Breakfast in Burgundy Read online

  “Don’t interrupt me while I am interrupting you,” he wailed.

  Crunch time had arrived.

  “So, have I got the gig?” I asked, emboldened by bonhomie.

  “I can’t possibly say.”

  I sensed a sting.

  “Pardon?” I said, less bold.

  “My wife makes all those decisions for me. Why don’t the three of us meet here again this day week? I’m paying.”

  Act Two went just as well.

  “Yes, of course you’ve got it,” his wife replied when I repeated my inquiry. She continued, “And do you know why?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Your shoes are shiny. What’s your secret?”

  I leaned close and confided: “A lady’s nylon stocking.”

  Eyebrows shot up in mock horror, followed by laughter. Hands were shaken; the deal was sealed.

  Thus began a crazy lifestyle that saw me tumbling out of bed at 5:00 am to write for two hours before driving to school for the day’s work. Holidays were spent visiting wine regions across the globe: France and Spain, Australia and New Zealand, South Africa, Napa Valley . . . and lesser-known spots such as the Finger Lakes in upstate New York, and Long Island, with the skyscrapers of Manhattan just down the road. Then I met my wife.

  It started inauspiciously. I was contacted to see if I would interview the leader and artistic director of the Irish Chamber Orchestra, the rationale being that, as they were about to depart for the Barossa Valley Music Festival in Australia, playing in the barrel halls of the wineries, there might be a story there for a wine writer. I agreed reluctantly, then packed my bags and departed for visits to Chile, Argentina, and Canada and forgot all about the forthcoming interview.

  The reminder waiting for me on my return did nothing for the jet lag, nor did the fact that it was scheduled for a Sunday. Convinced that ‘chamber’ was politesse for ‘dull’, my imagination conjured a picture of the orchestra leader as a Prime of Miss Jean Brodie-type: hair in a tight bun, plaid skirt, thick stockings, sensible shoes, pure frump . . . I was wrong, jaw-droppingly wrong.

  The interview was a bumbling affair. My thoughts were jangled by a supervening priority: how can I ask this lady out? I ended up spinning a line as cringe-worthy as it was effective: “We are very close to copy deadline and if I wanted to check any details with you I would need to be able to get in touch quickly so, what I am saying is, well, sometimes the editor can be a bit persnickety about fact checking and so forth, if you know what I mean, so . . . well . . . if you could let me have your home phone number?” Bumble, bumble, bumble. It worked.

  Because of conflicting travel schedules, we barely saw one another for months after that, then we went on a first proper date and hit it off immediately. In a neat symmetry, we each had a strong amateur interest in the other’s profession. Her family’s involvement in the wine business sparked her interest; chancing upon a recording of Beethoven’s seventh symphony at the age of 14 did it for me. Three weeks later I asked Fionnuala to marry me, and the reply was positive, though gloriously unrepeatable.

  Apart from close family, the first people I shared the good news with were the 17-year-olds in my senior math class. They were a great gang, possessed of a boundless ability to nudge me away from the wonders of algebra and geometry and on to more engaging topics like wine. Only then could they relax and enjoy their schooldays.

  I marched into class at 9:00 am on a Thursday and announced:

  “Put away your books, we are not doing any math today.”

  The somnolent gathering stirred.

  “Tell me lads—can you keep a secret?”

  That got a response. Elbows whacked into neighboring ribs and sleepy eyes were knuckled awake.

  “Yes,” they chorused.

  “I have something important to say. I would like you to join me in celebrating my engagement.”

  As I spoke I whipped out a bottle of champagne and some glasses from my brief case. “There’s enough for a sip each, don’t be greedy.”

  More used to being baffled by quadratic equations, this left them stunned for a second, and then a near riot of celebration broke out: hollering, whooping, shouting, dancing—some on chairs and desks—so much so that the teacher in the next classroom confided later: “I thought they had attacked you and was wondering if you needed to be rescued.” The din segued into a torrent of questions:

  “Who is she, sir?”

  “Actually, she is a well-known violinist. That’s how we met.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Fionnuala Hunt.”

