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.

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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

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