The hotel: you don’t find the Chartreuse du Bignac by accident. It’s up
a long lane, off a small road, itself subsidiary to a network of byways
created by rustics to ensnare strangers coming out of Bergerac and (who
knows? this is France) eat them.
The Chartreuse claims to be in Saint-Nexans, but isn’t. Signs thither have
been placed by a dwarf with exceptionally sharp eyesight.
“Let’s stop and ask that peasant,” suggested my wife, on the fourth time of
passing an old chap with what may have been a dog. “He’s part of the plot,”
I said.
Strangely, he wasn’t. It took him only 15 minutes to give us directions (“Left
by the stream where old Jacques drowned his wife . . . ”). In as little time
again, we were driving up a hill through woodland, past horses and a donkey,
and in through the Chartreuse’s gates.
On the right was a big orchard of plum trees arranged in ranks. On the left, a
lawn swept down to a little lake. In the middle, on the brow of the hill,
stood the Chartreuse.
More than a farmstead, but not quite a manor house, it has a mansard roof with
pointy bits, a stone and cream facade, a gravel approach and a sufficiency
of outbuildings. One could imagine an 18th-century notable striding out of a
morning, giving orders to the farm staff, then returning inside to greet
guests of equivalent rank.
Which is not unlike the way the place operates today. There’s no reception.
You are welcomed into a tall, tiled hall. There is a hedgehog boot brush on
the lowest step of the stairs. Beyond, the salon and library suggest a
serenity of reading, cognac-sipping and, conceivably, the exchanging of
epigrams. It’s as if you’ve landed at the home of your parents’ more
cultured friends.
“Our aim is casual, but not overfamiliar,” says the owner, Brigitte Viargues.
It works, suffusing the place with warmth and decent standards. This puts
everyone at ease. Within moments, we had shrugged off daily concerns and
taken to the terrace. We looked out over woods, vineyards and other hills
with hamlets and scattered farms.
“Ducks,” I quipped, indicating the lake down the slope. I’m greatly impressed
by ducks. They always seem to have a serious purpose in life for which being
a duck hasn’t properly equipped them. The hotel had provided them with
smashing little lakeside duck houses. If I’d had any lingering doubts about
the place, these would have banished them.
The rooms: “metropolitan rustic” is the term. The 12 rooms and one
suite are indeed country affairs – beams, polished wood floors, lots of
space – but with an urbane lady’s eye for colours (pinks and blues among
them), fabrics and finishing touches such as the large model tortoise next
to our bed. We got on very well. In short, they’re lovely.
The food: essentially, it’s home cooking from the French southwest –
with much duck (don’t tell the ones by the lake) and meaty stews – but, as
this is a posh home, it comes with refinement. Tables bear crisp linen and
an abundance of wineglasses; starters run to scallops and fancy
smoked-salmon dishes. In summer, dinner is on the terrace, amid roses, Judas
trees, gorgeous views and tranquillity you can taste.
Out and about: this is the Dordogne. If you can’t fill your time here,
I suggest you stay home with Facebook. Tackle the road labyrinth again and
you may refind Bergerac, which has spruced up its old town splendidly. Then
you have the Dordogne valley, with its chateaux and villages, and the Vézère
valley, where prehistoric man gathered in unprecedented numbers. Sarlat is
France’s loveliest Renaissance town and, well, the list goes on. It’s all
glorious. Finish with some wine-tasting around Bergerac. The hotel’s owners
will advise you. Steady, though, or you’ll never find your way back.
— La Chartreuse du Bignac; 00 33 5 53 22 12 80, www.abignac.com.
Doubles start at £112, breakfast is £13, dinner £26. Fly to Bergerac, four
miles from the hotel, with Ryanair (www.ryanair.com)
or Flybe (0871 700 2000, www.flybe.com),
from 10 airports in the UK
