"This place" was Le Marais St.-Jean, a French country inn and restaurant situated directly across the Vienne River from the village of Condrieu. From an amuse-bouche of house smoked salmon, we'd progressed to foie gras spiked with dots of viognier jelly, followed by fillet of féra, a sweet and delicate fish fresh from a local lake. Next came a perfect little quail enveloped in a thin coverlet of Swiss chard and garnished with peeled white grapes. The deeply flavorful 1986 Vernay Condrieu that accompanied all this was, quite simply, exquisite.

After diving into an apple and Calvados granité, I emerged refreshed, as this was the gustatory equivalent of jumping into the snow after a sauna. With appetite restored, I went on to lamb served over a bed of wild mushrooms and spinach, well-paired with a rich and chocolaty 1994 Côte Rôtie from Jasmin, a small, local producer. Next came a selection of sumptuous cheeses, followed by a piece of cake made from the locally produced Valhrona chocolate. It was a meal that provided an apt and welcome introduction to France's Rhône Valley.

With considerable reluctance, I tore myself away from the charming Marais St.-Jean the next morning. First stop of the day was to taste the excellent wines at Domaine Barge. The Barge family began producing wine in the Rhône at about the same time the American Civil War broke out. We tasted a stellar Barge Côte Brune in the small, informal tasting room, where a few homemade sausages were drying, hanging from the old wooden beams. "Why not?" shrugged Gilles Barge, "they're good with the wine." The Guigal cellars are a different story altogether – large, spacious, tidy. This is a big producer with an internationally renowned reputation. Guigal turns out 200,000 bottles of Condrieu alone, not to mention the Côte Rôtie and the premium wines, La Turque, La Moline, La Landonne.

Tasting through all of these wines arouses one's appetite, and there are few prettier places in the world to sate one's palate than the Hostellerie Beau Rivage. Sitting under an umbrella next to the gently flowing rivers, we spent a little extra time studying the menu and the wine list (two pages devoted to the Côte Rôtie alone). Although the tasting menu was tempting and reasonably priced (about $70 this spring), we decided to order à la carte, beginning with smoked salmon wrapped around creamy asparagus, which convinced me once and for all that Condrieu and smoked salmon are sublimely suited to one another. One of us then had new potatoes stuffed with escargots, while the other savored carpaccio of ostrich with basil vinaigrette and asparagus tips. A couple of courses later, we enjoyed plates of fresh, unaged white cheese drizzled with honey and a grind of white pepper, then a tangy citrus charlotte. After a shot or two of dense, black coffee, it was time to hit the wine road again.

Yves Gangloff, a wiry man with tousled locks, is an unlikely winemaker who ended up in the Rhône region only because he met and fell in love with Mathilde, a local woman who's now his wife. "We're all artists in my family," said Gangloff, who managed to acquire a few precious hectares of Condrieu and Côte Rôtie vines a decade or so ago and has turned his artistry to winemaking. Gangloff wines – which we tasted in a cinder block cellar illuminated only by bare bulbs and decorated with a couple of wild paintings by one of Yves' brothers – are lively, intense and full of personality. "Wines resemble the people who make them, right?," asked Gangloff with a wink.

We were making our way gradually down the Rhône Valley, leaving behind Condrieu and its viognier vineyards, and the Côte Rôtie and its syrah – lands where wine has been made for 2,000 years. St. Joseph, which we were now entering, is not exactly a new kid on the block either: Charlemagne himself appreciated wines from this region in the 9th century. Bernard Gripa's St. Joseph and St. Péray wines belie any notion that these are inherently lesser appellations. Gripa's reds (Syrah) and whites (Marsanne) are concentrated, beautifully balanced, fleshy wines with wonderful fragrance. Bernard Gripa said he extracts a better expression of the fruit's aromas by foot-crushing 70 percent of the grapes, a practice that has stood the test of time.

We spent the night at Michel Chabran, a tiny jewel in the luxury Relais & Châteaux chain, whose principal attraction is not the rooms (they're small) and not the setting (in the middle of the unremarkable town of Pont-de-L'Isère), but the food.

My own feast began with a Napoleon of foie gras and artichokes, and progressed to chevreau (baby goat, a springtime specialty) with garlic and wild herbs.

This being Hermitage country, we were happy to drink plenty of Crozes-Hermitage and Hermitage with dinner, and to visit Chave, one of the premier producers, early the next morning. "Thomas Jefferson wrote that white Hermitage tastes sweet, while being absolutely dry," Jean-Louis Chave told us. "For me, that's the whole story of this wine, which is fat in terms of glycerol, but not sugar." The Chaves have been winemakers since 1418, so they view the big picture with more than a degree of circumspection: "Today, the fashion wants extremes in wine," Chave had told us, "but it's important to remember that wine is meant to be drunk with food." With this gentle reminder, we made our way to Tournon, where we met Dominique Courbis for lunch at Le Chaudron.

The Courbis family has been making wine since the late 16th century. Known particularly for excellent Cornas, Courbis also produces fine red and white wines from the most southerly section of Saint Joseph. Sitting in the dappled sunlight of Le Chaudron's courtyard, we enjoyed these wines with langoustine feuilleté (northern European lobster in puff pastry) garnished with asparagus tips and anchovy cream sauce, and with omble chevalier (salmon-trout) with fava bean cream and a local specialty, ravioles du Royans, delicate little pasta packets.

