THE CATHAR IN THE KITCHEN

Few pleasures rival ambling along a minor French road on a sunny day just before lunch, equipped with a current red Michelin guide. The map-reader of the party orients himself, you hunt for a restaurant nearby with a star or two (or simply a contentedly obese Bib Gourmand Michelin man signifying a meal of good value), and call ahead for a table. On my recent foray into the mountainous Cathar country of Roussillon, this idyll was marred only by the absence of a mobile phone signal anywhere outside a handful of villages. Often I had to trust for my welcome to introductions from a London friend, and advice from acquaintances along the way.

The Cathars were medieval fundamentalists, obsessed with good and evil and convinced that earthly life was merely a series of devilish obstructions that had to be overcome through rigorous purges. After a series of brutish massacres, the most calamitous being the 13th-century Albigenisan crusade led by Simon de Montfort, all that remains of their existence is a string of windswept forts and castles that once dominated the limestone punctured landscape. It is a true privilege to be in such a relatively uninhabited region with miles of forests, gorges and rocky outcrops; yet the Mediterranean is rarely more than 20 miles away, and Barcelona perhaps 10 minutes by air. The only comparable unspoilt landscape to compare with it is the forested parts of central Bhutan.

We stayed in a friend's village house--though, because this is the end of the tourist season, delightful auberges and hotels, such as La Fargo on the edge of St Pierre des Champs, would have been ridiculously cheap. Game was the main feature of the menu at La Fargo, though the chef could have easily fitted into the Union Square Café or Kensington Place. It may be remote, but this isn't Hicksville. The proprietor is an old Asia hand who dredged up cherished memories with his tales of Madame Chum's renowned opium den in Phnom Penh and the joys of Angkor before the US Air Force and the Khmer Rouge traumatised the region. His brother started Florent, the first fashionable restaurant in Manhattan's Meatpacking district.

But back to Roussillon: our next lucky break was discovering the Auberge de Cucugnan, hidden in a maze of one-way lanes and approachable only on foot. Lack of a mobile signal meant we had to find a spot with glimpses of the snow peaked Pyrenees in order to clinch a reservation--which was just as well, since they were already turning people away at 12.30 on a Sunday. It was truly worth the journey. Rough rendered walls surrounded ten tables mainly occupied by local elderly couples in their Sunday best, which meant frayed tweed jackets and purple cloche hats. And the food...!

I will mention only the selections of local charcuterie, foie gras and olive oil flavoured salads; wild boar poached in its own blood (civet de sangre); the saddle of rabbit; and the filet de boeuf. From the local wine co-operative came a 14.5% Domaine de Grand Arc Corbières which had the depth to complement these powerful dishes.

Rather than doze after such a huge meal, we hiked up to the summit of Chateau de Peyrepertuse, a 12th-century fortress fought over by the Counts of Narbonne and Barcelona. This, and its nearby rival, Chateau de Quéribus, are not for the acrophobic. The blasting wind was another obstacle to be taken seriously, but the 30 mile vistas more than compensated.

There are other exceptional sights, especially Villerouge-Termènes, a perfectly restored local castle where the audio guide tells you all you want to know about the machinations between the Pope, the Cathars and the local warlords. Dispel any notion, though, of a tasteful coffee and croissant in the neighbouring hamlet. There is only a smoke-infested bar with grumpy locals trading cryptic comments, and the sole sustenance on offer is baguette and butter.

After negotiating the treacherous road through the staggering Gorges de Galamus (think Arizona), we headed for Carcassonne with its Disney-like fortress. I am sure it is exciting during the annual Fourth of July fireworks display; there is an exceptional Orient Express hotel and restaurant in the middle of town (Hotel de la Cité)--but the surrounding streets are a shocker. Every space beyond the finely restored Chateau Comtal is crammed with tourist tat, even in late autumn. The authorities should be forced to inspect how equivalent Umbrian fortresses such as Orvieto, Perugia and Todi manage not to cheapen their heritage. Even M'dina in central Malta manages to get it right compared to this riot of cheap commercialism.

We ran out of time to try both the other one-star Michelin restaurants here, so decided on Domaine d'Auriac, two miles south of the maelstrom. This is the perfect antidote to stress-related complaints--a sober Relais et Chateaux classical mansion in its own grounds next to a golf course.

The cuisine though was robust and assured. Jugged hare with large chunks of pancetta and gnocchi, along with ris de veau infused with truffles and mushrooms. The other dishes were innovative, especially a lobster prepared five ways to start, and an apple dessert which was offered cooked in a tart, mashed in a stew and made into a sorbet (shown right).

By now I was beginning to warm to the local wines, especially a series of whites from Chateau Rives-Blanque which I had at various places, and various CorbiÃ¨res, which although far too alcoholic for my normal taste, seemed entirely appropriate in situ. But perhaps the greatest find of all at Domaine d'Auriac was their wine list. If I could have afforded it, I would not be telling anybody now that they have magnums--yes, magnums--of Cheval Blanc ‘61 on the list for not much more than ten annual subscriptions to The Economist. I can't think of a better way to treat ten friends--especially as, instead of lasting a year, this experience will linger for a lifetime.