We go on a road trip along France’s Route Nationale 7 (the country’s answer to Route 66)
This has been high on our travel wish list ever since reading Dirt, Bill Buford’s ode to French kitchens and his chaotic five years in Lyon. The old RN7 once ran from Paris to Menton, but we decided to start halfway down in Lyon, the true heart of French gastronomy.
Lyon is exactly what you hope it will be: a city of long lunches (and slow everything), unapologetically rich food, and locals who look like they’ve stepped straight out of a vintage postcard, probably surviving on butter and wine. We loved it.
It felt only right to begin our RN7 adventure here, on la route des vacances, as it was nicknamed in the 1970s when Bardot, Gainsbourg and Birkin would drive south to the Côte d’Azur, stopping at charming villages and bouchons before hitting the sun-drenched coast. And where better for our first meal than La Mère Brazier, the century-old restaurant of Eugénie Brazier, the pioneering chef known as the mother of modern French cooking and the first woman to earn six Michelin stars.
Though Eugénie is long gone, her legacy lives on. So imagine our surprise when Buford himself walks in and sits down to lunch at the next table – apron-free, five years gone from this city, and completely unaware he’d just wandered straight into the opening scene of our story. Serendipity. Bill was great, his wife Jessica even lovelier, and they gave us some excellent tips for the road ahead.
After a couple of nights in Lyon, we set off to pick up our car and head to Anne-Sophie Pic’s three-star Restaurant Pic in Valence for lunch. But being Londoners, we’d timed everything down to the minute. Only, this is Lyon, where time moves differently. Our taxi arrived late, took the scenic route thanks to roadworks, and we reached the car hire an hour behind schedule. Our three-star lunch was suddenly at risk. We could take the new motorway and make it easily, but that wasn’t the point. The old road was the whole reason we were here. Surely we could shave off a few minutes? Well, yes – by cutting across to the new road halfway through. We arrived just fifteen minutes late, changed in the car park, and dashed inside for lunch.
Toto, we’re not in London anymore. Lesson learnt.
After lunch, we took our time driving to our next stop: the pretty little village of Marsanne. It’s the kind of place you instantly picture yourself living in – a butcher, a tiny newsagent selling local cheese, and of course, a boulangerie. We wandered through the forest and around the old town before bedding down for the night at the charming Pantoufle Hotel.
The next day we were back on the road, heading to Montélimar, the birthplace of nougat. The town’s a little run down, and we found absolutely no nougat but we did find a corker of a farmers’ market. Stalls were piled high with Provençal fruit and vegetables, fresh local cheeses, cured meats, and rotisserie chickens and andouille sausages served in paper bags with potatoes and onions roasted in the meat juices. Ridiculous.
We stopped for a roadside picnic – literally on a wall – eating andouille sausage stuffed into a baguette with onions and jus, plus a generous dollop of Lyonnaise mustard for good measure (note to self: bring a knife next time). Dessert was a box of sweet strawberries, almost Haribo-like in flavour, and ripe, juicy white peaches. Provence produce really is the South of France at its best.
Further south, we entered the Rhône Valley, and where better to spend an evening than in Châteauneuf-du-Pape? Not only is it one of France’s most famous wine regions, it was also a key stop on the RN7 thanks to La Mère Germaine, founded in 1922 by Madame Germaine Vion, a former chef at the Élysée Palace. The restaurant became a must-stop for travellers and gourmands, and it’s still there today under new ownership. Definitely worth a visit for a glass (or five).
Driving on, we weren’t quite ready for the trip to end, so we decided to stretch it out and see where the road would take us. First up was Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume, a relatively cute town where we were surprised to find Mary Magdalene’s skull on display in the local church. Yes, that Mary. After a quick wander (and a bit of existential reflection), we moved on.
A few disappointing detours later, we landed in Brignoles – mostly because we’d found a nice-looking stay online while in a bar in nearby Tourves (a town worth skipping, by the way). Brignoles is a medieval city that’s seen better days: charming from afar, but not much going on. Better to keep driving. A much better find was Les Arcs, a small, picture-perfect village surrounded by rolling countryside and great walking trails. There’s an excellent butcher, Daniel Joseph, selling rillettes, pâté en croûte and roast meats, plus a bakery turning out perfectly seeded baguettes.
The next day we were on the home straight – the final stretch of the aptly named “Blue Route,” so called because it ends at the coast. We pulled into Théoule-sur-Mer, checking into the cliffside Château Théoule, an old castle-turned-design hotel with views straight onto the beach. Théoule-sur-Mer is a pretty beach town with Wes Anderson vibes – pastel pink villas with trains rattling between the houses every hour. It’s calmer than its glitzy neighbour Cannes, with plenty of great walks, golden beaches, and La Cabane du Pêcheur, a brilliant little fish shack by the sea serving rustic local dishes and carafes of wine. An excellent find in this part of the Riviera, where most restaurants lean fancy and fussy. When it comes to produce, though, Provence still steals the show – those farmers’ markets are something else.
By the time we hit the coast, the Route Nationale 7 had done its job: slowed us down, filled us up, and reminded us that the best bits of any journey aren’t in the plan. They’re in the detours, the long lunches, the missed turns, and the extra glass of wine. France has a way of teaching you that: take the old road, go slowly, and never count the calories.
