Burgundy Is Your French Country Vacation Fantasy Come To Life—And It's Only a Train Ride Away From Paris

"Burgundy?"
Three red wine emojis.
'Is it good for kids?'
Crying with laughter face.
The above text exchange with my Parisian friend Pascale was not very reassuring. Charolais cattle grazing near Burgundy's Morvan Regional Natural Park.
As I studied a map of Burgundy while planning a vacation with my 10-year-old son, Lucas, many of the place names looked strangely familiar. Chablis, Pouilly-Fuissé, Puligny-Montrachet, Pommard: it was like perusing the wine list of a fancy French restaurant. I had never been to Burgundy (a.k.a. La Bourgogne), but surely there was more to the region than grands crus and Michelin-starred restaurants? Could a tour of its byways and backwaters offer rural respite for this harried mom and her screen-addled son?
After a whirlwind 48 hours in Paris—where we strolled wide-eyed along the Seine, ate our body weight in steak frites, and witnessed a marriage proposal at the top of the Eiffel Tower—Lucas and I set off by train from the Paris-Bercy station. On a Saturday morning in August, it seemed as though every Parisian left in the city was amassed on the station platforms, desperate to escape. As far as I could tell, we were the only foreigners on the 2½-hour route to Clamecy, a market town in central Burgundy. At each stop, more people scrambled off, and fewer climbed aboard. At one station, a guard hollered something in French and all the remaining passengers jumped off the train and squeezed into the front carriage. Rather like the medieval villages that flecked the tidy green landscape, even the train was getting smaller. Clamecy was clearly off the beaten track, even for Parisian weekenders. From left: The streets of medieval Clamecy, a town in central Burgundy; summer berries at Clamecy market.
Indeed, this sleepy little town was so unprepared for its trickle of summer visitors that there hadn't been a single rental car available during our visit. My resourceful cousin Suzanne—a New Yorker who moved to Paris more than 20 years ago, then decamped to a hamlet outside Clamecy during the pandemic—had come up with a solution: she rented a white cargo van for our three-day stay. Chic it was not, but what fun to squeeze into the front cabin and survey our new surroundings from this lofty perch.
'We're in Burgundy, but not the fancy part,' Suzanne deadpanned as we drove past Clamecy's half-timbered buildings. There was a lovely, lived-in feel to the lopsided alleys, which were appointed with all the essentials of Gallic life: a tabac, a flea market, a Gothic church, a post office, a secondhand bookstore, a chocolaterie, and a couple of cafés and bakeries. A few dog walkers strolled along the grassy banks of the Yonne River; the only other traffic was the occasional barge or a bicycle freewheeling along the embankment. From left: Boris Lévy, Adrien Lachappelle, Nicolas Delaroche, and Jamie Freeman-Turner, the founders of Boule d'Or, in Clamecy; a guest room at the Boule d'Or,.
With around 800 miles of rivers and canals, Burgundy has the largest network of inland waterways in France. It's ideal for boating, and well-maintained towpaths make it excellent for cycling, too. For about four centuries, starting in the mid-1400s, Clamecy was a prosperous center of the timber trade, thanks to its location at the confluence of the Yonne and the Canal du Nivernais. Beech and oak logs felled in the Morvan Forest were fastened together and floated along the Yonne, then up the Seine to fuel the fires of the growing population of Paris.
These wood 'trains' were steered by flotteurs, or raftsmen, who used wooden poles to maneuver them like gondoliers. The perilous journey to Paris took up to 11 days; the raftsmen then had to trudge back to Clamecy on foot. In the mid 19th century railways began to replace the rafts. The last flottage left Clamecy in 1923. A century later, we spied two brightly colored rowing boats full of men, poking each other with poles. They were preparing for a riverine jousting contest, commemorating the aquatic feats of their ancestors.
All 116 locks along the Canal du Nivernais are still operated by an éclusier: a lockkeeper who manually opens and closes the cumbersome iron gates. On the quayside in Clamecy, we watched one deftly handle the cranks and valves, flooding the holding bay with a rush of water to allow a barge to continue its journey. Some of the old lockkeeper's cottages along the canal are now occupied by painters and potters, who sell their wares to passing tourists. From left: La Maison de Colette, in St.-Sauveur-en-Puisaye; the living room of the writer Colette's childhood home, now a museum.
