Book One: Chapter 43

Saturday 1st April

Well there say things come in threes. Nan's dies, my solicitor cannot exchange contracts and the alarm bells in my throat are ringing, signifying an invasion of Lily's cold virus, just before en primeur. As the Pet Shop Boys once asked: "What have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this?"

Commence packing my suitcase: underwear, ties, poorly ironed shirts that are three neck-sizes too small and threaten asphyxiation if top button is done up, Paul Smith track-suit top and Paul Smith suit to match Mouton's anti-bird flu shoe protectors, trainers, business cards, laptop (primed), digital camera (primed), itinery (daunting), list of phone numbers of various solicitors as I attempt to appraise the 2005 First Growths whilst buying a house, Lemsips, Anadin, picture of Lily, Hubert Djikers indispensible Guide to Bordeaux with detailed maps of chateaux locations; Police sunglasses that would not embarrass Beckham, passport, e-ticket for plane, blow-up doll.

Allez-y!

Sunday 2nd April

You would imagine with such an auspicious en primeur campaign on the horizon, that a gilded carriage would pull up outside my appartment and whisk me off to Gatwick, perhaps with a parping fanfare. But en primeur commences as is customary, lugging a heavy suitcase up the hill to the station, discovering that due to Sunday engineering work that there will be no trains running anywhere and having to board a double-decker that gradually becomes ram-packed with families of predominantly Caribbean heritage, attire in a blaze of colour, their Sunday best, off to their gospel church around Brixton and Stockwell.

Tomoko and Lily accompany me, for they are off to stay at a friend's in Chelsea for a couple of nights. Somnolent Lily's bones fall out of her body and she snoozes in an ball of orange in her pram, oblivious to the hubbub around her. Naturally, the bus-driver is unacquainted with the word "patience" and on several occasions, closes the automatic doors thus trapping pram and child in its mechanical jaws, no doubte leaving infant with recurring nightmares for the next few weeks.

We eventually arrive at Victoria Station where I bid bye-bye to Lily and my wife and discover (quel surprise) that due to engineering work, the Gatwick Express is running with the regularity of Halley's comet. Fortunately I manage to jump on the 11a.m., spot a few familiar wine-merchant faces within, ensonce myself in a relatively empty carriage opposite a girl who spends the entire journey on her mobile chatting about the loft conversion of her flat. I was unaware loft conversion had become such a hot topic of conversation.

Check-in at British Airways is its normal chaotic self: a never-ending queue of families interspersed with the odd wine-merchant in weekend attire: blue jacket, chinos and a pair of smart brogues polished by wife/maid that morning. The normal crowd are there in number. If the plane falls out of the sky, then the UK wine-trade would cease to exist.
Was that a cheer in the background?
Thinking about it, given the blank cheques that will be rolling in to our more successful merchants over the ensuing weeks, I am surprised that none of them have chartered their own private jet with complementary pole-dancer and endless mags of Chateau Margaux 1983?

I seem to have procured a business class ticket. I flaunt this fact to a few merchants within earshot, let them know that if this plane does crash into La Manche, I and what appears to be the entire management team of Berry Brothers plus journalist Anthony Rose will be first out the emergency exits. Before the crash, we would have enjoyed a nice crisp chicken salad and delicious raspberry tart, whilst those in holding (read:remainder rest of the British wine trade) will be munching on stale bread and tap-water.

Seat-belt fastened, engines rev and we are...err...going nowhere. En primeur literally does not get off the ground for 90 minutes thanks to a faulty auxillary engine. What if this plane is grounded? Is en primeur cancelled? Will the chateaux put away their marquees and endless plates of fois gras? Finally, we depart. Hoorah.

At Merignac Airport I meet for the first time Johan Berglund, a Swedish photographer who asked if he could accompany me during en primeur week? Little did I know he has actually won Swedish Photographer and Photograph Of The Year with some stunning images taken in some war-torn countries such as Angola, Somalia and Sudan. You can view his fabulous work here. We get on well: similar age, families and most crucially, an unerringly compatible music taste. He has that intensity of an artist, but not the pretention or aloofness that could have made this week intolerable.

As it transpires, I am about to experience the most traumatic week of my life and the company during this week probably saved me from losing my sanity.

