Its half past twelve, and we are on the
third day of our trip to France. We’ve
come down to Tarare, by way of Epernay and Colombey les deux Eglises, the
temperature rising all the way.
Here, in the picture perfect and prosperous
Beaujolais hilltop village of Oingt, (pronounced something like the noise I
imagine a stuck pig would make), it is now at least 37 degrees. Apart from a few fellow tourists, sweating
quietly, there isn’t a soul to be seen. Life is going on indoors. Thick wooden front doors are firmly
shut. Shutters are closed, or almost
closed, allowing the breeze to blow through, but no sunlight to enter. It’s a hidden world.
The view from here is magnificent. There’s a little church in the middle
distance, surrounded by vineyards. The
further hills are almost like a mirage as the heat brings up a haze. There is so much land in France – so much
more than in England. I remember being
told once that in England unless you were in a National Park, wherever you
looked, no matter how remote, there would always be a house or a barn somewhere
within sight. Not so in France. I suppose that’s how they can manage to put
up so many wind turbines and build the track for the TGV without civil unrest –
there is more than enough space for everyone and everything.
We took refuge from the heat in a Cave that
mercifully had air conditioning (for the wine, rather than the punters,
probably. Wine is supremely important
here). A very knowledgeable and
friendly young woman helped us taste our way through several reds and a couple
of whites, and we left poorer financially, but considerably richer in terms of
wine...
Later, under a lowering sky, we visited
Theize, whose sandstone buildings are the colour of Coleman’s mustard. There’s a fabulous chateau there which is one
of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever seen.
I may have to buy my first ever lottery ticket so that I can spend my
winnings on doing it up…
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