Artists of all kinds have been inspired by the region's gentle landscapes and austere architecture, and almost every village has a museum commemorating some local luminary or other. Over the course of a languid long weekend, we admired Art Deco posters by graphic artist Charles Loupot in Clamecy's Romain Rolland Museum of Art & History; marveled at Colette's collection of paperweights and pressed butterflies (and her succession of unlikely lovers) at the author's namesake museum in St.-Sauveur-en-Puisaye, the charming village where she grew up; and were astonished by the Picassos, Kandinskys, and Mirós at the Musée Zervos, in Vézelay—an incredible collection that belonged to the critic and editor Christian Zervos, who published the seminal journal Cahiers d'Art. When he died, Zervos bequeathed the art to his beloved town. From left: The Canal du Nivernay; blue skies over Morvan Regional Natural Park.
Curiously, the Zervos Museum is often overlooked by the day-trippers traipsing up to the hilltop Basilica of Ste.-Marie-Madeleine, which has been a pilgrimage site for more than 1,000 years. Its vaulted abbey, with its ghostly sculptures and stained-glass windows, is profoundly moving, but I found the unbroken vistas of rolling pastures, isolated farmhouses, and scattered hamlets to be equally stirring. Lucas was less impressed by the scenery. Churches and museums are not a 10-year-old boy's idea of a good time.
To make matters worse, we had missed the 12–2 p.m. lunch slot strictly observed by many restaurants in France's smaller cities and towns. Luckily, Suzanne had another great idea: we would drive to the nearest guinguette . In summer, social life revolves around these riverside cafés-cum-cabarets, where sustenance comes with musical entertainment and opportunities for swimming. At La Guinguette de Coulanges, the fast food had a distinctly local flavor: instead of hot dogs, we ate andouillettes (a sausage stuffed with pork tripe), and the burgers came with ratatouille and onion confit. (Under new ownership as of February, the guinguette now specializes in crêpes and galettes.) Sunbathers on Lac de St.-Agnan, near Saulieu.
As we ate, we watched a couple of seniors burning up the plein-air dance floor, quickstepping through well-rehearsed routines to Elvis and Chuck Berry while toddlers high on sugary soda freestyled in the wings. Locals chattered over $3 glasses of kir, while the younger set messed about in kayaks or swung from a rope into the cool green river.
If the ballroom dancing was unexpected, the evening's entertainment in Clamecy was even more surprising. Around dusk, we joined a motley crew of locals in a riverside clearing to watch a riotous performance by Les Rustines de l'Ange, a skirt-clad band of accordion players whose repertoire included rousing cover versions of AC/DC's 'Highway to Hell' and the Madness ska classic 'One Step Beyond.' From left: Summer tomatoes with sheep-milk cheese at La Côte d'Or, the restaurant at Le Relais Bernard Loiseau; the quarry-walled garden at La Boule d'Or.
The next day, we were better prepared to forestall midday meltdowns. After a slow breakfast of croissants and coffee at Suzanne's beautiful, antique-filled home, where we were staying, we stocked up with provisions for a picnic. At the lively market in Quarré-les-Tombes we picked up pavé du Morvan (an air-dried pork sausage coated in seasonings), gougères (puffy cheese pastries), green olives, baguettes, and buttery blackcurrant tarts. Lucas was diverted by a treat—waffles with chocolate and hazelnut spread—at one of the sunny cafés on the square, while I trawled the market stalls that were selling straw baskets, Moroccan slippers, and locally made pocket knives.
Suitably fortified, we pressed onward to Guédelon, where a madcap troupe of quarrymen and stonemasons, tilers and joiners, blacksmiths and carters are building a castle using only tools and techniques that were available in the 13th century. Everything from the mortar to the rope has been handmade on the dusty site. (This wildly ambitious experiment, which began in 1997, is the subject of a BBC TV series, Secrets of the Castle. Some of the skills learned at Guédelon were also applied to rebuilding Notre Dame after the 2019 fire.) Seeing this enormous collective enterprise take shape in real time—much of it by trial and error—was like witnessing history in reverse. A street in Quarré-les-Tombes.
