Fronton

My trip to San Sebastian was cancelled due to ill health. On Friday, fed up with lying in bed and missing out on the burgeoning spring weather, I did a little online research on the interaction of ibuprofen and alcohol (rumours of increased incidence of stomach-bleeding are greatly exaggerated, apparently) then set off with a couple of Russians to do some wine-tasting in Fronton. Most of the 2 hour bike ride is next to a canal on a decent bike track, so it was very pleasant, although I did not envy Sergei on his €150 racing bike with its cast iron seat, which he claims is "perfectly comfortable, provided you don't sit on it."
A couple of kilometers shy of the township of Fronton we spotted our first vinyard: there was a long tree-lined dirt driveway that went up over a small hill so you couldn't see exactly where it led. On the right was a sign that offered wine sales direct from the cellars, on the left a sign saying "Private Property, no entry." We decided to believe the sign on the right, and followed the driveway to the back of a small château, then back on to the road again, seeing no sign of life, not even vicious dogs. It was just after 12, so I guess the inhabitants must have been too occupied with lunch to either sell us wine or chase us away.
All the wine-shops were closed by the time we arrived in Fronton, so we stopped for a long lunch at a restaurant.
After lunch we left Fronton via the road to Grisolles, where I knew there was at least one château open with free tastings. We followed the first sign we saw advertising wine sales, and found an old crone mowing a lawn with a motor-mower. She stared at us, scowling, until we felt it was probably time to leave, but then she switched off the mower and asked us what we wanted:
"What do you want?"
Pause.
"Is it possible to buy some wine now?" we politely enquire.
"Yes."
Long pause, then she walks into a large garage, scowling, and points out four large steel vats: red wine, rosé, dry white and muscat, ranging in price between €1 and €1.50 per litre.
"Can we taste some first?"
"Why? It's good."
At this point I decide that if this woman can be so horrible and still be in business, then her wine must be pretty good, so we get three 1.5 litre plastic water bottles filled, everything but the dry white, then flee before she puts a curse on us.
Just down the road is the Château Joliet, which is much more along the lines of what I was expecting: a charming lady guides us through their complete range and we buy a few decent bottles. Fronton is quite a special region, as it is one of the only places where the Negrette grape is grown. It was brought back from Cyprus during the crusades, and has a very distinctive plummy flavour.
Château Joliet seemed to be quite a small, family run affair, but the next place was much larger and more commercial feeling, but still very friendly: Château Bellevue la Forêt. We were the only people in the shop, and the lady there wanted to do some paperwork, so she told us a little about the vinyard then set up all the wines on a bar and said we could help ourselves. So we worked our way through the range and back again, bought a few more bottles then headed home.
The ride back to Toulouse was a little more challenging, with pannier bags full of wine. It got dark half way, but there was enough light from nearby roads to see the rodents of unusual size swimming in the canal.

My first youtube link

I don't know if these very sensible Swedish musicians are known in NZ, but this is a super song.

Any more than three chords is just masturbation.

Testing, testing....

I have had the flu and haven't left the château for five days, so it seems like a good time to try blogging again.

The château in question is the Château de la Cépière, named after the quarter of Toulouse where it is situated. Those with Google Earth can find it at these co-ordinates:

lat=43.5866540959, lon=1.40065354905

I share a very comfortable three-bedroom apartment on the first (non-ground) floor with Viktor the Hungarian, and Johannes the German. There is some noise from the motorway nearby but it is not nearly so bad as in my previous central-city apartment where I was often disturbed by police, ambulance, fire truck sirens, mega-phones from assorted demonstrations (thankfully I had moved before the taxi drivers went on strike), and drunk frenchmen singing loudly in the street at two in the morning.

Some video footage of the château, complete with hungarian commentary can be found here:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=YMGLL0y7HYg


Over the road is the Toulouse Hippodrome. I went to see a couple of races a week or two ago. The commentator seemed a lot less excited than what one usually expects. But then this is the south of France:

"Number 11 is well in the lead... mais dommage! 'e is going trop vite, and ze jockey's cigarette has blown out, and now 'e must pause to relight it. 'E joins numbers 6, 3 and 15 for a quick apero half way down ze 'ome straight. Now ze Ricard is fini, and all ze 'orses are together in a bunch, racing together towards ze line with all ze jockeys urging them furiousment, mais catastrophe! Deux metres before ze line and all ze 'orses 'ave gone on strike! Apparament zey are non contente with zere retirement conditions! Non contente with a glorious future as steak tartare! C'est ridicule!"

Anyway, this year I have a whole lot more time - which means I can blog; and money - which means I can do things to blog about. Assuming I recover from the flu, this week will be a short trip to San Sebastian, and in April I'll pop up to Amsterdam to see the tulips (and James McG and Co.). So I anticipate updating at least once a month.