In November 1885, a New York Times journalist set out to introduce his readers to a city which, despite its "delightful" attractions, remained almost unheard-of outside France. "I have called Besançon an unknown capital," he wrote. "But [of] those who pass it by, three out of four, I dare say, are bound for less interesting places."
Today, more than 120 years since those words were sent across the Atlantic, his conclusion remains as valid as ever. When I mentioned to some Francophile friends in Paris that I was heading to Besançon for a mini-break, I was met with blank stares. They weren't able to find it on a map, let alone recognise it as the capital of the eastern Franche-Comté region or the birthplace of Victor Hugo.
But if the city is overlooked by tourists and under-appreciated by the guidebooks, it is perhaps no bad thing. Besançon's determination to keep a low profile is one of its most endearing characteristics.
I spent two days there without hearing one word of English or seeing a single tour bus. The museums were empty, including the Musee des Beaux Arts (musee-arts-besancon.org), known by locals as the "little Louvre," and considered to have one of the best permanent collections of any French gallery outside Paris. And, perhaps more importantly, my morning coffee on the banks of the river Doubs cost me just €1.50. This city, I reflected, basking in both the first rays of spring and the warm glow of economic smugness, has worked out the benefits of keeping itself to itself.
My first stop on my exploration of Besançon's "unknown" charms was La Maison de Verre (lamaisondeverre.com, doubles from €75), a quirky chambre d'hôte in the city centre. Owner Katherine Bermond decided last year to transform her family property - a former car factory - into an urban bolt-hole. The industrial heritage of the building is obvious in the metal door surrounds and glass framework, and Katherine's artistic touch is clear in the atrium-like communal living area as well as the three chic en-suite bedrooms, decorated in neutral shades. Talking to her over a cup of tea, I get the impression that the venture is a labour of love: she loves people and she loves her town - and most of all she loves introducing them to each other.
Besançon has a historic centre which charms almost instantly. From the sloping rooftops and 18th-century facades of the Place de la Révolution to the cobbled courtyards and sweeping external staircases of the townhouses on the rue Mégevand, the old town is an enchanting collection of winding roads, splendid squares and centuries of architectural prowess.
I popped into the family-run Cave aux Fromages on rue Gustave Courbet, where fifth-generation owner Pierre Loyenet talked me through the nuances of producing the local comté, a mild, nutty cheese that varies in taste according to how old it is, and in colour according to what season it was made. After trying a slice of the 34-month-old on the counter, I wanted to buy up his entire stock. Just down the road from the Cave is Katherine's favourite bar, the Brasserie du Commerce on rue des Granges, which has a magnificent belle époque interior, riotously flirtatious waiters and fittingly decadent gin and tonics.
A rather less raucous, more robust restaurant in the city centre is Le Poker d'As (00 33 3 81 81 42 49) on Square St-Amour, which specialises in Franche-Comté cuisine. The menu drips with regional delicacies, from pumpkin and comté soup to chicken cooked in the local sherry-like vin jaune. Ignore the bizarre decor - the food is great, with evening menus starting at €22. And if, like me, you tumble out on to the street after five courses, two Arbois wines and a digestif, you'll have done the owners, the Bisontins, proud.
For lunch you could do worse than head to the eponymous restaurant of sommelier Christophe Menozzi (+3 81 81 28 01). I sampled the €32 lunch menu showcasing morille mushrooms - a local, seasonal speciality - but here the food comes second to the wine, with the moustachioed owner bristling with enthusiasm as he provides diners with an oenological lesson and the perfect bottle to accompany their meal. It's not like me to leave a glass half-full, but when I was brought the fourth and hadn't yet finished the first, I decided that maybe it was quality rather than quantity that matters, after all. Christophe, you converted me.
You can eat all the morilles and swill all the Macvin you like, but no visit to Besançon is complete without a trip to the military citadel (citadelle.com) which overlooks the city from the south east. Designed by Sébastien le Prestre de Vauban, Louis XIV's military advisor and architect, when the French took the city from the Spanish in 1674, the fortress is a remarkable feat of engineering. You don't have to be a military connoisseur to appreciate it - or the views of the land below, with the Doubs glittering in the sunlight, the seven hilltops of Besançon keeping watch over the town and, far beyond, the Jura mountains lying black against the horizon.
Strolling down from Vauban's masterpiece and into the picturesque Ville Haute, I passed by the Saint-Jean cathedral and found myself a seat in the leafy square Castan. The man after whom it was named was none other than Auguste Castan, the chief librarian of Besançon and chief source of the New York Times in 1885. "Ever since the glaciers of the Jura retreated . . . the site of Vesontio, now Besançon, must have been a refuge for men," he told the reporter.
As I sat in his square amid Gallo-Roman remains and young couples embracing in the shade of the trees, I thought that, as a refuge from the world, it was just about perfect - all the more so, perhaps, for being a little bit unknown.