Avignon

When it comes to madeleines, I must admit, I never really got France’s obsession with the humble, plainly inoffensive little cake. A walnut-sized golden sponge synonymous with writer Marcel Proust. Indeed, for Proust, the powers of the madeleine go far beyond satiating the sweet tooth. In his novel he recalls how, as a child, his aunt gave him small madeleines dipped in tea - decades later, this crumbly delight resurrecting long-forgotten memories. One bite, a sensory trigger, containing the most powerful of ingredients – nostalgia.

Sitting down to write this, I’m ashamed to admit, I feel slightly torn. Because La Mirande is like nowhere else I’ve ever had the good fortune to stay. And a big part of me wants to keep it as my little secret, my little escape, a place almost too good to share. Like an enormous warm chocolate fondant, lathered in fresh cream, ‘one spoon only, please’. But despite such selfish temptations, I can’t deprive you of what I have absolute conviction will be one of your favourite stays anywhere, ever.