeks ago: the most perfect little auberge. To chance upon it is to finally find something I’m not sure ever really existed in France outside of the romanticised memories of Anglo-Saxons but which we always get off the péage to look for anyway. Auberge de Chassign…