An unforgettable stay

During my TGV journey from Brussels to Nîmes, the landscape gradually shifted, taking on a distinctly Mediterranean feel. Shortly after passing Valence, I spotted my first cypress tree! From Nîmes, the journey continued northward to La Bastide-Puylaurent in Lozère. Traveling in an ultramodern train with panoramic windows offered spectacular views of the Cévennes. A nature documentary couldn't have captured these breathtaking scenes any better.

Upon arriving at L'Etoile, I was warmly welcomed by the owner, Philippe Papadimitriou, and his dog, Billy. Philippe—a globetrotter and a true European in both origin and conviction—is a strapping fellow standing nearly two meters tall. With his bright blue eyes and mischievous gaze, he instantly made me feel at home, almost as if he had been waiting just for me. (Though let's be honest: he has a knack for making every guest feel this way!)

The guesthouse, formerly known as the Hôtel du Parc or Hôtel Ranc, is incredibly spacious and bright. It features a large veranda at the front and a balcony at the back that offers a beautiful view of the garden bordering the Allier River. The expansive living and dining room, where meals are shared at a large communal table, also houses a piano. In the afternoons, Philippe often sits there to play his own improvisations. The true centerpiece of the room, however, is the immense fireplace, whose crackling warmth I deeply appreciated during those early days of June.

And then, of course, there is Billy—a lovable mix of Labrador and Golden Retriever. Billy is an integral part of the L'Etoile experience. He greets new arrivals according to his own mysterious criteria: some receive a highly cordial welcome, while others leave him perfectly indifferent. I suspect he knows exactly what he's doing.

Billy generally occupies the most strategic spots in the guesthouse. You’ll find him either in front of the reception desk (keeping a watchful eye on the hallway, the front door, and the living room), in the corridor right outside the kitchen (for obvious reasons), or curled up near—or practically under—the fireplace. Furthermore, he loves to make himself comfortable in a wicker armchair right by the fire. His technique is flawless: first, he rests his muzzle on the seat, followed by his front paws. With one final heave, the rest of him follows (he isn't as young as he used to be, after all). Once all four paws are securely in the chair, he pivots slightly to the right, slips his front legs through the side bars, and delicately rests his head on the armrest. Phew, mission accomplished! Once he’s settled, you can push or turn his chair to take photos; he won't be moving for quite a while.

Between Billy and me, it was mutual love at first sight! Whenever I settled down—which, I admit, was usually near the fireplace—Billy would come lie at my feet. Resting his head on his front paws, he would let out a deep, contented sigh. I would scratch him behind the ears, whispering that he was a beautiful dog, perhaps even the most beautiful dog in the world. Billy accepted these compliments without objection, clearly in full agreement. As a reward, he would roll onto his back for a belly rub before finally settling on his right side, emitting another long sigh of sheer contentment. He also made a habit of visiting my room every morning, entering through the balcony door. He greeted me with enthusiastic tail wags, joyful jumps, and happy sneezes. I proudly declared Billy to be "my" dog for the duration of my stay—a claim Philippe graciously allowed.

These days, Billy isn't much for long hikes, though he absolutely loves accompanying Philippe on errands in the minibus. (He still hasn't figured out how to fasten his seatbelt, however.) But let's not forget that my main reason for visiting France was to hike. I embarked on beautiful three- to four-hour walks. The possibilities for hikers in this region are truly endless.

The landscape is gentle and vibrantly colorful. The passes, hills, valleys, and slopes are blanketed in greenery of infinite shades—a sight that made my painter's heart flutter. I walked past vast, bright yellow expanses of blooming broom and dandelions, alongside deep green patches that, upon closer inspection, revealed themselves as daffodils waiting for the sun to fully bloom. Along the paths, tiny violets, cowslips, orchids, and snowdrops trembled in the cool breeze, patiently awaiting warmer days.

I was fascinated by the hillsides, which looked as though they had been carefully sculpted by a divine hand. Firs stood alongside pines and beeches, interspersed with flowering trees and shrubs, while broom sprouted from the rocky crags. The scenery presented a harmonious mix of shapes—tall and short, slender and round, long and wide—all rendered in countless variations of green.

Driving along the narrow roads of this unspoiled corner of France feels like traveling through a landscape designed for a miniature model train. With its valleys, hills, bridges, tunnels, railways, scattered farms, rivers, and grazing sheep and goats, the view is constantly changing. Above it all is a dramatic sky that shifts rapidly between blue and gray, with mountainous clouds parting to reveal brilliant sunshine before quickly reforming. Surrounded by deep silence—interrupted only by birdsong and the murmur of the river—I felt like I had found paradise.

It was with deep regret that I left this enchanting place at the end of the week. I left harboring an ardent desire to return to these landscapes, to this beautiful home, and, of course, to Philippe and Billy. By Margit Huy