First steps and a first post

This blog will seek to chart a journey, both mental and physical. In this case, it’s to France. It’ll cover a passion for the landscape, the culture, the food and wine. I'll also write about wines from around the world when I happen upon something interesting, as well occasional forays into other personal interests such as cycling, cryptic crosswords and anything else. 

We’ve (that’s me Sam, and my wife Heather) decided to leave the UK and start a new life in France. So this blog will also cover how we came to that realisation, how we’re able to do it, and what we plan to do when we’re there. For now we're still in the UK and planning the escape, which all being well should happen in mid 2023.

But to start with I tried to pinpoint one of the very first things that started me down this path.

So let’s go back to the winter of 2006/07. We’d flown from the UK to Toulouse to see my now mother-in-law, E for a winter visit. She had relatively recently moved to the Hérault and it was the first time I’d met her. Although I’d driven through France before and been to Paris on a school trip in my late teens, this was the first time I experienced the local landscapes and culture as (young) adult.

I have some strong memories of the trip, the most evocative of which was of the landscape of vines on Languedocian plain, bare in winter, reaching up to the sky with gnarled and (occasionally) ancient sturdiness - I didn't know then that much of the plain is bulk rather than premium production. 

I was reading Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke at the time and the magical context of that novel has seeped into and almost become one with some of my recollections. Seeing row upon row of brown, twisted trunks with one or two whippet-thin tendrils left for the next year’s growth to begin from left a lasting impression. This was heightened by the crisp clarity of the cold air, which on cloudless days was offset by genuine warmth in the direct sunlight, even in the midst of winter. Coming from a wet and damp January UK it was a jolt of pleasure.

We drove up into the hills to the village of Lunas for lunch; water burbling down the Gravezon, which is a tributary of the Orb. I remember, no doubt through heavily rose-tinted glasses, a roaring fire and the smell of grilled meats in what at the time felt like a medieval room, full of wooden furniture. Our hosts were an elderly husband and wife, with monsieur providing front of house and madame at work in the kitchen; them both managing a not insubstantial lunch service (served promptly at noon of course). It was possibly the restaurant in this photo that I took at the time, though the restaurant has since had a refurb looking at more recent pictures; in the summer there are tables in the water at which you can paddle your feet and drink.

 

 

Coming back to the UK and reflecting, I was and still am slightly unable to put my finger on the draw. Something enticing and genuinely different in the relief of the hills and the landscape of vines for sure. But also probably a lovely glass of Corbieres and/or some foie gras. 

More early reflections and backstory to follow as I get into a blogging rhythm.