Vendredi 9th Septembre
Another blog bourguigon? Ah, mister ambassador, truly you are spoiling us!
But why not, eh? Why Ever Not. The mind-melting temperatures of the European summer have now faded into comfortable clemency. The ancient vines lie there freshly picked and the wine sits snug in Burgundian bottles, just waiting for right-thinking Englishmen to get in their cars, point ’em south and drive.
So yes, we leave gentle Freckenham for climes Francais, the very morning after Good Queen Bess has brought a sensational innings to an august close, and the whole country is plunged into deep and in no way performative mourning. The Old Man and I saunter down to Redhill – devoid, before you ask, of vermilion promontories, scarlet hillocks and even so much as a humble maroon knoll – to pick up Si-Moan de Beauvoir, now of Woking (nine to five, not a way to make a living). The famous Channel Tunnel is ever-so-slightly delayed for us, but no matter, mourners such as we are in no real rush. Accordingly, we have time to wolf down an unprepossessing but actually very edible cooked breakfast, then head underground for a brief spell beneath the brave bobbing boat bashers of Suella (nee Priti).
Once up and across in (ever glorious) France, we shoot down the ol’ Rue d’Anglais towards delightful Reims, where we would be breaking our southerly march that evening. Stopping only in St Quentin (I’m sick to death of you) for some unpatriotically cheap gazole and ever-so-British ice creams in the teeming rain, we made this ‘sacral city’ in double-quick time.
Finding our mystery parking spot was hindered by several cultural misunderstandings, but eventually we switch off the old internal combustion and access our light and airy chambers – three good-sized rooms and elegant, comfortable living quarters. This flat was the THM contribution towards the holiday accommodation, so I’d slammed down the additional twenty (seventeen) Airbnb dollars and said ‘make it so’.
Dinner then, at the Bistro d’Anges – a hostelry L’Aigle, Argent and I had once visited while hanging like absolute hounds, earlier in the year. An excellent bottle of (inevitably) local champagne was drunk and toasts ‘a la reine’ and ‘au roi’ were made. We wolfed down various French foods, all while being regaled by the anglophile proprietor regarding his previous life in the fabulous west end of distant Londres. We then enjoy a champagne-y digestif on the main square, overlooked by the sensational Reims Cathedral, lit up like a vast, gothic dream against a thundery French sky. The heavens open and clouds roar, just as we make it back to the flat and hit the proverbial hay.
Samedi 10th Septembre
South then, south I say: An easy drive down smooth, open roads. Before heading into numinous Mersault, we stop in my happy place – that is to say, the Nuit St Georges Carrefour. There I dropped many a happy franc on vittles and affordable wines, getting the crew well-stocked (for the moment at least).
Into Mersault we go, driving through the beautiful, albeit offputtingly narrow, streets, to meet with ‘Nadia’ of the Charles V hotel/wine bottlers/general good things conglomerate. She books us in for one of her own wine-tastings on Mardi then shows us to our new and sprawling Mersault HQ. Mr Nadia is there out back, tending to a very pleasant pool looking over, of course, vines upon vines upon vines.
The property itself is a strange creation – an old farmhouse sitting on the southernmost edge of the village, wrapped around a small stone courtyard that traps the sun like a noose. I’m planted in a converted ‘mini-barn’, backing onto a much larger, unused barn around the same size as the eccentrically arranged ‘main house’ – the upstairs bedrooms of which can only be accessed via the courtyard. The kitchen, that is to say, the most important chamber of the whole dang chateau, is large, light and well-appointed, and between my garret and the main building sits a covered section of smoke-darkened real estate, complete with a large wooden table and quaintly old-fashioned barbeque, fated to be well-used by the end of the week.
We crack open a bottle of the common-garden Charles V white – very, very nice, especially when enjoyed by a pool complete with stingray robot thing that’s partial to spray the unsuspecting with rare and mischievous humour. A quick feast on cheese and ham, then The Old Man and I are taught ‘Catan’ by Si-Moan, who never seemed happy in her work but whose natural talent for the game was already shining through. A spot more wine, then off to bed and accompanying cheese dreams.
Dimanche 11th Septembre
L’Aigle et Moan of Arc arrive in Lyon at lunchtime so, noble ferrymen that we are, we hop back in la voiture and motor down the trusty A26 (‘but I haven’t seen A1-25 yet!’). At the city’s eccentrically designed aeroport, we pick up this pair, laden now with an unborn bairn, rather than much other carry-on luggage, and into la centre we hasten.
