There’s a distinct whiff in the air as you approach our house. It’s not unpleasant — indeed, many would argue it is the finest odour on earth. It is hard to pinpoint: straw, dank churches and musty apples, all overlaid with a subtle pong of old nappies. Bienvenue to the Burgundian village of Epoisses, home of France’s smelliest, runniest and most spectacularly pungent cheese.

Many English people who buy second homes in France will tell you a tale of love at first sight: the tumbledown farmhouse set amid fields of purple lavender. Our Burgundian affair had a more nasal beginning: a weekend break in 2001, a cartwheel sized platter of cheeses — and the realisation that we could buy into this heavenly scent.

After several more helpings of époisses, my wife, Alexandra, and I knew that we had to buy a house here. The village of Epoisses, a 2½-hour drive to the southeast of Paris, is a delight, a hodgepodge of medieval cottages dominated by a rambling castle. It was here that the Marquise de Sévigné, the celebrated belle dame of letters, stayed in the 17th century. She was so overawed by the cheese that she penned a paean to its beauties. It was to have a similarly literary effect on me.

And so, as I reached for yet another slice of époisses, I was struck by a second great idea — one that was to dominate the next two years of my life. Why not write a novel about a cheesemonger with a nose that could identify every cheese ever produced? We told the local estate agent that we wanted something modeste. She said there were no houses for sale in Epoisses itself, but plenty in the surrounding area. “I know just the place,” she said, leading us to a rambling, six-bedroom place that looked for all the world like the house in the Madeline books — double-fronted, steep slate roof and weather vane at the top.

Such a property would have cost several million pounds in England, yet it was just £75,000 — and that included countless barns, a pigsty, hay loft and wine cellar. “This is also part of the property,” said the agent, pointing to the adjoining farmhouse. We gulped. They were the first houses we had seen — and we were smitten.

The location was perfect: a hamlet 30 minutes’ drive from Auxerre and an hour north of Dijon, the region’s capital. The nearby TGV line meant that I could get to Lille — and then, by Eurostar, to London — in 4½ hours. It seemed too good to be true.

The French solicitor didn’t think so. He told us we were paying too much and suggested we haggle. But it was too late — we had already scribbled on the dotted line. In France, a promesse de vente, once signed, is almost irreversible.

The house became our holiday home for five years. Then, last July, we took the plunge and moved out here full-time.

We rented out our house in London and enrolled our three children, Madeleine, 11, Heloise, 9, and Aurelia, 5, at the local school. No more British history for them; rather than 1066 and all that, they now learn about Napoleon’s exploits.

Our hamlet looks as French as they come, yet appearances are deceptive. The chateau opposite is owned by Germans, and another English couple and two Americans live nearby. We have found a similar mix in most of the villages in the area.

Inevitably, perhaps, the first problems emerged within days of us buying the place. The electricity worked only sporadically, and one of the loos emptied directly into the cellar; then the boiler died.

Even more worrying was the land ownership. The previous proprietor — a little old lady — had fenced in lots of land that wasn’t hers. The lovely courtyard — perfect for long lunches in the shade — actually belonged to the local commune (council). We faced the possibility of having to tear down the fence and surrender it. But our luck was in. Over a few glasses of Chablis, we struck a deal with the mayor, a dapper little man with a passion for all things English. We gave one small area back to the commune, and he sold us the rest for one symbolic euro.

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