It was this same fantasy that had lured Steph and David here themselves. No other country seemed to have quite the same alluring effect on the British mind as France. That and their love of this particular landscape in the south-west, with its clear, shining rivers – so clear that people actually swam in them, unlike their British equivalents – and its rich sprinkling of châteaux for their guests to explore on day trips; not to mention its lush farmland, deep gorges and gentle rows of vines. They had been here on countless holidays and utterly lost their hearts to the place, so when they’d decided to finally take the plunge and buy somewhere to turn into a B&B, it had to be round here.

They had found a handsome maison de maître, a solid stone house, more practical than a crumbling château but with oodles of charm. In order to do it up they had enlisted the help of Steve, a local builder beloved of his fellow expats because he seemed to be able to do his work efficiently without speaking any French. He managed this simply by pointing, gesticulating and having a way about him that the suppliers seemed to regard as engagingly rosbif (eating roast beef being – obviously – the most defining of British characteristics).

Over three years – trying not to get discouraged by rising damp or sudden holes in the walls or floorboards so riddled with damp rot that David had almost fallen through – they had prepared six bedrooms, each with the essential en suite bathroom no tourist could live without, put in a swimming pool, and got ready to open just as their money was about to run out.

The life suited them both. Steph loved to cook and David was the most sociable of beings, happy to host the large shared table that was the big feature of the chambre d’hôte – where all the guests got to meet each other. The only drawback was the grinding tiredness that sometimes enveloped them both as a result of the constant shopping, cooking and bedmaking.

Steph finished laying the table and putting out the pretty pots of home-made jams (another must at a chambre d’hôte), the fruit salad and the cold meats.

‘Madame, s’il vous plaît,’ called a voice from the staircase.

‘Oh my God,’ Steph muttered, ‘it’s that Belgian family again.’ A large family called LeBrun had recently arrived, trying to pack extra children into their bedroom and constantly demanding assistance of one sort or another. ‘What do they want now?’

‘I’ll go and see,’ soothed David.

‘Ideas for what to do today,’ he announced when he got back ten minutes later. ‘Perfectly reasonable, really. That’s what we’re here for, after all.’

‘What did you tell them?’ Steph murmured. ‘To get lost in the caves, I hope!’