from thousands of individual vines. The enormity of their task was daunting; row after row, with no help, just them and the elements, the wind, the cold, the rain and finally the beating summer heat. Their reward: producing a wine that the local people called their own. How terrible if the villagers actually preferred the English wine.
  'That's another vote for the English, and another one,' I advised, trying to prepare them for the worst.
  'Probably been gargling,' quipped a vigneron referring to the latest taster.
  'Sea-salt spray up the nose,' Manu added.
  'Anaesthetic throat lozenges,' said another, joining the sport. It seemed that they were going to list the whole contents of the pharmacy.
  As the tasting continued the French wine enjoyed a minor resurgence, but even so the Wiltshire rosé stayed ahead and continued to attract votes. Why were people getting it so wrong? Well, the first and most obvious answer was that it was more suited to what people wanted to drink on a cold wet February morning. Perhaps being from England it coped better with the lack of sunshine, and the lower alcohol percentage made it more palatable. However, even wearing a blindfold, I would have expected the villagers to recognise their own wine and vote for it for patriotic reasons. That they hadn't been able to identify the Côtes du Ventoux was interesting.
  Educating a palate is relatively simple; keeping a palate educated takes a lifetime of dedication. Think of what happens to a heavyweight boxer when he gives up his sport. His physique quickly becomes flabby and heavy. It's the same with wine tasters. Contrasting wines need to be tasted every day otherwise the skill quickly disappears. Sommeliers will often tour vineyards trying hundreds of different wines a day. Their taste buds are their living and the only way to keep them in top condition is to work them, exhaustively. Stop drinking and the carefully collected archive of thousands of different flavours becomes a confused indistinguishable mass. And that is what had happened to the French as a nation. Collectively they'd stopped drinking. Government health campaigns, when combined with a Frenchman's obsessive concern for his health, had led to a dramatic decline in consumption.
  The sickly smell of petrol from the departing van of a trader drifted across the square and the village clock chimed the hour, signalling the end of the agreed time for the tasting.
  'Come on, who's won?' Manu slapped me on the back. 'It's lunchtime.'
  'Perhaps we'll let a few more people taste. The more the merrier,' I responded.
  'Can't hurt.' Manu took a swig of the French wine.
  The coquillage merchant was vigorously quartering lemons and sowing them like seeds among rows of yawning seashells. Unlike me he was busy with several customers â men with hardened constitutions happily sucking the innards from sea urchins. Their fridges were presumably full of veal's head pâté, pig trotters and tripe, and to them a dozen oysters before lunch was a stomach settler. Surely they could be tempted into a glass of wine?
  'Une dégustation de vin rosé d'Angleterre,' I shouted again.
  A shopper turned to face the dégustation, the head of a king prawn poised between his teeth.
  'Vin anglais â ça existe?' He dropped the shell of the prawn in horror. Life was uncertain enough without the English starting to make rosé.
  'It's down to global warming,' I explained. 'Same soil and climate as Chablis.'
  Chasing an oyster on its way with a glass of sharp Picpoul from Sète, the shopper showed no interest in tasting England's finest. 'Soon they'll have cicadas,' he muttered, as he shuffled away, no doubt looking forward to a nice lunch of cow's testicles fried in garlic.
  'Allez goûterâ¦' Finally I managed to attract another taster â an unshaven
  'That's another vote for the English, and another one,' I advised, trying to prepare them for the worst.
  'Probably been gargling,' quipped a vigneron referring to the latest taster.
  'Sea-salt spray up the nose,' Manu added.
  'Anaesthetic throat lozenges,' said another, joining the sport. It seemed that they were going to list the whole contents of the pharmacy.
  As the tasting continued the French wine enjoyed a minor resurgence, but even so the Wiltshire rosé stayed ahead and continued to attract votes. Why were people getting it so wrong? Well, the first and most obvious answer was that it was more suited to what people wanted to drink on a cold wet February morning. Perhaps being from England it coped better with the lack of sunshine, and the lower alcohol percentage made it more palatable. However, even wearing a blindfold, I would have expected the villagers to recognise their own wine and vote for it for patriotic reasons. That they hadn't been able to identify the Côtes du Ventoux was interesting.
  Educating a palate is relatively simple; keeping a palate educated takes a lifetime of dedication. Think of what happens to a heavyweight boxer when he gives up his sport. His physique quickly becomes flabby and heavy. It's the same with wine tasters. Contrasting wines need to be tasted every day otherwise the skill quickly disappears. Sommeliers will often tour vineyards trying hundreds of different wines a day. Their taste buds are their living and the only way to keep them in top condition is to work them, exhaustively. Stop drinking and the carefully collected archive of thousands of different flavours becomes a confused indistinguishable mass. And that is what had happened to the French as a nation. Collectively they'd stopped drinking. Government health campaigns, when combined with a Frenchman's obsessive concern for his health, had led to a dramatic decline in consumption.
  The sickly smell of petrol from the departing van of a trader drifted across the square and the village clock chimed the hour, signalling the end of the agreed time for the tasting.
  'Come on, who's won?' Manu slapped me on the back. 'It's lunchtime.'
  'Perhaps we'll let a few more people taste. The more the merrier,' I responded.
  'Can't hurt.' Manu took a swig of the French wine.
  The coquillage merchant was vigorously quartering lemons and sowing them like seeds among rows of yawning seashells. Unlike me he was busy with several customers â men with hardened constitutions happily sucking the innards from sea urchins. Their fridges were presumably full of veal's head pâté, pig trotters and tripe, and to them a dozen oysters before lunch was a stomach settler. Surely they could be tempted into a glass of wine?
  'Une dégustation de vin rosé d'Angleterre,' I shouted again.
  A shopper turned to face the dégustation, the head of a king prawn poised between his teeth.
  'Vin anglais â ça existe?' He dropped the shell of the prawn in horror. Life was uncertain enough without the English starting to make rosé.
  'It's down to global warming,' I explained. 'Same soil and climate as Chablis.'
  Chasing an oyster on its way with a glass of sharp Picpoul from Sète, the shopper showed no interest in tasting England's finest. 'Soon they'll have cicadas,' he muttered, as he shuffled away, no doubt looking forward to a nice lunch of cow's testicles fried in garlic.
  'Allez goûterâ¦' Finally I managed to attract another taster â an unshaven
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