Gotta love France: Two-hour lunch breaks; Mondays off; Bakeries with the world’s best bread and even better pastries; Great beer; Shop assistants with the attitude ‘If you approach and ask for help - you’ve got it - otherwise I’m going to leave you to it’; Citizens that understand that if the government makes a decision you disagree with, why wait until the next election and vote for someone else, when you can fill a bottle with a highly flammable liquid, stuff a rag in the top, light it, and throw it at the nearest police.
And, of course, wine that almost explains all the wars that have been fought over its soil.
We made the drive from Bordeaux to the Saint Emilion region. The narrow roads wind through acres of vine-yards gnarled stumps; the foliage must all be holidaying somewhere warm for the winter. We arrive at the Chateau de Figeac.
The other guests who were to be on the tour are late; so our now private tour of the sandstone chateau begins. We hear some history; the estate dates from the 2nd century AD. We see some wine-making in action; they buy new oak barrels for each batch at €600-a-pop. And we learn about Saint Emilion wines and Chateau Figeac in particular; Figeac blends 35% Cabernet Sauvignon, 35% Cabernet Franc and 30% Merlot; unlike most St. Emilion wines which are more typically 70% Merlot and 30% Cabernet varieties.
Then, we get to the real reason people take tours of wineries: To drink wine you could never afford to buy. We sample a ’98 (apparently a good year) Figeac. The mandatory spit-barrel is present, but I sense eyebrows would be raised if someone actually chose to use it. Why would you?
What do you follow some of the finest wine humankind has produced with? Tinned-tuna for lunch in the van parked outside, natürlich.
From the chateau it is only a short drive into the village of Saint Emilion. It’s straight out of medieval times; paved streets; buildings of sand-coloured rough-hewn bricks. A biting-wind runs through the narrow lanes. We walk the steep hills, past endless wine cellars peddling their wares. The first fat drops of a rain shower chase us back to the van. We decide to camp nearby and return in the morning.
M-A returns from her morning run to our camp-site; a picnic-stop beside a small stream, a few kilometres from the village. We drive back in and walk the cobblestones once more. The aroma of freshly baked treats and coffee cannot be resisted; we enjoy cappuccinos and macaroons. (I should say I enjoy a macaroon. If you ever want to see M-A truly disappointed, hand her a tasty-looking treat that contains even trace amounts of marzipan.) Caffeinated and sugared, we ascend the tower, and look down upon the picturesque walled-village, surrounded by vineyards as far as our sight allows us to see.
Gotta love France.
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