meat into the dogs' bowls. 'It won a silver medal at the Orange Concours des Vins.' He might not have let it show but secretly I believed Manu was looking forward to the tasting, hence the sudden change of mind: rugby, football, tennis â beating the old enemy was always amusing and here was an opportunity for the Provençal vigneron to add to the glory of France.
At just before midday on the following Wednesday morning I stood in the village square. Underneath my jacket my woollen jumper had absorbed the water from the air and the knitted cloth was wet against my skin. I shivered with the cold. The plane trees that bestowed a dappled effect on the marketplace in summer had been pruned back, and now the stunted branches reached heavenwards in supplication, like the upturned fingers of a penitent. Puddles from the previous night's rain dotted the gravel and forgotten Christmas decorations creaked in the wind. The breeze shifted and the smell of burning damp leaves replaced wafts of strong tobacco. The morning was drawing to a close and the agreed hour for the tasting approaching.
  On the table in front of me were the two competing wines, French and English, both shrouded in tissue paper. When poured, one had the colour of ripe cherries, the other vibrant pink coral, but neither showed that well against the grey sky. The two were notably different in taste. The a'Beckett's estate rosé from Devizes in Wiltshire was light and fruity and relatively low in alcohol at 10 per cent. Made from a mixture of Pinot Noir and Reichensteiner, its closest comparator in France was a Marsannay rosé, which many in Burgundy regarded as the country's finest. The Côtes du Ventoux by contrast, a Syrah and Grenache mix, was a much more robust wine, more aggressive on the palate and a better accompaniment to food. Choosing between the two should have been easy.
  A group of local vignerons, including Manu, had gathered around my stall to watch. Their faces were red and stained with grime, their hands raw from a morning sawing last year's excess growth from the vines, but their mood was upbeat and expectant.
  'I wonder who will vote for the English,' said one.
  'Only people with colds,' Manu chirped up and the group dissolved into laughter.
  The members of the cave cooperative had every reason to be confident. Typically a French child has his first glass of wine at the age of five. Perhaps a little Sauternes to go with some foie gras, a sip of a buttery white with some smoked cheese. From that moment on the child's taste buds are educated with more fervour than his brain. Can't add up? Never mind. Can't tell a corked wine? Go to bed and as a punishment memorise each of the 472 different appellations.
  By the time they are young adults, the educated French will have typically sampled wine from each of the major producing regions, and they'll know in which shape of glass, at what temperature and with what food to serve it. For this reason, not one member of the cave cooperative committee had countenanced the possibility that the local wine might lose.
  At random I'd asked a group of twenty shoppers at the market to participate in the tasting. One by one they began to sample the wines, sniffing, swirling and finally drinking.
  'C'est plus richeâ¦'
  'Plus sensuelâ¦'
  'Plus capitalâ¦'
  'Très sincère.'
  French is a wonderful language with which to describe wine. Elaborate phrases rolled off the tongue, nobody contented themselves with simple flavours â instead, the wines were imbued with human characteristics, so the tasting almost felt more like meeting a friend. In this case an English friend. Amazingly, the first four tasters selected the Wiltshire wine.
  Looking at the gathered vignerons, I realised I was in trouble. These men spent all year toiling across endless fields, pruning, training and finally picking
At just before midday on the following Wednesday morning I stood in the village square. Underneath my jacket my woollen jumper had absorbed the water from the air and the knitted cloth was wet against my skin. I shivered with the cold. The plane trees that bestowed a dappled effect on the marketplace in summer had been pruned back, and now the stunted branches reached heavenwards in supplication, like the upturned fingers of a penitent. Puddles from the previous night's rain dotted the gravel and forgotten Christmas decorations creaked in the wind. The breeze shifted and the smell of burning damp leaves replaced wafts of strong tobacco. The morning was drawing to a close and the agreed hour for the tasting approaching.
  On the table in front of me were the two competing wines, French and English, both shrouded in tissue paper. When poured, one had the colour of ripe cherries, the other vibrant pink coral, but neither showed that well against the grey sky. The two were notably different in taste. The a'Beckett's estate rosé from Devizes in Wiltshire was light and fruity and relatively low in alcohol at 10 per cent. Made from a mixture of Pinot Noir and Reichensteiner, its closest comparator in France was a Marsannay rosé, which many in Burgundy regarded as the country's finest. The Côtes du Ventoux by contrast, a Syrah and Grenache mix, was a much more robust wine, more aggressive on the palate and a better accompaniment to food. Choosing between the two should have been easy.
  A group of local vignerons, including Manu, had gathered around my stall to watch. Their faces were red and stained with grime, their hands raw from a morning sawing last year's excess growth from the vines, but their mood was upbeat and expectant.
  'I wonder who will vote for the English,' said one.
  'Only people with colds,' Manu chirped up and the group dissolved into laughter.
  The members of the cave cooperative had every reason to be confident. Typically a French child has his first glass of wine at the age of five. Perhaps a little Sauternes to go with some foie gras, a sip of a buttery white with some smoked cheese. From that moment on the child's taste buds are educated with more fervour than his brain. Can't add up? Never mind. Can't tell a corked wine? Go to bed and as a punishment memorise each of the 472 different appellations.
  By the time they are young adults, the educated French will have typically sampled wine from each of the major producing regions, and they'll know in which shape of glass, at what temperature and with what food to serve it. For this reason, not one member of the cave cooperative committee had countenanced the possibility that the local wine might lose.
  At random I'd asked a group of twenty shoppers at the market to participate in the tasting. One by one they began to sample the wines, sniffing, swirling and finally drinking.
  'C'est plus richeâ¦'
  'Plus sensuelâ¦'
  'Plus capitalâ¦'
  'Très sincère.'
  French is a wonderful language with which to describe wine. Elaborate phrases rolled off the tongue, nobody contented themselves with simple flavours â instead, the wines were imbued with human characteristics, so the tasting almost felt more like meeting a friend. In this case an English friend. Amazingly, the first four tasters selected the Wiltshire wine.
  Looking at the gathered vignerons, I realised I was in trouble. These men spent all year toiling across endless fields, pruning, training and finally picking
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