  “I know who she is,” said one of them who played the double bass.

  “What made you decide to get married now?”

  “Well, I am about 40 . . .”

  The bass player leaned forward: “Does she know?”

  “That’s a good question. I—”

  “How long have you been going out?”

  “Two or three weeks.” Silence.

  Then the bell rang.

  “So, we can’t tell anyone you are engaged, sir?”

  “You can tell the whole world if you like, just don’t tell them you were drinking in class, that’s the secret.”

  They told the world and kept the secret, and we got married in the school chapel a couple of months later.

  My dream of owning a house in Burgundy was just that; I never imagined it might come true. Fionnuala, however, is a lady of action. While I pin everything on a fresh start in the morning, refining my ‘to do’ list, she is making a start now. She doesn’t do lists. Once the dream was aired, plans were made, and a holiday in the region was agreed upon as the best way to see if we both liked Burgundy enough to buy a house there.

  Getting there by the terrestrial route from Ireland involves an overnight car ferry from Rosslare to Cherbourg. Having done the journey many times its charms are now lost on me; busking musicians and face-painted children running amok hold no appeal so I retreat to our cabin to peruse the French road atlas and dream. The following morning I am raring to go, behind the wheel on the car deck, gunning the engine and roaring out of the ship’s belly like a champagne cork. “Don’t forget to drive on the right,” Fionnuala counsels me annually.

  The French do things brilliantly or badly—witness their wines. Their motorways sit easily in the first category, and none is more storied than the A6, the Autoroute du Soleil that sweeps south-east out of Paris in search of sun. Once clear of Paris the journey is a doddle, the signposting is virtually flawless, and you can gallop along at a high average speed without surpassing the speed limit. You can marvel too at the succession of small French cars, Renault Clios, Citroën C3s, and the like, which zoom past, usually with a loving young couple strewn across the front seats, and the occasional bare foot sticking out a window. All they lack is a ‘Powered by Love’ bumper sticker. The miles click past and soon the first signs for Chablis, Burgundy’s northern outpost, beckon; only with great restraint are her wines of steel and savor left for another day.

  At this point, Burgundy-bound drivers settle into a reverie centred on the gustatory delights of the coming days, a blissful state brought to a jolting halt by the sign for Châteauneuf, a famed wine of the Rhône, far south of Burgundy. Could that distance have been covered so quickly? In a state of panic, clever clog drivers slip into blame-the-spouse mode, a tactic that can backfire badly. Better to check the map and discover that the sign refers to the splendid structure off to the left on a low hill and not the Rhône’s Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

  Shortly after, the motorway begins a slow descent, wheeling this way and that and crossing the Ouche Valley on an impressive elevated section, before finishing with a long sweep to the left as it approaches Junction 24 at the outskirts of Beaune, Burgundy’s bull’s-eye, whose cobbled streets rest on a warren of cellars that hold a king’s ransom of wine. You have arrived. You will never want to leave.

  Nothing will ever compare to the first time you see the name of a famous wine on a signp
ost at the entrance to a village; until then it will simply have been a name on a label. Now you realize it is a real place with people, houses, a church, a post office, a war memorial, and usually, though sadly not always, a boulangerie. The villages sit surrounded by vineyards, and as you drive through them more evocative signposts catch your eye. The best of all, the greatest road sign in the world, is found on the Route des Grands Crus between Morey-St-Denis and Gevrey-Chambertin. “Ici Commence Le Chambertin,” it proclaims—now is the time to stop the car and kiss the ground. You will not be the first. If you have children in the back seat, your antics will leave them crimson-faced, but their discomfort will be short-lived for, just a minute further along, stands the doleful: “Ici Finit Le Chambertin.”

  We arrived for our holiday-cum-house-hunting visit in the highest of spirits and fell in love with a complete wreck, or the wreck’s roof, which sported the multi-colored roof tiles set in zigzag patterns that are a feature of the region. Apart from that, its charms were limited. Vacant window openings gaped like empty eye sockets, vegetation sprouted from every crack in the masonry, and access was almost non-existent thanks to its location in a vineyard. It is hard to believe, but we made some tentative inquiries about this wreck and discovered that it was not on the market, which was a lucky escape, as a restoration project of this scale would have broken hearts, minds, and pockets.