Later, through Suzanne's connections, we got a backstage tour of another collective labor of love: La Boule d'Or, an abandoned auberge in Clamecy that has been transformed into an artists' residency and guesthouse by four friends, with help from an army of volunteers recruited on TikTok.
'The idea had been germinating for years,' Boris Lévy, a soft-spoken cinematographer from Paris, told me over a beer in the garden, which is set in a disused limestone quarry. Limestone was used to build the 12th-century chapel on the grounds, which now hosts acoustic gigs and pop-up dinners. Lévy found the derelict property on Le Bon Coin, the French equivalent of Craigslist. Its simple guest rooms are furnished with flea-market finds. 'It isn't a classical hotel; it's more of a cultural space that celebrates the importance of community,' Lévy said. 'A place where you can meet like-minded people in the kitchen instead of ordering room service.'
I was already plotting a return trip to stay at La Boule d'Or; but at that moment, Lucas, a born bon vivant, was ready for some room service. In planning this trip, I'd enlisted the help of one of T+L's A-List travel advisors, Marc Bonte, whose team at French Side Travel helped dream up an itinerary that would please both me and Lucas.
On the third day, we swapped Suzanne and our cargo van for 'prestige chauffeur' Erick Gayet and his Mercedes-Benz V-Class limousine and set off for one of the region's most luxurious hotels. A beefy Bourguignon in a navy blazer and blue suede shoes, Gayet patiently fielded my questions as we glided down the highway to Saulieu. A reproduction of a François Pompon sculpture on display in the town of Saulieu.
More or less in the middle of Burgundy, the town of Saulieu has been a staging post for travelers between northern and southern Europe since Roman times. Today it is the gateway to the Morvan Regional Natural Park, a glorious swath of granite peaks, mountain lakes, and woodlands threaded with hiking and biking trails. This being France, the great outdoors comes with a temple of gastronomy, in the form of Le Relais Bernard Loiseau. Named after the celebrated chef who was an inspiration for the Pixar movie Ratatouille, this supremely civilized hotel is today owned and managed by Loiseau's family.
Established in 1875, the former coaching inn (or relais ) is a bastion of old-fashioned art de vivre . A courtly manager, Charles Manderveld, welcomed me as 'Madame Aouar,' which made me feel way more sophisticated than plain old Ms. Howard.
' Relais towns were seven to eight leagues apart, the distance a horse could travel in a single day,' Manderveld explained as he showed us around the property. Even the newest additions—like our Cocoon Suite, with its decadent pink-marble bathroom and crisply made bed enclosed within sliding wicker doors—felt reassuringly solid and snug. Sculpted frogs spouted water into the swimming pool at the end of the garden. In the cellar, Manderveld pointed out the empty bottles of outrageously expensive wine that Loiseau had once quaffed with his pals at a marble tasting table. 'Is that where they do massages?' Lucas asked. 'No, but there's a three-story spa for that,' Manderveld replied with a smile. The pool at Le Relais Bernard Loiseau, a hotel in Saulieu.
Le Relais Bernard Loiseau's wood-clad spa bills itself as a 'multisensory universe.' Shimmering tiles, showers with a rainforest soundtrack, and purple lighting gave it a wellness-disco effect, much to Lucas's delight. He was the only child racing excitably between the 'bubbling beach,' 'geyser,' and 'gooseneck shower,' but the middle-aged bathers nonchalantly throwing buckets of ice over their heads didn't seem to mind.
Refreshed, we took a stroll around Saulieu. Its local museum is dedicated to François Pompon, a student of Rodin whose life-size sculptures of bears and bulls are dotted around town. We followed a trail of arrows embedded in the sidewalks that directs visitors to noteworthy landmarks. I was distracted by the many antiques shops, until one arrow led us to the huge red door of the Basilica of St.-Andoche. There were no other visitors, but up in the gallery, someone was belting out a hymn on the blue and gold organ, charging the space with a swell of emotion. From left: Antiques for sale in the town of Saulieu; exploring the town of Flavigny-sur-Ozerain.
