I should have known the holiday was going to be characterful when I got us lost before we'd even left the motorway. Satnav Sally, as my wife now calls her, decided that a dirt track through a sunflower field was definitely the most direct route to our Cressensac Sarrazac cottage. We emerged twenty minutes later with a Renault Clio full of pollen and my dignity in tatters, crawling into the hamlet like a pair of bedraggled tourists who'd never seen a map.

The cottage itself was everything the photos promised and more: thick stone walls, a proper wood-burning stove, and a terrace that looked out over rolling hills the colour of old parchment. But it was the people who made those first few hours unforgettable.

Madame Fournier met us at the gate, wielding a set of keys and opinions in equal measure. She must have been seventy-five, dressed in a floral housecoat that had seen better decades, and she inspected our car with the scepticism of a mechanic who'd already spotted three fatal flaws.

"You came through the sunflowers," she announced, not a question.

"The satnav," I began.

She held up a hand. "The English always blame the machine." Then she smiled, revealing a gap where a tooth once lived, and pressed a jar of something amber and mysterious into my hands. "Fig jam. From my tree. Not the supermarket nonsense."

She led us inside with the brisk efficiency of someone who'd shown hundreds of bewildered foreigners how to work a French oven. The place smelled of lavender and old wood, and she opened every window with theatrical gestures, explaining that "the house must breathe" after being shut up. When I asked about the WiFi password, she looked at me as though I'd requested the nuclear codes.

"On holiday," she said firmly, "you are on holiday."

Her husband appeared halfway through the tour, a man called Henri who communicated almost entirely through shrugs and meaningful silences. He'd been fixing something in the barn and emerged covered in what I desperately hoped was engine oil. Madame Fournier introduced him as "the useless one" with evident affection, and he responded with a shrug so eloquent it could have won awards. They bickered beautifully, finishing each other's complaints with the practised harmony of fifty years' marriage.

"Henri, tell them about the bread."

Another shrug.

"The bread, Henri. The morning bread."

He sighed, a sound like air escaping a very tired tyre, and explained that the village baker passed through at quarter past eight precisely. If you missed him, you missed him. There was no second chance, no negotiation. This was not England, his expression seemed to say, though he never actually said it.

We encountered our next character at the village shop, a lean man called Marcel who sold us wine with the seriousness of a pharmacist dispensing critical medication. He asked where we were staying, nodded approvingly at Madame Fournier's name, then spent ten minutes explaining why the Cahors malbec was "honest" whereas some neighbouring appellation was, and I quote, "lying to your face." He'd never been to England but had strong views about our weather, our cooking, and our inexplicable affection for tea. When I admitted I couldn't tell a Merlot from a Margaux, he looked so genuinely pained that I bought three bottles just to restore his faith in humanity.

By evening, sitting on that terrace with Henri's shrugged-at bread and Marcel's honest wine, I found myself reflecting on how quickly these strangers had sketched themselves into our holiday. I'd arrived anxious about itineraries and sightseeing, about ticking off experiences. Instead, I'd been adopted by a woman who made jam like a weapon, a man who spoke in gestures, and a wine merchant who treated my ignorance as a personal challenge.

Perhaps Sally the satnav had known exactly what she was doing, sending us through those sunflowers. The scenic route, as it turned out, was the only route worth taking.