Bordeaux Winter 2016
As I soared over Notre‑Dame de Paris into the morning glow, its great bells began to ring. Unlike the days when Quasimodo strained to swing them, those chimes are now fully electrified. After ten tolls, we hung suspended in mid‑air. Paris sprawled so vast that pinpointing one exact spot proved difficult. At last I spotted the huge Hertz rental‑car sign on Boulevard Saint‑Michel in Paris’s 6th Arrondissement. The rental office occupied barely six square metres. This was Paris.
A Black attendant wearing a balaclava‑style beanie gave me a pleasant welcome. When I explained I wanted to rent a car for two months — preferably a small French vehicle fitted with propellers for flight — he looked briefly astonished, then nodded knowingly and told me to wait a moment. Thirty minutes later, a brand‑new compact Renault pulled up before us. The attendant stressed repeatedly that, though French‑built, it had no flying capability. I shook his hand in thanks, pressed the one‑touch start button, and the little car rolled cheerfully onto the road.
Mont‑Saint‑Michel rises on rocky outcrops off north‑western France along the English Channel, the Catholic world’s third‑holy site after Jerusalem and the Vatican. Contrary to my imagination, the holy mount requires no steep climb. A wide open plain stretches for some five kilometres around it. When our Renault drifted into the small village of Beauvoir, I judged this the perfect distance for sketching.
Next morning, thick dawn‑mist shrouded everything in pale grey. Even the stone houses close at hand lost their familiar colours. It was weather ripe for wild, unbridled imagination. Visions spanning centuries washed over me: oracles, ascetic restraint, and hints of supernatural power. This polar‑like tension persisted until the afternoon haze lifted. At three o’clock sharp, the true landscape unfolded before my eyes — pastoral, human‑scaled, steeped in quiet grace. The village of Beauvoir completely captured my sight. Every building, large or small, was built entirely of stone. After several days wandering here, I began to wonder whether the French knew how to use any other building material. Centuries‑old stone houses stood everywhere, no two alike.
Hovering the Renault on higher ground, I started counting chimneys: one, two, three, four — until I grew confused and lost count. Nearly every house boasted several tall, uniquely shaped chimneys reaching skyward. Could their sole purpose be to carry smoke and heat up toward heaven? My mind turned to the colossal chimneys and fireplaces inside the abbey atop Mont‑Saint‑Michel. That flue, more than five metres across, must have served some greater function, something connected to messages descending from the heavens.
In Saint‑Malo, oysters writhed gently on my tongue — a strange, vivid sensation. The French adore oysters; these oddly‑shaped creatures dominate much of the Atlantic coastline. Shucking them takes skill, and inside they reveal unexpected opulence. Perhaps on this planet, no other living thing resembles female anatomy so closely in form and flavour. The French are utterly fond of them, and I too had grown dependent on them. I tried a special variety called Médoc: small‑bodied, with two fine black lines tracing its plump yet lean rim. It carried distinct mineral notes and a faint blackberry perfume, unforgettable. I began to fancy that if alien beings ever sought to conquer humanity, they might start with oysters — and the oyster‑queen would surely be Médoc.
Carrying these lingering impressions, I reached Blaye Citadel, a strategic fortress said to date back to Roman times. My Renault was meant to carry me across the Gironde Estuary to Lamarque deep within the Médoc hinterland. Only ten kilometres separated Lamarque from my main destination, Margaux. Thoughts of the Médoc oyster still swirled in my head; I found myself imagining a woman’s name, searching across all living beings for some better, truer comparison. I gave the Renault its signal. It strained, making unfamiliar noises, yet it began to cross the Gironde. Chug‑chug‑chug. As we passed the central sandbar of the estuary, Lamarque grew larger on the horizon. We were drawing near to Margaux.
Margaux is such a magical place that I needed a full week just to find words to describe it. By evening, the Renault laboured, almost gasping for breath. Once ashore at Lamarque we drove straight into Margaux. The sun hung low on the western horizon, painting drifting clouds orange‑red. Sharp gusts off the Gironde still carried winter chill. The surrounding land stretched flat and open, not the terrain I had pictured. Vine‑trunks stood thick, artificially split left and right some thirty centimetres above ground, their branches tied with fine wire onto trellis wires. Rows upon rows of bound vines looked like comical little human‑shaped figures. Against sunset, the tallest structure was the water‑tower. Every village’s water‑tower bears its own distinct design. Margaux’s had an almost space‑age quality, glowing orange‑hued like a space‑launch tower.
