FOR mile after mile the fields ran red: dazzling swathes of poppies, blood hued in the sunshine, pretty reminders that this was the true south of France. When not growing in the set-aside land they pitched into the ditches and roadsides – glowing escorts as I drove the roads and lanes that led into Provence and the Roman heart of France.

Here in the Gard, at the crossroads of Provence, the Languedoc and the Cevennes, the houses and farms pulse light and warmth from the honey-coloured stone.

Roses tumble down walls and climb arbours where tables and chairs are ready to greet the long, languorous days of summer to come.

The cherries had just come to plump fruition and were dropping off the trees in frustration at not being picked.

Behind me was the hotel where I’d been a guest of the owners for two nights. Of course, the trade for such hospitality is that I write about it and although I rarely pick up these invitations, I thought it was time that I (and therefore you) went on a road trip away from the brooding heart of La France Profonde.

Fortunately La Maison d’Ulysse in the tiny village of Baron, 10 minutes from Uzes, does not require me to lie about its quirky perfection.

Carved from the near ruins of a 16th century maison de maitre and silk farm, parts of which date back to the 11th century, it has been named as one of the 25 coolest hotels in the world by Forbes magazine.

Thankfully, I didn’t know that when I entered its giant front door into an oasis hidden behind high stone walls and a courtyard from which a swimming pool could be glimpsed.

Clutching a glass of wine in hands grubby from the long drive; a seized up leg requiring help up ancient stone steps; I was the least cool thing in the minimalist interior with its statement furniture curiously at home in such surroundings.

The handfuls of rooms are individually cocooned within the building down burnished corridors on different levels; some with balconies looking down on a wild garden with the mulberry trees that fed the worms the now long dead trade depended upon.

Needless to say, the bathrooms are white towelled, mosaicked temples of power showers and double sinks.

It was all a reminder of a world I once carelessly inhabited and drifted through; my feet not then gripped by the clay of La Lomagne.

But idling away my day on bed or by pool was not an option this trip. I can do that at home in a silence even more deep than the one the other blissed-out city dwelling guests were obviously relishing.

Within easy reach were Nimes, Avignon, Le Pont du Gard and Uzes. Or I could drive further into Provence itself towards Mt Ventoux which could be seen as one climbed higher.

Living in south west France has, in truth, cured me of any desire for peace and quiet (not that I ever had such a desire actually.)

So, like an old tugboat edging into port, I found my berth in that gem of a tiny city, Uzes, its buildings gleaming from their pale limestone facades.

Here one cuts through archways where more roses grow in unlikely cracks and into the old town with narrow cobbled streets and quirky little boutiques.

One hears American accents in the international babble and I’m subsequently told that Uzes has always drawn them, both as inhabitant and tourist.

British travellers often pass too quickly through; their eyes always on the richer pastures of inner Provence. But a certain kind of American has always taken his/her own way and wandered the less familiar France.

I settled on a simple bistro for dinner – by the side of the main road that turns into the main square.

It is hard to explain my need to see cars pass by, people jostling between the roadside tables, friends meeting for a drink after work.

I breathe in that atmosphere as others breathe in the perfume from the lavender fields. I watch in envy the many, many smokers and turn my nose towards the scent like a bloodhound seeking the reward of discovery.

I take pleasure from the achingly skinny women of a certain age who in their tight jeans, little shirts and quirky short jackets, flit between groups at the table, giving the triple kiss as required in this area.

They are all lively, quick movements; interested though lined faces turned with a smile to listen to the younger ones, dragging deeply on the fags and pouring out their woes.

Occasionally I remember to turn away and look up at the birds in the trees that of course line the route or over to the smart shops now closing for the night.

It’s strange. Years of solo travelling mainly for work used to mean travelling always with a book, mainly to make it comfortable for others to eat their meal without fretting about the lone woman.

I have no book with me. These days I simply sit and stare and smile to myself, happy to be surrounded by life. Real life.