This was my first time in France’s third largest and second most celebrated city, and what I saw I liked. Spacious avenues and lofty rows of neat, French buildings, with the occasional unnecessarily massive parade ground and hilltop basilica. There’s no time for any real sightseeing that this juncture, however, for we all have a hunger, and we head instead to ‘Rue Mercière’, where significant restaurant choice paralysis sets in. In the end we opt for an outdoor spot at the popular ‘Mozzato’, which – just for a modicum of variety – focuses on (Italian) cheese dishes. One by one though we wilt in the fierce sun, retreating into the cowardly shade, cheese in hand.
L’Aigle is then keen to wander across the Rhone (or was it the Saone?) to visit the ancient Roman amphitheatre. This involved much walking uphill, which enraged les Sœurs Moans – as did the fact we forewent the funicular railway, which was very much there for the riding. We did take it back down, however, post-culture and post-multiple mini tantrums. A slow and sleepy drive back north to Wine Country then followed, with multiple changes of somnolent chauffeur. Wines and snacks were the order of the evening, and The Old Man was roped into a second Catan-ing in two days, after the labours of the day had worn down the Moans, for L’Aigle and Ineeded grist for the board game mill. He did not win – but doubtless learned many a valuable lesson.
Lundi 12th Septembre
Lazy day – at least, for those of us who weren’t L’toiling Aigle. Pool times, wine times, reading books of varying quality – all the good, holiday things. At one point Moan of Arc and I roused ourselves sufficiently to head to the local supermarché for further fine things, and L’Aigle popped round the corner to the local chàteau – while on a work call, of course – to pick up a trio of very exciting looking wines.
Once L’Aigle finally extracted himself from The World of Business, the great pentaque rivalry is rejoined, down on the uneven but personality-rich pitch at the foot of the garden. Wines are attempted, and succeeded, either side of a fine BBQ for dinner – one conducted in the dark, as the outside lighting seemed to attract a swarm of friendly wasps. The wood-fired feast was a great triumph, if one does say so oneself, with lamb steaks, Toulouse sausages and curious turkey kebabs that may or may not have been properly cooked. Si-Moan feasted on flame-licked vegetables, as is her curious wont.
This particular evening, no grist could be found, so L’Aigle and I ventured across France to fabled Carcassonne, while we tidied up the wines like the well-brought up fellas we are. And then, as they say, to bed, and some scarcely-earned (for this writer at least) rest.
Mardi 13th Septembre
Mardi proved a day when we all looked to be garcons de la ville – even the girls – with varying levels of what one might call ‘success’. Things started relatively well, with a somewhat ruinous butchers trip and then short jaunt around the main drag with L’Aigle et Moan of Arc, in preparation for guests (guests!) coming tomorrow. Matters then improved still further, when we headed over to Charles V HQ for an excellent wine tasting put on by Nadia of Belgium. Despite the sun only just going over the ol’ yard arm, the measures and selections were generous indeed, and the vintages very much ‘on point’ – and unsurprsingly this was all followed by some judicious and necessary purchases.
We then enjoyed some pool times until the sporadic rains arrive, before then braving said sporadic rains in a spectacularly unsuccessful attempt to get some dinner in town. In the end, poor leadership and (imagined) choice paralysis results in us returning home empty-handed (or empty-stomached) to mange the (assumedly famous) bird L’Aigle (no relation) had purchased for tomorrow at eye-watering expense. It was, however, quite expertly cooked in some sub-par demi-sec by the befeathered one. Crisis averted, the evening ends happily, back in Catan.
Mercredi 14th Septembre
Another morning trip to la bouchere, this time for the Old Man, and this time during a quite sensational thunderstorm that damn near flattened the place. My humble barn-based abode sprung not one, but two sizeable leaks – one very much in the smallest ‘room’ and very much as I was making good use of it. However, the rest of the property seemed to survive the onslaught pretty much intact.
Man like Thor having now toddled off for a spell, George and Jill Assam arrive in budding sunshine, and I hit up the BBQ once more, again to far from insignificant effect, with sausages, pork steaks and very succulent bavettes-cum-sirloins the order(s) of the day. How much the smiling lady-butcher took the Old Man for when he purchased these beauties, quite simply doesn’t bear thinking about. But only the best for the Chai Lattes, they being very old friends of the family from eons past.
Loving Mother Sun is now officially back with a passion, so we lounge by the pool and then play some molkky – with yours truly stumbling over the line in the singles, but those famous Lapsang Souchongs triumphing in the pairs round. It seems my eccentric skill cannot be constrained by so-called ‘teamwork’.
