A tiny corner of northwest Connecticut offers up a beguiling mix of rural pleasures: pristine lakes, corn mazes, grass-fed beef, and deluxe digs with feather beds—country living as high art. Alison Humes follows the back roads of Litchfield County

I was introduced to northwest Connecticut by a friend whom I call the Minx because she is so deliciously naughty. Known for her elegance, wit, and charm, she is always impeccably dressed and groomed, a woman about whom one can say she smells good. Of her many extraordinary talents, perhaps her greatest gifts are the ability to have a good time and the ability to beguile others into giving her what she needs and wants. Things one wouldn't dream of doing for anybody else one finds oneself doing for her, because she makes them seem so appealing. One summer not long ago, the Minx said, "Come visit me in my tree house in Connecticut. It's on top of a mountain, and it is absolute heaven." In this case, what she really needed was a driver, and it seemed that I would do nicely. And so plans were made. She would get there first, with her son, by train and then taxi; I would drive up in a rented car to meet her, with my two boys.

We made our way up Route 7 to Salisbury, in the northernmost corner of the state, and found the road where we were to turn off. We drove up, and up. The road turned to dirt, and still we drove. We were driving up to heaven through deep forest. Finally the road emerged into the light, at a T-crossing that ran along the berm of a huge lake. A few more twists and turns and we found the house: a summer palace with no heat or electricity but a fireplace, oil-burning lamps, and flashlights; many, many books; no cell phone reception; lots of grass and paths and woods; lots of bedding; a gas-powered fridge and stove—in fact, all the comforts one would really need.

For several days, we frolicked and rested. We ate, slept, read, and didn't bother much with washing. When the boys slept late, the mothers went down the mountain for cappuccino and the newspaper before picking up supplies from the market. After strenuous adventures jumping into the lake and lying in the sun, we'd set off at some point to explore the world—in search of perhaps some ice-cream cones or some just-picked ears of corn or cell phone tower range or a civilized lunch of salmon burgers and mozzarella with farm tomatoes and basil at the West Street Grill in Litchfield. We built and stoked fires, and the boys played Spit. It didn't seem as though we did too much of anything, although I don't recall that we were ever bored. Indeed, as always, as befits a woman of exquisite taste, the Minx was entirely right. Our stay atop the mountain really did seem like heaven.

The northwestern corner of Connecticut has, over recent years, developed country living into a high art. My visit chez Minx showed off the area's qualities at their best: simple beauty, sophisticated creature comforts, lack of pretension, fertile land. This is not to say that, should you be willing to let yourself go, you couldn't go broke exploring the possibilities for conspicuous indulgence, from ballooning to grass-fed beef. But the initial and ultimate seduction is in the landscape itself—views over the high hills into New York State, and across the gentle rolling green meadows dotted with sturdy black steer.