  Well-meaning contacts kept assuring us that great value and wider choice was to be had just a few miles to the east or west of the Côte d’Or, the Golden Slope or heartland of Burgundy. This is the thin seam of vineyard that runs south, south-west from Dijon for about 30 miles (50 km), seldom more than a mile (1.6 km) wide yet revered beyond belief wherever wine is drunk. With luke-warm enthusiasm, we dragged ourselves off to see a few houses here and there, mouthing the rote expressions of interest that have never fooled an estate agent anywhere.

  “To hell with value and choice,” I spluttered after another desultory visit. “What’s the point of buying a house in a wine region if you cannot go out your front door and be amongst the vineyards after a couple of minutes’ walk? Being five miles off-target is little better than staying at home.”

  “I agree,” answered Fionnuala. “From now on it’s Côte d’Or or nothing.”

  Thereafter we restricted ourselves to villages where winemaking was paramount and ended up viewing some of the ghastliest houses imaginable. In one instance, I had to winkle myself sideways along an attic corridor narrower than my shoulders to enter a room that a resistance fighter, on the run from the Gestapo, would probably have rejected as sub-standard. Silence reigned as we drove away.

  By now the enjoyment of an otherwise delightful holiday was threatened, so we wound down our efforts, while planning to mount a dedicated house-hunting mission some months later. It was a good decision, for once we postponed the search we rediscovered the juvenile joy to be had from time spent in Burgundy. We hired bicycles, and I would sneak out of our holiday home every morning at 6:00 with camera and notebook to explore the vineyards. It was exhilarating, puffing and panting uphill to gain the reward of a freewheel down the other side.

  Each morning’s exploration would conclude with a visit to a different boulangerie in search of the perfect baguette, croissant, or pain au chocolat. No one place scored tops in all three categories, meaning that the baguette might be bought in Gevrey-Chambertin, the croissant in Vougeot, and so forth. The exercise involved was then offset against subsequent over-indulgence as I slathered more époisse onto the baguette or jam onto the croissant.

  The delights of cycling and dining dominated the holiday and the search for a house was forgotten; it was much more fun exploring the markets, seeking out the best foodstuffs, or restaurant hopping in search of the most memorable local cuisine. Soon, however, it was time to point the car for home.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Fionnuala as we joined the A6 and began the long pull away from the Côte d’Or.

  “Don’t ask,” I replied with spoiled child truculence.

  “I mean, are you feeling okay for seven or eight hours’ driving?”

  “Oh . . . yeah, yeah. No problem.”

  Packing up had been a glum affair, the mood morose, though lifted a little by the treasure trove of wine I squeezed into the boot. Interspersed between the cases were a dozen quart-sized (1.5 liter) plastic water bottles, filled almost to the brim and then frozen into solid blocks—air conditioning with a difference. They were still cool on our arrival home 30 hours later. The wine was safe.

  Even with a stack of advance preparation for our house-hunting visit we still saw a good ration of clunkers. Spirits flagged, yet we remained convinced there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, a conviction badly shaken by the next property we viewed. No words could do justice to the insane layout of that house. For starters, it was physically attached to a hotel. The owners were trying to raise some money by selling off a ‘house’ created out of a series of rooms that formed a small wing at the end of the main building. It was partitioned off from the other guest rooms and enjoyed its own entrance by way of a sliding patio door. Roughly speaking, it came in two halves, and because they only met at one corner and were not on the same level, access from one to the other was by way of an almost tubular stairwell.

  I thought I was in the conning tower of a submarine, so I set off to hunt for Red October: “Dive! Dive!” I chanted, along with some authentic sonar pings: “Ping-ying-ying . . . Ping-ying-ying . . .”

  A glance from Fionnuala depth-charged that attempt at humor, the torpedoes went unfired.

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” she said.

