From the edge of our terrace the Gorge du Verdon, France's own Grand Canyon, plunges 1,000ft to the emerald-green river below. Just across the breathtaking void is La Palud-sur-Verdon, the rugged highland village in which we began our tour of the region known as La Provence Verte.
We've been finding our way with the Logis de France's cornucopian guide of 2,800 independent hotels. It led us to tonight's accommodation – the Hôtel des Gorges du Verdon – and though not on the lip of the gorge, it offers panoramic views of the dramatic garrigue uplands. Summers here are blistering, even at 3,000ft, winters Siberian; but now it's aromatic with wild lavender, rosemary and thyme, and tinkling goat bells lull us to sleep.
Next day dawns misty, but we tackle the road that switchbacks the edge of the gorge. Mercifully, only
one-way traffic is allowed. Below the wheeling raptors, puffs of vapour make the giddying precipice appear even deeper. The gorge forms a frontier between highland Provence's climatic extremes and the gentler Provence of olives and vines. Our logis map leads us into a corner of the country we've never heard of. And as we drive past one captivating village after another, we rediscover the art of touring by car.
Our beaming welcome from Caroline at the Hostellerie de l'Abbaye sends this logis racing up our chart of favourites. With its pool and terrace ringed with roses and sun-dappled cloisters, it's picture-book Provence. Each of the logis mirrors the region in which it is located. No two are alike; inevitably some may not quite chime; others feel like home from home. Each is classified by one to three chimney symbols to indicate facilities. Casserole symbols represent the style of cooking, from robust regional to classic haute cuisine. The frequent inspections are said to be tough. At the Hostellerie, 2,000ft lower than Palud, we have dinner beneath the moon, drink some of the village gold medal-winning wines.
On we go: at Thoronet Abbey, framed by fig and olive trees, we discover they hold concerts of Gregorian chants. We pass forested crags alternating with vineyards; and farms selling olive oil. In unassuming Carcès it feels as if we're the first-ever visitors to come here (until we're ripped off at a café). In the medieval warren around its ruined castle, drowsy cats drink from the town's 19 fountains.
We visit Aups, which once believed it was the centre of the world and is now famous for truffles, then Entrecasteaux's fairy-tale château, rebuilt by a swashbuckling Scottish adventurer. Cotignac enchants us, the castle-topped cliff, pierced with rock dwellings and caves, towering above the town square.
And then there is Tourtour. Tourtour calls itself "the village in the sky" (Tourtourans don't get jokes about naming it twice). It's too picturesque not to have been art-and-craftily colonised and between the twee boutiques Sotheby's peddles real estate. But dense Provençal forests – holm oaks, cypress, rock roses and myrtles – still hug its outer edges.
In an ancient Tourtour olive grove, far from any road, the Mas de Collines proves our dream logis. In the lovely old, seven-bedroom farmhouse, the owner, Laurence Josis, and her vivacious mother, Thérese, make us feel like family friends. The pound being where it is, we are staying demi-pension but Laurence's delectable five-course meals, using only local produce, transcend mere culinary savoir-faire. In every bite we taste her care and pride.
Did you know?
The Verdon takes its name from the green of its water, caused by glacial deposits near its source
Breakfasts – as at all of the logis – seem schemed to get us out of bed. Home-made preserves of apricot, pear, chestnut and rosehip; heathland honeys, rosemary and myrtle; and goat and sheep cheeses – the kind of French breakfasts you dream of but so seldom get.
Imperilling our waistlines, we laze a day by the pool, where lavender and jasmine perfume the air. Wooded hills roll to the hazy mountains. We follow Laurence to historic Lorgues's vast Tuesday market and buy cheeses and ham to picnic in Villecroze's botanical garden, a little slice of paradise with a sparkling cascade tumbling 60 feet over flower-draped crags.
Sybaritic days – the Provençal life of Riley – and yet we're itching to get back to that megastar abyss. We detour via the lower Verdon gorges below the shimmering Sainte Croix Lake. They're only half as deep as the Gorge du Verdon but filled with emerald water. We explore them for five miles on a hired electric boat.
Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, scaling a cliff where the gorge joins the lake, split by a ravine and a ladder of waterfalls, seems a village too remarkable for its own good. Car parks overflow; every alley heaves. For 14 centuries pilgrims came to what was known as the Soul of Provence. Above the town, a vast gold star hangs on a 200-yard long chain between two cliffs. We watch it slowly vanishing into the mist.
Yet though the weather looks ominous, at the Hôtel Grand Canyon du Verdon, which literally overhangs the gorge, nothing can diminish the heart-pounding thrill as we step on to our terrace and confront the view. The audacious hotel was built in 1987 by the Fortini family, who opened a café here in 1928. Whatever we expected, we are not expecting this. Arizona eat your heart out.
Visible from space, the enormous Gallic chasm apparently escaped anyone's notice until 1905 when it was descended by pioneer potholer Edouard Martel. Only in the Fifties was exploration deemed complete. At the bottom there are primal forests and jade-coloured pools.
From our hotel bed we have a grandstand view of an apocalyptic thunderstorm transforming the vast rockscape. Then suddenly the sun shines; lizards scurry in the heat. The hotel manager, Pierre, says the gorge is like the sea – never the same twice. The chefs here have a thankless job; with these sorts of aerial views who really pays much heed to their food?
The Martel Trail from Palud is an adventurous hike along the easiest 10 miles of the gorge. The Imbut Trail, dropping almost vertically from the hotel using ladders and cables, opens up its wildest parts. Yet the memory we will treasure most is sipping wine on the Grand Canyon's terrace, watching the evening sun throwing rays of light and shadow into the void. It's hard to imagine a more sensational logis – but we know we'll find others on our way home.