After we bid Earl and Lady Grey a warm goodbye, and with the gallons of wine we (well, some of us) had consumed beginning to take their toll, the rest of the afternoon and evening were somewhat lethargic. Some games, some grazing, some gentle sipping, then relatively early nights were the order of this particular evening. All for the better, as tomorrow L’Aigle would at last be able to fly free.
Jeudi 15th Septembre
I wake at a reasonable hour and wander into town to purchase some rudiments for rustic soup making. The end result seems something of a hit, once certain folks have been persuaded into eating something somewhat wholesome…
Wine tastings in the afternoon were attempted, though the Château de Meursault proved wildly expensive and the Domaine Jean Monnier et Fils was open only for pre-bookings. At the latter spot, the ‘Fils’ proved a lot less personable than Monnier Snr. had proved back in 2016, when we first visited this same spot. Like rouge, bleu, but not, in this instance, blanc, this lad was on a spectrum or another and no mistakin’… didn’t even enjoy my Jurgen Klopp jests, the spoon.
Regardless, instead of overpriced formal tastings, once the necessary purchases had been made, L’Aigle and I conducted our own, personalised tasting at La Place, drinking a couple of their exceptionally reasonably priced 1er Cru out in the sunshine, which had proved victorious after a series of violent bouts with unwelcome rainstorms. How many working folks’ spots in the UK might boast 1er Cru by the glass? Not so many, I might wager, were it not for my eternal fear of ‘talking Britain down’.
Back to HQ and a spot of petanque, watched eagerly by the aged gentleman who lives next door, who was clearly mightily impressed. We then got changed for a ‘fancy’ meal round the corner at Au Fil du Clos – an exceptional eatery which wowed all comers, be it with beef bourignon, snails and bacon, filets of hake and beef, and even a selection of top-rate vegetarian options for S-M de B. Top, if you will (and I know you will) hole.
Back home, we enjoy the final bottle of the trip – a cut-price but high-quality Mon(t)rachet purchased by L’Aigle that very afternoon, after my poverty-sharpened eye spotted the tell-tale yellow sticker of value. As lovely as it was, there followed a broken and troubled night’s sleep for yours truly, as my liver filed for divorce, citing ill-use.
Vendredi 16th Septembre
L’Aigle et Moan of Arc have to head back to Blighty for not one, but two weddings, so are dropped off at Beaune to find themselves a slow train down to Lyon, then a fast plane over to Londres. Alas, their journey is fated to be ill-fated, but let us leave their cruel travails for another tale and another day – this, after all, is a happy account; comedy not tragedy. Weep not for L’Aigle et Moan, for they, much like your one’s boats beating back endlessly against the shore, are past now.
And happy were we, the remaining three, you see, for would you believe it but we’re invited round this fine, fine day to Domaine Alain Zorninger, a small wine-makers right next door to HQ, owned and run by Alain, the petanque aficionado from the day before! The Old Man and he had hit it off, so over we went and down into his sprawling cellars, to enjoy a history lesson of significant interest which spanned several half-remembered languages, and to enjoy (x2) a few of his choice vintages – despite the protestations of my liver. We were kind enough to take a few bottles off his hands at the end of the personal tour, bringing up our total haul to ‘a truckload’.
Desperate to at least pretend to be moderately healthy, I run twice around the vines, reminding the battered frame the meaning of a least one of ‘cardio’ and/or ‘vascular’. Almost dying, I then draw and take a lazy bath, seeing out much of the afternoon beneath the suds, as a gentle pottering ennui descended on our final hours within this fabulous Meursault abode. And what is left to do, dear reader? Well, for starters, vingt et une bouteilles need to be secreted away to various bottle banks to hide our shame, then bags must be packed and Burgundian dreams put away for another year at least.
There’s time enough, however, for one final barbeque, cooking up the remnants of The Old Man’s mighty haul from Wednesday, along with all those other victuals that must be victimised. The coals take their sweet time to warm, so it is dark as the tomb by the time we’re done, the stars above twinkling a fond and Gallic goodbye.
Samedi 17th Septembre
An early start and a long, long drive ahead – no Reims-based stop-off for these seasoned travellers on the way back north. And a good job we did leave in (aggressively) early time – for a little way past Paris one of the trusty automobile’s tyres, having spent far too long in France, decided to go on strike. No matter how much air we pumped into the damn thing, it really wasn’t having… a bar of it. On we limped, however, battered and bruised but with our hearts full of faith, catching our tunnel by the proverbial whisker.
And that brings us to a conclusion, my friends. Ah, Burgundy, what a place. Now to start lobbying The Old Man in persona and in print that really, when one thinks about it, Mersault is the only place to which a gentleman of taste and standing might retire…
T.H. Mansfield 