Luce told me roughly one thousand people lived in Margaux. Little wonder one seldom saw folk out and about. I wondered who would tend these labour‑intensive vines when harvest‑time came.
Hundreds of châteaux surround Margaux. Of the 61 classified estates from the 1855 ranking, at least one‑third lie within Margaux. In March the vines lay dormant, not yet sprouting buds. Bare soil showed everywhere, strewn with round pebbles of many colours. Could these stones be the source of the region’s famous mineral wine character? My imagination truly took flight only when I saw a vine seemingly growing in thin air at Château Gruaud‑Larose. Beyond soil, water and minerals, there must exist some vital living force — the true key to vine growth. This living essence travels through the roots into the grapes, its complex nature giving wine its layered flavours and textures.
From the château’s viewing terrace, a full‑figured French lady waved and spoke with pride: “Straight ahead lies the Gironde. To our left is the Saint‑Julien appellation, and further north Pauillac. South‑east from here lies Margaux itself.” Her words lingered in my mind as I drove along the D2 country road. Vineyards blurred past on both sides. My thoughts drifted past Pauillac toward the Gironde valley. Further north near the estuary mouth, vines vanished, giving way to ordinary farm‑villages and grazing pasture‑land.
Pauillac’s town centre features a rare cylindrical church, centuries old. I took a shaded seat at an outdoor table of a small bistro opposite, and told the landlord to open a fine local bottle. Sketching while drinking red wine — this was the only plein‑air piece I painted with wine in hand. Oil‑sketching is expressive work; alongside observing nature, it absorbs human atmosphere. The vivid blue sky contrasted sharply against the dark‑red wine in my glass. Deep inside the church, I could almost hear Christ’s words: “This red liquid is my blood.” My gaze fell to my half‑filled glass. I swirled the deep‑red wine in my mouth. There was a faint iron‑like tang, yet far more prominent were complex earthy notes and soft rose‑petal fragrance. My cheeks grew warm. After the final sip, I signed my name and date in the painting’s lower‑right corner — yet mistakenly marked it as Saint‑Julien. Was that the wine’s doing? I resolved to leave the error as a memento.
I packed my sketch‑kit, paid at the counter, and in halting French praised the landlord for his excellent Pauillac wine. Au revoir!
In his later years Leonardo da Vinci grew fond of French wine. As King François I called out to him, Leonardo forced his eyes open, glanced sideways at the king, and pointed his left hand toward the crimson juice on the table. In that half‑conscious state, his visual conceptions grew more intricate, yet technical innovation demanded absolute clarity of mind.
Early‑spring Médoc lay dormant, cold and rainy. When I tramped along muddy village lanes to the new‑vintage tasting, the atmosphere contrasted sharply against the dreary weather. Wines from the previous harvest had slumbered in fermentation vats for nearly half a year, still immature, yet merchants burned with anticipation. Each year, four days in the first week of April mark Bordeaux’s busiest season for châteaux and traders. Divided across several venues, they gather to score the new vintages and, above all, secure advance purchases for the coming sales season.
Temporarily‑bottled wine looked identical to finished product, yet drinking and spitting left a strong bitter impression. These were not blind tastings; château labels were clearly visible. I cannot say how much that biased judgement, yet from an amateur’s perspective, behind that bitterness lay countless nuances separating noble wine from ordinary plonk. Across different‑ranked tastings, one detects rich fruit, floral bouquets, mineral‑driven astringency, decay, and the transformed essence of plants and animals alike.
My final sketch was completed beside the Seine in Paris. Only after finishing it did I learn the iron bridge was Pont des Arts. Three friends sat opposite me in a bar across from the Banque de France. My thoughts returned to Leonardo’s final hours: huge oak logs burning in a castle fireplace, fruit‑wood fragrance filling the chambers, his eyes fixed on the Mona Lisa, recollecting the inspiration wine had brought him. Beside the Seine captures my impression of early‑spring France: overcast sky, cold air. Suddenly thick black‑and‑white smoke billowed from a chimney. A boat‑captain came over and asked whether I wanted to embark. His ship was bound for China. Without hesitation I gathered my things and climbed aboard. Toot‑toot‑toot. I was going home.
