workman in a luminous jacket. Bald head, jowly, jaundiced eyes, yellow complexion of an inveterate pastis drinker â just the wrong type of person.
  Like a child offered medicine the man grimaced as he put the glass to his lips. How bad could English wine be?
  'An excellent nose,' he declared with the formality of a sommelier. 'Soft and subtle to drink,' he continued, his demeanour emphasising that although he might wear the clothes of a workman, he was in fact a connoisseur. Did I have a real expert?
  I poured the second wine. 'It's not well balanced. The first was much better, and definitely French.'
  I nodded in relief. A few of the vignerons had already left, the call of their stomachs proving hard to resist, particularly since in their eyes the result was a foregone conclusion.
  Apart from an old lady huddling under an umbrella struggling with the weight of a basket full of vegetables, the square was empty of potential tasters.
  'Venez goûter le vin,' I cried one last time.
  The old lady paused and looked up before pulling the umbrella low over her eyes. Putting her bags down, she readjusted her grip and then continued on her way.
  It was over. I rechecked the score and called the vignerons over. The least I could do was keep the result as private as possible. Pouring everyone a glass I prepared to make the announcement. A cough stopped me.
  'Je veux bien goûter.' Unable to turn directly around, the old lady had prescribed a large circle, ending up behind my tasting stand. I now recognised her as Miriam, the octogenarian head of the village fête committee. If there was a soupe au pistou to be made, or an aioli, then she would volunteer, and just that morning I'd had some of her excellent apricot jam with my morning baguette. As always her eyes were bright and alert.
  Gratefully I poured two glasses of wine for her to taste.
  'My husband was a vigneron,' she declared, raising my hopes.
  With an expert swish she transformed the contents of the first glass into a vigorous pink whirlpool. As a heavy drizzle set in there was a sigh of contentment, and a scarcely audible murmur of appreciation. The process was repeated for the second rosé: a swish and a swirl, a plant of the nose, a sip and suck as she churned the wine through her teeth.
  'And?' I asked anxiously, aware of the watching vignerons.
  'C'est difficile, mais' â Miriam was obviously enjoying the attention â 'je préfère le deuxième vin.'
  'Ãgalité,' I declared. 'Vive l'entente cordiale.' In gratitude I put corks in the remaining wine and slipped the bottles into her basket. The final result was eleven all.
  The uproar was immediate. I was pressed backwards against my table, until I could retreat no further.
  'Which wine did you taste first?'
  There was no chance to answer.
  'What temperature was the wine served at?'
  'Did you check it wasn't corked?'
  'Everything was done properly,' I reassured the vignerons. 'Tasting glasses, refrigerated for the same length of timeâ¦'
  'Well, that proves it,' Manu interrupted, 'we were right in the first place â it's the flu, the whole village has got it.'
  'Have you seen the queues at the doctor's?' Another took up the theme.
  'Can't get an appointment for a week.'
  'What do we pay taxes for?'
  Gradually the crowd dispersed. Face had been saved. Just.
Chapter 6
M arch began with a shock of heat, blue skies and an impatient sun. The land blistered with ant hills, bees pollinated the first wild flowers, and a plague of black centipedes marched into every house. South-facing fields of almond trees blossomed first, dressing the land white, pink cherry followed, and on the rare windy days a stream of confetti drifted in the air. Rivers bubbled with energy, swathes of marshy
  Like a child offered medicine the man grimaced as he put the glass to his lips. How bad could English wine be?
  'An excellent nose,' he declared with the formality of a sommelier. 'Soft and subtle to drink,' he continued, his demeanour emphasising that although he might wear the clothes of a workman, he was in fact a connoisseur. Did I have a real expert?
  I poured the second wine. 'It's not well balanced. The first was much better, and definitely French.'
  I nodded in relief. A few of the vignerons had already left, the call of their stomachs proving hard to resist, particularly since in their eyes the result was a foregone conclusion.
  Apart from an old lady huddling under an umbrella struggling with the weight of a basket full of vegetables, the square was empty of potential tasters.
  'Venez goûter le vin,' I cried one last time.
  The old lady paused and looked up before pulling the umbrella low over her eyes. Putting her bags down, she readjusted her grip and then continued on her way.
  It was over. I rechecked the score and called the vignerons over. The least I could do was keep the result as private as possible. Pouring everyone a glass I prepared to make the announcement. A cough stopped me.
  'Je veux bien goûter.' Unable to turn directly around, the old lady had prescribed a large circle, ending up behind my tasting stand. I now recognised her as Miriam, the octogenarian head of the village fête committee. If there was a soupe au pistou to be made, or an aioli, then she would volunteer, and just that morning I'd had some of her excellent apricot jam with my morning baguette. As always her eyes were bright and alert.
  Gratefully I poured two glasses of wine for her to taste.
  'My husband was a vigneron,' she declared, raising my hopes.
  With an expert swish she transformed the contents of the first glass into a vigorous pink whirlpool. As a heavy drizzle set in there was a sigh of contentment, and a scarcely audible murmur of appreciation. The process was repeated for the second rosé: a swish and a swirl, a plant of the nose, a sip and suck as she churned the wine through her teeth.
  'And?' I asked anxiously, aware of the watching vignerons.
  'C'est difficile, mais' â Miriam was obviously enjoying the attention â 'je préfère le deuxième vin.'
  'Ãgalité,' I declared. 'Vive l'entente cordiale.' In gratitude I put corks in the remaining wine and slipped the bottles into her basket. The final result was eleven all.
  The uproar was immediate. I was pressed backwards against my table, until I could retreat no further.
  'Which wine did you taste first?'
  There was no chance to answer.
  'What temperature was the wine served at?'
  'Did you check it wasn't corked?'
  'Everything was done properly,' I reassured the vignerons. 'Tasting glasses, refrigerated for the same length of timeâ¦'
  'Well, that proves it,' Manu interrupted, 'we were right in the first place â it's the flu, the whole village has got it.'
  'Have you seen the queues at the doctor's?' Another took up the theme.
  'Can't get an appointment for a week.'
  'What do we pay taxes for?'
  Gradually the crowd dispersed. Face had been saved. Just.
Chapter 6
M arch began with a shock of heat, blue skies and an impatient sun. The land blistered with ant hills, bees pollinated the first wild flowers, and a plague of black centipedes marched into every house. South-facing fields of almond trees blossomed first, dressing the land white, pink cherry followed, and on the rare windy days a stream of confetti drifted in the air. Rivers bubbled with energy, swathes of marshy
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