Hermitage takes its name from a saintly hermit, alleged to have planted a few vines on the slope of his mountain retreat. So many admirers thronged up the hill in homage after tasting his delicious wine that he was soon obliged to plant the entire slope with vines – and that, presumably, was the end of his peace and quiet.

We paid a visit to Paul Jaboulet, today's Hermitage Mecca. After tasting Le Chevalier de Stérimberg, La Chapelle and Le Pied de la Côte, it's easy to understand why anyone would climb a steep slope to get more of the stuff. In fact, we had more of these wines with dinner that evening in Tain L'Hermitage at Rive Gauche, a delightful restaurant on the river overlooking a medieval castle and a replica of the first suspension bridge built in Europe.

Having reached the end of northern Rhône wine country, we flew south in a four-seater Piper Cub over carpets of wheat fields and vineyards. We approached Nyon, the olive capital of France, and flew parallel to Cézanne's famous Mont Ventoux.

Still giddy from being airborne, we arrived at Gabriel Meffre in Gigondas. Under Gabriel Meffre's premium label, Laurus, some of my favorite wines include an aromatic white Châteauneuf-du-Pape and a big, spicy Gigondas. The well-structured red Châteauneuf-du-Pape was made from a field blend of all 13 Châteauneuf-du-Pape grapes, dominated by grenache. "Grenache," we were told by a local winemaker, "is the king of this region." My respect for grenache continued to rise when we visited Domaine du Trapadis, whose young winemaker (and co-owner of the domaine, along with his mother) looks much like Seinfeld's Jason Alexander. The Trapadis cellars are modest, the wines opulent – uniquely aromatic, rich, juicy and concentrated.

At Domaine Richaud, the wines offer yet another side of the grenache personality. "Today, people are looking for great concentration," Marcel Richaud told us. "What's important to me is the expression of the grape. I don't want alcohol to dominate – I want the healthiest, most honest taste of grape and terroir." The flavors of Richaud's easygoing, highly drinkable wines were still dancing on my tongue when I checked into my room at the Mas de Bouvau. The informal charm of this small country hotel belies its sophisticated cuisine. We feasted on warm lambs' tongue and spring pea salad, baby goat with asparagus and duck with fresh cherries. Everything was delicious, and the accompanying wines from the Cave Co-opèrative de Cairanne could not have been a better match with the meal.

I awoke to a beautiful spring morning, a perfect day for horseback riding through the vineyards – especially for someone who knew how to ride. I didn't. Nonetheless, I found myself at the Pégase Ranch tentatively climbing atop Cheyenne, who turned a large brown head and gave me what seemed to be a reassuring wink. (Indeed, Cheyenne was the model of patience, and we got along famously.) André Varenne, our cowboy guide, led us through the vineyards to Le Camassot, where Cécile Chassagne, the export director of her family's winery, was waiting for us. We dismounted and sauntered into the tasting room to sample Domaine du Pourra Gigondas, La Combe Séguret Côtes-du-Rhône-Villages and Chassagne Gigondas – all delightful wines. Then it was back in the saddle for a peaceful ride through the vineyards toward Séguret.

We clip-clopped up the cobblestone streets of this medieval hill town and tied up our horses after letting them take long drinks at the village fountain. Since we were thirsty, too, we immediately ordered a bottle of Domaine de Boissan Gigondas when we got to La Table du Comtat. Perched at the top of the hill in Séguret, this is not only one of the most beautifully situated restaurants imaginable, but also is home to Franck Gomez, one of France's most talented chefs. Luncheon highlights included julienned truffles in soft-boiled eggs, cod with ratatouille, pigeon with truffles and artichokes, and more than a couple of bottles of delicious Domaine de Boissan wines. The panorama of vineyards stretching below us was as stunning as the meal. "I've looked out over this scene for 30 years and never tire of it," Gomez remarked.

Back on our horses for a leisurely trek through sunny vineyards and shady oak forests, we arrived at Domaine Raspail-Ay to taste Gigondas and Gigondas Rosé – a wonderful summertime apéritif. "You can't do anything better than work with Gigondas," Dominique Raspail said. "It's my passion." In Avignon that evening, we walked (stiffly, after a day in the saddle) to Le Grangousier restaurant for dinner and to taste a few more wines of the region. Particularly impressive were the Tavel and Lirac from Château d'Aqueria and Domaine de la Mordorée.

The last day of a trip can sometimes be anticlimactic; ours, however, was like a final crescendo. After an early morning visit to Avignon's mouth-watering food market, we drove to Beaucastel. The name alone is enough to bring tears to the eyes of true wine lovers; to be in the cellars tasting Beaucastel's luscious wine is nirvana.

"We're guiding the wines as best we can," owner François Perrin said modestly. What an understatement! Our farewell lunch was at Avignon's attractive Restaurant Christian Étienne, where we savored tomato tartare, fillet of rouget (red mullet) roasted with olives and saffron-tomato sauce, rabbit with pistou (France's pesto) and a refreshing bowl of strawberries splashed with rosé and a dollop of sorbet.

We drank Tardieu-Laurent wines throughout the meal, including a powerful Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a vibrant Gigondas and a silky Hermitage.

Savoring the last few drops in my glass, I reflected on my weeklong adventure. The wines of the Rhône, as one winemaker put it, "express more tenderness than any others in the world." What is more, their gentle approachability and spirit recalls the sunny, multifaceted landscape from which they come.

Travel Editor Marguerite Thomas writes on wine, food and wine country travel for The Wine News.