At dinner, our fresh-faced waiter revealed that he was the church organist; it was hard to fathom that such a slight young man could produce such powerful music. I had been secretly relieved to learn that the hotel's Michelin two-starred restaurant, La Côte d'Or, was closed that night, as I was not sure whether Lucas's table manners were up to the challenge. The ambience in the bistro of Le Relais was relaxed, the room humming with French diners and their immaculately behaved children.
By contrast, my young hoodlum mopped up béarnaise sauce with his fingers and squealed when the dessert trolley was wheeled over, but there was not so much as a raised eyebrow from the unflappable staff. Much like the service, the cooking was precise and faultless, and the brief wine list was absolutely on point. When my trio of local cheeses arrived I was too preoccupied with my Crémant de Bourgogne to pay them proper attention, so instead Lucas dug in, spooning the intensely gooey Époisses with gusto.
It was hard to bid farewell to the ministrations of the maître d' in the hotel's sun-dappled breakfast room, but I was on a mission to stay at both a relais and a château. For our last night, we had booked one of the four rooms at the Château de St.-Aubin, in the Côte de Beaune, where some of the world's most prized white wines are produced. The door of a lockkeeper's cottage.
En route, Gayet suggested a stop at MuséoParc Alésia, an interactive museum on the site of an epic Gallo-Roman battle in 52 B.C. Designed by Swiss architect Bernard Tschumi, the striking circular museum is the antithesis of Guédelon: history is brought vividly to life through 3-D puzzles, animations, and video games. I felt like I was stepping inside an Asterix cartoon—a brilliant way of bringing history to life for my comic-book-fanatic son.
A 10-minute drive from Alésia, we fast-forwarded to the Middle Ages. Officially designated as one of the most beautiful villages in France, Flavigny-sur-Ozerain is an enchanting patchwork of pale stone houses with painted wooden shutters. Most of Burgundy's medieval villages look like movie sets, but Flavigny really was the location for Chocolat, the schmaltzy 2000 romance starring Johnny Depp and Juliette Binoche. In real life, the village is famous for a different kind of confection: the anise-flavored bonbons, produced with the same recipe since 1591, at Les Anis de Flavigny. On a tour of the converted Benedictine abbey, we saw thousands of candies rattling around in copper vats as they were being squirted with essence of violet, rose, or citron. Afterward, we got our sugar fix in the retro tearoom and gift shop. Lunch at La Grange, a restaurant in Flavigny-sur-Ozerain where farmers cook and serve their own produce.
As we continued south, untamed landscapes gave way to neatly parceled vineyards. At dusk, we rolled into the village of St.-Aubin, where tractors were parked outside modest vignerons' houses. Gayet deposited our luggage outside the Château de St.-Aubin, but there was nobody around. So we wandered across the courtyard to Maison Prosper Maufoux, the estate winery, and snagged the last table at Prosper, the vineyard's glass-walled restaurant.
A full moon rose over the vines as we tucked in to perfectly pink veal and puréed potatoes as fluffy as whipped cream. Époisses made another appearance as a custardy foam oozing into a 'chutney' of julienned carrots and caramelized hazelnuts. You could easily bankrupt yourself on the wine list, but I struck gold on my first try with a glass of Clos du Château, the best Chardonnay I have ever tasted.
'It's not really a castle,' Lucas said as he surveyed the scene. 'But at least there's a pool.' Lucas had imagined a moat and drawbridge, but he certainly wasn't complaining. Our luggage was full of candy. He had acquired a taste for stinky cheese, and I had developed a dangerous penchant for fine wine. In short: despite my initial misgivings, Burgundy was a triumph. Three popping cork emojis, five star emojis, and a whole lot of tricolor flags.
A version of this story first appeared in the June 2025 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline "Burgundy ... But Hold the Wine ."

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