September was not an easy month for me. Actually, it was horrible. My father is very ill, and I was worrying about that. Then I sold my house without - oh dear - finding a replacement, and suddenly my entire world was required to shrink to the size of the boot of my car. Plus, I'd been working hard: jumping on planes, running up hillsides. I was starting to feel just a little bit frayed around the edges, like an old woollen sweater. One last yank - a tax bill, perhaps, or a too-tight deadline - and it seemed perfectly possible that I might finally ... unravel.
At this point, several of my girlfriends suggested that I check myself into a spa, seaweed wraps and detox programmes being the 21st-century answer to everything. I love my girlfriends dearly, but what they tend to forget about me is that I come from stout northern stock. Deprivation, even if accompanied by Diptique candles, is just not my bag.
When I am worn out, I never find myself craving a glass of carrot juice, or even a deep-tissue massage. What I usually need is good food (lots of it), fine wine (ditto) and a vast, firm bed in which to languish after I have finished overindulging. Exercise? Oh, go on then: I'll walk to the nearest bar.
All of which is a long-winded way of explaining how I discovered hotel heaven, better known as the Château de Bagnols, near Lyon, France. The chateau, which is owned by Lady Helen Hamlyn, widow of the publishing magnate Lord Hamlyn (it was once her home), and managed by Rocco Forte Hotels, was recommended to me by a male friend (who has seen the remarkable effect a good dinner can have on my spirits).
It is one of the nicest places I have ever stayed. Magnificent yet understated, grand yet intimate, it has so many things to commend it, I hardly know where to start. So let me begin with the most important: should you be in the mood, you can have foie gras with everything.
We flew to Lyon, and then took a taxi to Bagnols; the drive takes about 40 minutes. The chateau, which dates from the 13th century, is built of honey-coloured stone and has a moat and drawbridge. It sits on a hill surrounded by vineyards and a formal garden with a circular swimming pool.
It was dark by the time we arrived, but I fell in love immediately. Impossible not to. My room, which lay behind a green baize door at the end of a long, stone staircase, was in the old chapel, and on its walls were ancient frescoes depicting the life of St Hieronymus. Better still, on the bedside table was a decanter of cool white wine and a plate of fresh figs. The bathroom, which was about a two-mile walk across my sitting room, was a mighty chamber of marble. OK, so the taps, which were shaped like giant fish, were a little bit Emperor Nero. But who cares when they can be used to fill a tub the size of the Titanic in less than 60 seconds?
So began two blissful days of eating and drinking and loafing around. I could tell you about the attractions of the Beaujolais region, its many churches and vineyards, but what would be the point? I didn't visit any of them. I confined myself to attending to my stomach. The chateau has a Michelin-starred chef, Matthieu Fontaine, and I thought I should at least give him a whirl. In the end, I gave him two. On night one, I ate foie gras with balsamic vinegar, scallops with saffron and - hang it, I felt like something light - a hazelnut souffle. On night two, as a concession to good health, I had a plate of seasonal vegetables. Unfortunately, I followed that with a fillet of beef, cheese and about a million chocolate almonds. I must admit that my dreams were pretty weird that night.
By day, we drove into Lyon to visit its markets: the outdoor Quai St-Antoine, where the aubergines have to be seen to be believed, and the indoor Les Halles du Lyon. Here, by way of a mid-morning snack, I tried the dried saucisson, some tiny goat's cheeses and a good fish soup. But markets can be tiring, so we soon adjourned for lunch in a traditional Lyonnais bouchon (yellowing wallpaper, moustached proprietor, gallons of rough, red wine). It was here that my greed took over: everything just looked so good, especially the epic bowls of pork scratchings in the middle of every table. I had chicken stewed in vinegar for my main course, which I followed with a palate cleanser of fromage frais with chives (an acquired taste) and an espresso. My friend Tom, defeated by his quenelles de brochet (pike dumplings), looked on in amazement - or, possibly, disgust.
By the time we emerged, it had turned into a picture-book autumn day: sun low in the sky, trees the colour of M Fontaine's copper pans. We drove back to the hotel so we could enjoy this while it lasted. I wanted to sit outside, on the startlingly green grass at the edge of what was once the castle's ha-ha, in one of the strangely beautiful rocking deck chairs I had seen earlier. I was mad for these chairs, which were so elegant and so comfortable. The hotel has only 20 rooms, and it was off season, so I had the pick of them. I lay there, in coat and scarf and sunglasses, and, for a few moments, enjoyed a pleasing daydream: that this was my house, and Tom the lucky recipient of my hospitality. If only he had not chosen this moment to bring up the subject of the north London property market.
