The usual little hotel bar: long wooden counter with a Formica top, pinball machine, poster for a local football match, green shiny walls, a TV set on a shelf jammed high into a corner, the sound off, the vision on; two elderly people talking at each other in sudden jumps and cuts. In the centre of the room a few tables and some chairs, a pot of plastic tulips; a door in one wall draped in lace curtains leading to the dining-room; another, across the room, leading to the WC, according to the hand-printed card above it.

People at the bar, all men, farmers from the look of them, talking, drinking, punching each other affectionately, laughing.

At one of the tables a couple of obvious tourists, he fat, bloated even, she thin with a face pinched by years of irritation. They were both reading, he a folded copy of some newspaper, she an old copy of Figaro-Madame.

I ordered a Scotch and Perrier from the pleasant barman. Two youths went over to the pinball machine. Lights flashed, bells rang, they were laughing, thumping the sides.

I took my drink and sat at a small table in a corner. Under the glass-covered top a small, stained map of the region, with the village dead centre in large letters, and ‘delightful walks and excursions’ radiating from it like the spokes of a wheel. Saint-Basile, I saw, was at the far edge of the map, to the west of the village, surrounded by woods, but not indicated as a ‘delightful walk or excursion’.

I’d have to find that out for myself.

I had a couple of drinks, then went into the dining-room, tired, ready for a meal and for my bed. I’d been travelling all day, after all.

A comfortable, unfussy room. Tiled floor, large open fireplace with a log smouldering indolently; about eight tables. Round the walls, papered with large roses and trellis, the heads of various small horned beasts stuck on wooden plaques, dried corn cobs and gourds hanging in bunches. On the long mantelshelf a stuffed partridge in a glass case, a polished silver cup, won, perhaps, for the slaughter of so many horned beasts, or perhaps just the partridge? An ugly pottery jug with ‘Annecy’ written on it, grey with last year’s lavender.

The meal, as Eugène had promised, and which he served swiftly and expertly, was very good, simple and fresh. There were about three other tables with people eating, and the couple from the bar arrived almost as I had finished my half-bottle of local wine, dressed for their dinner; it was just nine o’clock.

‘From Paris,’ said Eugène, clearing my fruit plate. ‘They always arrive just as I think we have finished. Ha! The veal was good?’

‘Excellent. Thank you. Saint-Basile …?’

He stopped, the plates balanced on his arm, a menu in one hand.

‘Saint-Basile?’

‘It is far from here?’

‘Two, maybe three kilometres, not more.’

‘There is a bus?’