  Over a coffee we attempted to clarify the brief with the estate agent: “Please do not ever show us a house like that again.” He got the message. We never saw him again.

  Finding a suitable house was a much higher hurdle than either of us anticipated. We wanted something we could put our stamp on, not a total wreck that suggested demolition as a first step. We wanted a place in a reasonably sized wine village, not a near-hovel in a remote hamlet. We wanted a house in the accepted sense of the word, not a haphazard aggregation of rooms that an enterprising agent thought he could foist on unsuspecting foreigners. We told several estate agents precisely what we wanted yet were still shown all of the above and more.

  But the scent warmed appreciably after we heeded a friend’s advice to take a little time in Beaune, going around the estate agents’ windows to see what was on offer, for their websites were not always up to date. This led to the gold strike when Fionnuala’s eye was caught by the brochure featuring the ‘bit dull’ house. It was a plain, green-shuttered house, with a few branches of a cherry tree dipping into the frame, top left. Was it in a wine village? Check. Did it have a garden? Check. Within budget? Check. Reasonably sound? Check. Could I find it? No.

  I still blame the roadworks somewhere after Meursault that diverted me off to Saint-Aubin and beyond, when my destination was Santenay. Realizing that we were close, save for the large hill interposed between us and the village, was little consolation. Back tracking, accompanied by furious muttering and grinding of gears, occupied the next 10 minutes and we got there just in time. The scene that greeted us was not propitious, for the village square, the Place du Jet d’Eau, was undergoing major renovation. It was an appalling mess and looked like the site of an archaeological dig; mud abounded and on a dry day it was hard rutted and turned to dust by the traffic.

  A garage door, painted in the same green as the shutters, and a high wall obscured any view of the house from the street, but once the agent opened the heavy metal gate we entered a little wonderland. There, in the midst of a secluded garden, was the cherry tree, and it was real and not the result of some Photoshop trickery. It was big too, and on the sunny afternoon of Thursday April 20, 2006, it was laden with meringue puffs of flower. Looking back, our entrance was nicely stage-managed, but did we care? The agent could have brought us in by the main entrance, through a communal courtya
rd of scant charm, for the property straddled two streets, with an entrance from each. He had the wit to choose the scenic route instead, and at last we came across a house worth considering, and we had yet to cross the threshold.

  Once inside, the first surge of excitement abated as we took in the unremitting palette of brown from floor to ceiling. A lifetime’s collection of mementos and artifacts assailed the eye; it was personal clutter on an epic scale. We breezed through, delighted with ourselves and oblivious to any possible warning signs, despite the fact that they came in the form of an almost complete absence of bathroom or kitchen. And the neighbors? Madame la propriétaire assured us that one was a gem and the other wasn’t. Another warning ignored.

  We departed on a high, so much so that the following day on our way to the airport for the flight home we diverted past the house, though what we hoped to glean from gazing with dopey affection at the high garden wall, over which peeped the upper branches of the cherry tree, I have no idea. In retrospect, I realize we were going back to look at our new home, to indulge in a visual laying on of hands, to see what it felt like—and it felt good.

  We kept glancing at one another and smiling, afraid to speak. Eventually Fionnuala asked quietly:

  “You like it?”

  “I like it . . . You?”

  “I like it.”

  Desperately trying to control the excitement in my voice, I started into some rote warnings about treading carefully, hastening slowly, and not counting chickens. I sounded like a flight attendant giving the safety demonstration, and Fionnuala was as engaged as a regular flier:

  “I think this is the one. Now, we better go. What time’s our flight?”

  Once home, we started the ritual dance of offer and counter-offer, which crawled forward through the months of May and June. Inevitably, there was some legal horseplay to go through, and our solicitor—who also served as our guide, counsel, and good friend—played a blinder on our behalf: “Don’t worry too much about the difficulties we’re experiencing, it’s not unusual, tenacity is the name of the game . . .” said one of his e-mails when he sensed rising panic at my end. His fluent French and intimate knowledge of their legal system were no small assets when it came to charting the tricky waters.