Dinner at the chateau is taken in the Salle des Gardes, where the coat of arms above France's largest Gothic fireplace marks the royal visit of Charles VIII in 1490; and coffee is served in the Grand Salon, which houses one of France's most important and elaborately carved Renaissance fireplaces.
What I loved most of all about the hotel is that almost nothing was ersatz. If some interior designer has waved their magic wand over the place, well, their ways with the swags are almost impossible to detect. A note on the desk in my room (18th-century, Italian, walnut) helpfully pointed out that my carpet had come from Agra, and that my table lamp had a fine 17th-century carved oak base. Even the Calamity Jane theme in Tom's bedroom - both his four posters were a riot of red gingham - looked OK, thanks to the stone floors and mullioned windows. Did we feel as if we had pitched up in a museum? All I can tell you is that not once did I find myself looking round for that dread suburban item, a coaster.
Our final breakfast, served in a smaller, panelled dining-room came around all too quickly. As I slapped home-made jam on to a baguette - really, it's amazing how much breakfast you can still eat even after a night so heavy you could barely drag yourself up the stairs to bed - I told Tom I was feeling much better. So my jeans were a little tight. On the other hand, the bags under my eyes had shrunk so much that there was no longer any danger I would have to check them in when we got to Lyon airport.
The truth is that a couple of gourmet days in France do a girl far more good than any amount of facials and yoga and lavender oil. In France, no one is on the Atkins diet, so if you accept bread, you don't feel as if you are committing a mortal sin. Pleasure still comes guilt-free.
You look up from your own plate, and all you can think is how much your fellow diners seem to be enjoying the contents of theirs.
Your very own castle
Myres Castle, Fife, Scotland (01337 828350; myres.co.uk). £295 per person per night (minimum hire of six people).
Log fires and antique furniture contribute to the cosy luxury of Myres Castle in Fife, while 44 acres of gardens and parkland, turrets and a flagpole remind guests of its history - Mary Queen of Scots slept in the east turret room. Up to 18 guests can take over the whole castle, along with a full staff and award-winning chef Christopher Trotter to cater to every culinary whim (he'll even teach you to cook and take you out to source the ingredients locally).
Dunbrody House, Co Wexford, Ireland (00 353 51 389600 ; dunbrodyhouse.com).Doubles from €220 (£153).
Mary McAleese, the Irish president, makes the two-hour drive from the capital just to have dinner at Dunbrody House, which recently won the Irish Restaurant of the Year award. Guests who like their privacy and comfort are well catered for at this elegant Georgian manor, set in 200 acres on the Hook peninsula in south-east Ireland. Sybarites can enjoy Kevin Dundon's Michelin-starred cooking and either walk it off on the surrounding beaches, or have it pummelled away in the new Molton Brown spa.
Château Cordeillan-Bages, Pauillac, France (00 33 5 5659 2424); cordeillanbages.com). Doubles from €142 (£99) or book through arblasterandclarke.com. Right in the middle of one of the world's greatest wine areas, this hotel is a magnet for connoisseurs of the good things in life. A slightly odd mix of the old and the very modern (think salons with squashy sofas, and Philippe Starck-designed bedrooms), Cordeillan-Bages has one of the best restaurants in the area, with two-Michelin-starred chef Thierry Marx.
Casa de Carmona, Seville, Spain (00 34 954 191000; casadecarmona.com) Doubles from €160 (£112).
The prevailing feeling at this 16th-century Renaissance palace just outside Seville is that you are a guest in someone's home. Built in the Moorish tradition around four courtyards, it's an incredibly relaxing place to stay: the most intrusive noise you'll hear is the burbling of fountains, even though you're just out of the centre of Carmona. All rooms are tastefully furnished with good antiques, and little touches like the honesty bar make it all the more a home-from-home experience. There is an excellent restaurant with a greatest-hit list of Spanish wines, and for committed gourmets, Hacienda Benazuza, the Andalucian outpost of El Bulli, is just 15 minutes' drive away.
Factfile
Rachel Cooke stayed at the Château de Bagnols, Bagnols, France (00 33 4 7471 4000; bagnols.com). Rooms from €425 (£296); suites from €615 (£429), without breakfast. Visit roccofortehotels.com for details of weekend packages.
She flew with British Airways (0870 850 9850; ba.com). Return fares from Heathrow to Lyon start at £88.50.
