Wet

Today it rained. It rained from the moment we first stepped out of the front door. It rained until the moment sleep took us from the cares of the world. It rained a rain that looked deceptively like drizzle, but had you soaked through within minutes. In short, but for the temperature remaining in the modest teens, it rained like it rains back home.

Initially we had pressed on with our initial plan to head out on the bikes. As I loaded up the car to head to the nearby canal (the ruddy great big hill in the intervening 8km putting Mel off the ride to the start) I got talking to a chap in a group of 3 who were loading their own car to head on to pastures new. At first I thought he was another Brit, but I shamelessly relaxed when I heard a kiwi lilt. He was an older guy, 60s I think,  but possibly 70s having looked after himself. That was possible as it turns out he was an ex-rugby player who had played for a couple of years in France. He was tall, 2-3 inches above me, and seemed like someone who could easily have talked for hours, without you getting bored of listening.

He, his wife, and who I took to be his mother-in-law, were spending a year in France, and were on their way to Brittany after 2 months here. And 'here' he had loved, as the most French, least touristy place they'd stayed so far. I'd have loved to find out more, but he was called to lock the house, and was driving off as I put the bags in the boot. I pondered, he must have played in France in the 70s or 80s. Could he have been an All Black? Why didn't I ask his name? An enigma is created.

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The start to our ride was delayed by the two kittens in shot, taking shelter under our car from the rain. We both don showerproof jackets and depart. Within a mile there area a couple of pretty lock houses, a kingfisher, and a distinct feeling that this was more than a shower. Any proofing had been breached, and after another mile the rain had intensified, to be joined by a gathering wind, so the decision was made to turn back.

I'll not lie, despite it being the sensible, the only choice, I was disappointed. After a number of days of driving seat inactivity seeming the norm, I'd been looking forward to properly stretching the legs.

We're back at the house by early lunchtime and so eat the lunch that was supposed to be devoured canalside, as we consider adverse weather pursuits. As we had planned a visit to the Veuve Ambal factory, a producer of Crémant de Bourgogne, we settled on that and drive south.

The decision to halt the ride was borne out further as sensible with no let-up from the sky as we autorouted round Beaune. Into Veuve Ambal and successfully negotiating getting our audio guides and some introduction and instruction from the lady behind the counter who accompanies us to the start of the tour, we're off.

We've done this trip before, but there's something hypnotic about the production lines. It's refreshing that they don't try to cover up the mechanised nature behind misty tales of moustachioed men still riddling bottles by hand using generations-old understanding. Watching bottles form on high, moving between machines, reminds me of old educational television programmes which would overlay cheesy lift music and wonderful 80s graphics, on the remarkably futuristic looking shots of robots.

Tour complete we head to the shop for tasting. There's another couple there, and a really strong Essex accent cutting the air. It takes a moment before realising this is actually the lady from behind the counter as we arrived (talking to the couple who are indeed English). It turns out she's lived in France for 30 years, but has retained every bit of her accent when speaking her native tongue. She hadn't responded to us in English when we arrived and dealt with everything in French because, as she rightly pointed out, if you're in France and you want to speak French then it's truly annoying if people don't give you the chance.

Anyway, wines tasted, three different versions liked, six bottles of each bought. The car is gonna be heavy heading home.

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As a side note, I think I may have discovered an addiction to nonnettes - local little cakes, somewhere between ginger bread and brioche (pain aux épices is how I've seen it referred to) with a jammy centre (or honey or chocolate or caramel). Need to find a recipe.