AFTER a hot n’ sweaty six hours in the saddle, I arrived at a faux Louis IV château, ringed by huge oaks. Stone cottages straight out of ‘French Country quaint’ dotted the grassy, adjacent park, writes Christopher Strong.
And set, ever so tastefully in the midst, an azur swimming pool beckoned. Cigales chattered in the pines beyond. Hey – this could be do-able!
I announced myself to the receptionist. A barely adolescent Catherine Deneuve clone. She arched an obviously artificial eyebrow, while favouring me with a smile and a “bonjour” of the same quality.
FOR too long, Bergerac has bumped along in the wake of its more illustrious neighbour, Bordeaux, writes Phil Hargreaves.