Making myself at home

When you're a stone's throw from the southern tip of Champagne it would appear rude not to visit. Mel wanted to see Drappier, found in the village of Urville, so breakfast was early, and so we were out of the door.

Heading north from the house, the attractive villages can easily start to look the same. There's the building with the faded advertising sign painted on the side; a dutiful but quiet looking Mairie; a pot-bellied man in a vest smoking a fag. Some stereotypes refuse to die. The villages and little towns are oases in a landscape that is both dry and green at the same time, that rolls like the Cotswolds; a landscape which shifts suddenly as we crest a hill and find ourselves with a vista of nought but grapevines.

Urville is quaint, and Drappier grand. Sadly out-of-season tours are only given to large pre-arranged groups, so all that remains is a tasting. What a shame. I'm almost counting sips, and ask for just one glass between us for a final offering. "I'll bring two all the same," says our slightly posh young host, scarf around his neck despite the sun, every bit the stereotype as his vest-wearing forebear.

One sip then Mel has the rest. Even then, when we forgive Charles de Gaulle's dislike of the British and order 6 bottles of the cuvée named after the grump in a funny hat, we're offered more while we wait for him to organise the box.

* * *

Lunch is taken by the pretty river in the pretty town of Essoyes, home to one Renoir. There can't be a trip without snails, and they're a Burgundy classic, so I partake (I genuinely really like them), and the entire meal sees our hosts trying to fatten us up.  While the food was good, the highlight comes when two fellow diners come to leave. They've a dog, a King Charles spaniel, and it looks for a moment like they're getting on a parked motorbike, which obviously can't be the case. And yet...

It turns out the dog has a little bag to be tucked into just behind the little screen on the front of the big. Only its head protrudes, on which biker chap attaches a pair of pink goggles. This starts to fall into the territory of "I've seen it all now".

Dessert is foregone, partly because we're very 'bien mangés', but also because time is ticking on, and Mel wants to visit Les Riceys to try some wine there. But the Bauser house has an empty car park, and with wine already tasted in the morning, we decide to head back to the house instead. We'd planned to go for an early evening extra bike ride, and this would give us more time.

* * *

We head north this time, against the old Kiwi rugby player's advice from the start of the week. He thought this route less interesting, but for us staying in the countryside, rather than passing through towns, holds more charm. That's countered by the outward being distinctly uphill, with the opening six or seven miles peppered with locks.

The sun is still out, and as is the case on this trip it seems to intensify as the day wears on, so the moments of shade under the trees are savoured. We see a few buzzards, while some small birds (sparrows and goldfinches in the main it seems) make themselves known; however the wildlife highlight has to be great views of swimmy pigs (aka coypu - the alternative name down to Fi) on both the outward and return legs.

Coming back we spend a good 15-20 minutes watching two, then three, small guys combing the bank, while a fourth, much larger and silvery, chap paddles by, seemingly scoping out his territory. And while it would have been nice to have got close to a kingfisher (there's only one, late in the ride, having a shout and flying in the opposite direction), I can see them on my home patch. Swimmy pigs I most certainly can't.

We drive home in the fading light, the dropping sun almost blinding in its angle, before sitting out over the river waiting for the bats to appear from the wrecked warehouse next to us.

Time is ticking on way too much.