I confess. When the New York Exchange tumbled I was tucking into duck sauté, perfectly gratinéed local cauliflower and potatoes teamed with a crisp Ardèche Rosé chased down by Raspberry Charlotte and crème anglaise. Beyond Le Chevalier Blanc in the tiny village of St. Martin de Valmas on the road to France’s Mont Mézenc there might be consternation, but on this mountain the solace was to dine well.

“Bonjour, Jenny! So this is your friend from Canada! My wife lived in Kamloops for four years,” Jean-Marie greeted us bearing an overflowing bowl of fresh golden chanterelle mushrooms. After 20 years as a Paris chef he’d chosen village life.

Diners quickly filled the cosy vintage restaurant testifying to his talent. But, where had they are all materialised from in a virtual hamlet? Such is fame even in the mountains.

France’s south central Ardèche region is rather off the beaten tourist track–and locals like it that way.

A haven for cyclists, hikers, campers and canoeing enthusiasts, the Massive Cenrtal (a world record of over 450 extinct volcanoes), conceals hamlets, scattered villages, bustling market days, gracious local residents, and speedy motorists unfazed by endless hairpin bends and ribbon roads.

My base was Les Nonieres, a mountain farming village of approximately 1,000 inhabitants. My mission was to catch up with a friend who had traded her 1793 stone home (sans central heating, but boasting the village bread oven) for a toastier updated version.

Historically, the huge oval oven built into the side of her old house provided one baking oven for the entire village–except on weekends. On Saturday nights villagers would replace breads with roasts and collect them after church on Sunday.

Next door is a convent, built in 1831, gradually being transformed into a gîte–a rustic holiday home. Beyond, the winding roads I’d travelled stretched a vista of valleys and peaks on a clear day through the grape arbour, was mystical Mont Blanc.

Once known for silk because of the mulberry trees that attracted silk worms, the locale is now famous for chestnut trees, kiwi fruit, nectarines, apricots and peaches.

Hiking the hills early one sun-drenched morning, an elderly shepherdess herding well-fed cows, goats and sheep to higher pastures assisted by Jolie, an efficient sheep dog, welcomed me.

“They are like bad children!” she chuckled forgiving my fractured French.

The scent of wild thyme, sage, marjoram, and lavender drifted up from around our feet. Village church bells began to peel.

Combined with the clear mountain air and the warmth of the sun, it rivalled any spa.

Because Les Nonieres is totally devoid of shops, locals grow their own produce, or race off around the mountains to Lamastre, Vernoux, Le Cheylard and St. Agreve.

“This is our Plan B,” Tanya and Johan tell me over dinner at their 17th century converted mill house.

The South Africans spend northern winters at their Orange Free State home and, while cautiously optimistic about South Africa’s future, maintain their home in France “in case things blow up”.

Others I met enjoy summers in the area, but forsake the mountains for Britain, Morocco, or South East Asia during the harsh winters.

Wandering off down along the Rhône Valley, through the awe-inspiring Ardèche Gorges which rival the Grand Canyon, and cloister secrets of the Knights Templar, we arrive at the medieval walled city of Avignon to be impressed by the 14th century Palace of the Popes.

Our overnight stop here is too short. Despite an informative trolley ride (7 Euros), and our extensive walking, we agree this city requires at least three full days to explore.

We continue south to the hustle and bustle of Bandol, Sanary, and the playgrounds of the Mediterranean for family visits, and a different kind of history.

The assortment of yachts, yachting races, and laid-back joie de vive of the beachfront cafes and open air markets contrasts sharply with the sturdy villages of the Ardeche.

The hot sun sparkles on the sea, the Espresso is delicious, and the marvellous selections of breads, cheeses and olives annihilate my diet.

My friend is anxious to escape to the tranquillity of her mountains. I am ready to return to the bright–but expensive–lights of Paris.

We’ve chalked up another set of adventures and memories to add to those which began decades ago in London. The New York stock exchange rallied without us. Carla Bruni-Sarkozi continued to fascinate the French. And, not a word was heard about elections in Canada.

For more information go to www.franceguide.com

Ursula Maxwell-Lewis is a travel writer,photographer and a director of the Travel Media Association of Canada. Reach her at utravel@shaw.ca or on Twitter under YouTravel