Today, I thought I would share the remainder of my weekend sojourn to the Perpignan area, excerpted from my journal. I travel now about 60% of the time, and it is hard to keep up with the blog, but I will continue to do so.
From my journal...
20110523
On the RER to go to Vienna, my first trip to this famous city. I wanted to "finish" my weekend trip into the vineyards of the Pyrenees Orientale:
After e-mailing and texting the vignerons (winemakers), I finally received replies. It would be necessary to visit Domaine de L' Arc before noon, and Domaine de Clos des Fees would be at 17h00.
The trip to Domine de L'Arc, was only 15 minutes, and I canght them shortly after 11h00. I tasted their wares. while doing so, the owner's son came in. The boy was five or six years old, and although I could not understand him, it was clear he was anxious for his dad to take him to play football (soccer)..
The thing that is impressed upon me is how small and family-driven these operations are. The ''domaines" do not always have their own vineyards; perhaps they rent, have agreements with those who have vineyards, or they might buy their grapes on the market. Whatever the case, they then select the grapes that are used in their wines, and skillfully craft the wine itself. some of these rather small operations produce 10,000 or more bottles of wine a year. As I said earlier, somewhere, these people know soil and toil.
I had an afternoon appointment with Clos des Fees, a domaine located in Vingrau, France. Vingrau is a small village NW of Perpignan, and is absolutely picturesque. The mesas -- yes, there are mesas there -- reminds one of the American West. Not quite as dry, as vineyards dominate the fore slopes and valley below, and a little greener on top. This is the part of the French countryside seldom imagined by Americans like myself, whose chief ideas of France are Paris, Normandy beaches, and the Riviera. The green mesas that towered above me, the vineyards all around me -- the gnarly, free-standing Carignan vines complemented by the more delicate and trellised Grenache vines -- spoke to me saying,''Welcome to the heart of Rousillon-Villages" (or more correctly, "Bienvenue au coeur du Rousillon-Villages"). Like the other domaines I visited, Clos des Fees had no sense of pretense or pomp.
I knocked on the door, and Claudia, Herve the winemaker's wife, called down from a window above and asked me to wait. Moments later, Herve opened the door and invited me in. I passed by the stacks of shipping boxes, and came to the opening that led to the vats and barrels room. The vats were in the shorter part of the room to my left, while the barrels extended to my right. In between the two was the "tasting room" -- you guessed it: a barrel with a flat piece of wood on it. Herve grabbed a wine glass and walked over to the furthest vat, stuck the glass under a spicket, and drew a glass of white wine. I thought to myself, "There is not a white wine anywhere on the planet I can say I like, maybe only tolerate one or two, and we are starting here, ugh", all the while, of course, I was trying to make sure my facial expression did not betray my thoughts. I graciously took the glass, made a few motions that communicated I was going to enjoy this, and took a guarded sip. Crisp, clean, light on the tongue, pleasant to taste -- the first white I can say I like. It was 100% Grenache Blanc, and did not carry the acidic, citrus taste of chardonnay or chablis, nor the syrupy sweetness of the Alsacian whites. This was simple, good, refreshing. He then told me he had no other whites to sell, and this particular white would not be in the bottle until later the following week. Wouldn't you know it.
We proceeded to taste his reds, which were all fantastic, and with a few leading questions by me, Herve spoke of his winemaking history and experiences. I made my order, and Herve called to Claudia to come and take care of the transaction. He also mentioned other things, but as my hearing and understanding of French is yet poor, I missed most of it. As Herve was packing my order, and Claudia registered the sale, Herve pulled out two bottles I had not seen before. One was a bottle of the white, the last of his own stash, and the other carried the label "Walden" -- a new red he is creating/developing, named in honor of Henry David Thoreau, the author and inspiration for Herve leaving the safer urban and corporate worlds for life as a rural wine-maker in the south of France. He presented them to me as gifts.
With the Renault Laguna now carrying my cache from the four domains, I made my way back to Canet-en-Rousillon. Herve recommended a more rural return, which took me from Vingrau to Opoul to Fitou -- the rural element of the return -- before catching up to the bigger roads that would lead me back to Canet-Plage. The road from Opoul to Fitou got down to a single lane among the vineyards at one point, after taking me past a ruin which could have been anywhere out in the American West. Driving through the many small villages and towns, I felt like a time traveler, as these communities were pleasantly encased in a simpler era, and my Laguna, interstellar-looking by comparison to the environs, shuttled me in and out of the locales' respective periods.
I have come to appreciate what the French have been telling me: "Paris is Paris, but this, this is France..."
a bientot,
Mark
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