Local wines for local people

Local wines for local people


When Helen and I go on holiday, we have an informal policy of trying to find at least one good, local, wine. In an effort to do so, we have to try lots of different wines of course, some of which we will dismiss, some of which we will buy and enjoy, but we always try to find one wine that stands out, warms its way into affections and stays there. This year it was Domaine La Bouverie and it is quite the most exceptional rosé wine either of us have ever drunk. As far as I am aware, it is not available in Britain, so you are going to have to travel to Provence to get it (or come to my house over the next two months until our stocks run out) but should you get the chance to try it, I really would.

We found it like this:

After a long drive south from our over night stay in the town of Langres in the north of Burgundy, we arrived in the small Provencal village of Roquebrun Sur Argens at around five in the afternoon. Driving up to our chambres d’hote, we discovered that we had spent that snowy day in February trawling round the internet looking for somewhere to spend our honeymoon, rather well. Villa Bali is a little piece of paradise. One hundred Euro a night buys you peace and quiet, a beautiful ‘infinity’ style pool that is set against the backdrop of the dramatic Alpine outcrops and surrounded by palm trees and waterfalls, as well as an excellent breakfast every day shared with, at the most, the six other guests that see the place fully booked.

On our arrival, our host offered us a drink and, being thirsty after the long drive, we asked for a beer. Sitting on the terrace, in the 35 degree heat, we talked of this and that while we chugged our beers and he sipped from a glass of very, very pale rosé. Within five minutes, we were joined a mahoosive grey cat (called velvet) and, not necessarily prompted by his arrival, the topic turned to wine. We talked of how promotion to full AOC status in 1977 lead to a general improvement in quality in the region and how although there were a couple of decent producers of red and white wine in the locality, the truth is that if you are in Provence, then rosé is king. I asked what he was drinking and he said ‘Domaine la Bouverie. It is 10km from here and I think it is the best rosé in the whole of the region. Would you like to try some?’ I thought about replying with ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’ but wasn’t sure of the translation (Est ce que vrais que Le Pape prend un merde dans le foret? was the best I could do) so I went for the more prosaic ‘merci beaucoup’.

Our host returned momentarily with a bottle that indicated to me immediately that he brought his stock in ten litre containers and decanted it himself. He pulled the cork, offered Helen and I a glass, which we swirled, sniffed and drank.

Two days later, we made the short drive in land to visit the place where the wine is made. Visiting wineries is something I love doing and something I don’t think I will ever grow out of (and it is worth noting that you can’t visit a place called Merlot or Viognier, although you can visit the village of Chardonnay from whence the grape got its name if you so wish). We drove into the village of La Bouverie and bought bread to have with our picnic lunch and then turned left out of the village and followed the hill up, first on a road and then on a track until we were driving through the rows of vines, approaching a large and impressive looking house.

We parked, got out and envied the hammock and the day bed on the porch – testament to the fact that this part of France gets 300 days of sunshine a year. We tried to engage the attention of two friendly looking dogs (one big, one small), but they were monumentally uninterested in us. We looked at the house and wanted it, wanted it for its lavender purple paintwork, its position, its size and the fact that it was slap bang in the middle of a really lovely vineyard.

Next to the house was a cool barn, where a woman was working. We walked in and said ‘bonjour’ and she replied ‘Hello’. I hate it when they do that. I hate the fact that my accent is so bad that it is so completely obvious that I am English even though I am speaking French. I said to her, ‘Is it that obvious?’ She replied, in a strangely American accent ‘I heard you talking to the dogs outside. The small one is a rescue dog by the way. I pulled him out of a rubbish bin that was on fire. There were three others but they died.’

Reeling slightly from this story, I diverted my attention away from the thought of burning dogs by commenting on the fact that her accent sounded somewhat American. ‘That’s because I’m from California,’ she said. ‘I am here helping out a friend.’

Her job was simple but important: she organised the stock and sold it to the steady stream of people who drove up and came in through the barn door, the vast majority of whom were local. She also offered tastings and even though we knew what it tasted like, we thought it rude not to have a little glass, especially when she offered us a taste of the ‘grand vin’ of the domaine, the wine made from the oldest vines. It was only sold in bottles (for six Euro) and it was excellent, delicate yet rich with a substantial texture and a good grip of flavour in the mouth. We then had a small glass of the ‘ordinary’ rosé that we had tried before – which is sold only in five or ten litre boxes for 14 or 27 Euro respectively – and it was as good as we had first thought with its oily texture and rounded, rich flavours. We then tried the white, made from the Ugni Blanc and Rolle grapes (not ones you see on labels in the supermarket), and thought it sensational, perfumed, elegant and light with a rich fruity core.

We bought three bottles of the white and twenty five litres of the rosé, to enjoy with our picnic lunches over the coming days and to cart back to England to enjoy in Worcestershire over the coming weeks.

Except of course, it won’t really be the same, will it? The wine, being preservative free, is physiologically not designed to travel, but more importantly it is not designed to travel from a psychological perspective. It is designed to be drunk young and fresh, on the terrace, in banging heat, with perhaps a little local charcuterie while the scent of the garrigue wafts down from the hills. It was simply not designed to be chugged on a wet, post working week Friday night in Worcestershire while falling asleep in front of Jonathon Ross. But we’ll give it a go.

David Izod
August 2009