In the evening, we dine at "Le Salamandre" on the Pauillac quayside. On the near table is May-Elaine from Pichon Lalande and her canine companion, dining with Serena Sutcliffe and David Peppercorn. The spoilt hound consistently begs for titbits. That is what you get when a dog is reared on a Deuxieme Cru for its entire life.

Monday 3rd April

Wake up around 8-ish. Normally with a Latour appointment at nine sharp I would have left at the crack of dawn to avoid getting sucked into the log-jam of traffic on the Bordeaux ring-road, but staying in Pauillac entails just a five minute drive to the gates of this First Growth. I opt for a simple breakfast: croissant (they just do not travel well across the Channel), raspberry yoghurt to freshen the throat and an espresso.

Johan comes down, thankfully not snapping away with his Nikon as my lap becomes littered with flakes of croissant. It looks brisk and sunny outside: perfect weather for sampling en primeurs. I don my suit sans tie; casual but smart; business but without Far Eastern seriousness. We pull up at the bollards that prevent riff-raff from driving their 2CV's around the vineyard, stop half way down so that Johan can snap the dew-speckled vines in the refulgent morning sun and pull up outside the tasting room. Alas, Frederic is not there this morning, but one of the technical directors guides us through the wines whilst Johan raves about the zen-like Scandinavian-designed tasting room with its magnificent vista over the vineyard.

Having visited Bordeaux countless times I now know where everything is. Where once I spent half the day desperately searching for my next appointment and lagging ever further behind, nowadays we remain ahead of schedule and manage to squeeze in extra appointments. Mouton Rothschild is the next rendezvous where one is herded in with the rest of the class. I am surprised they do not make us hold hands as we file into the tasting room.

Chateau Margaux is not until 11.30am: time to slot in another quick visit so we drive north towards Sociando Mallet because a) I want to taste their wine, which I hear received a lukewarm reaction from Suckling b) I have never been there and c) I need a photo for the site. They seem pleased that we made the effort to drop by Chateaux located within the northern extremes of the Left Bank are not blessed with passing traffic during primeur week. Proprietor Jean Gautreau comes to greet us, looking not disimilar to Karl Lagerfeld with his shades. The wine is better than I anticipated, though not in the league of greats such as the 1990 or 2000.

(Left: yours truly, assessing Chateau Margaux 2005.)

Depart at 11.00 to race down to Chateau Margaux for 11.30am. The wine is superb, both Pavillon and the Grand Vin, but we cannot linger as Palmer is at 12.00pm. A shoal of Singaporian sommeliers are holding a Spanish inquisition about the vintage, their endless questions delaying our swift exit. Finally I make our excuses and leave.

What the hell is Johan doing now? Looks as if he is chatting to an American tourist at the driveway to the chateau's iconic Doric columns? Bugger this. I will go back the car and wait for him.
After 30 seconds it dawns upon me. Johan is confabulating with a very chic looking Corinne Metropolis. She should be my new best friend: mine, mine! Too late. Johan is returning and my chance of introducing Corinne to the delights of wine-journal.com disappear, though we do have to return tomorrow so that he can give her his book. Pah, exchanging gifts now? Next he will be invited round for Christmas.

Chateau Palmer is not too distant. We taste the wines and then I spend half an hour running up and extortionate mobile phone bill to estate agents and solicitors (week's phone bill comes to £178.00 in the end.)

Afternoon: Ducru Beaucaillou with their usual harem of femme fatales welcoming us at the entrance, this year sporting what I can only describe as Gestapo-chic jackboots. Next on to his brother's pad in Pauillac, Grand-Puy Lacoste where I bump in to the Bordeaux Index reprobates, chat with Xavier Borie who is as congenial as ever, then Cos d'Estournel that retains its temperamental iron gates that take 313 days to open and finally Montrose where I make a second attempt to scale the flagpole. I ascend halfway before the world starts spinning. Sometimes I cannot believe that I leapt out of a plane for a charidee parachute jump in my early twenties.

We return to the hotel where I recuperate and let Tomoko know that our world has fallen apart re. the house. She is a bit miffed.

(Kamikaze chef at Saint Julien: but his cooking is worth dying for.)

The only way to assuage my anguish is to drink copious amounts of amazing wine at our traditional Monday night en primeur blow-out with the Index clan at the "Saint Julien" restaurant. I will not divulge vinous details at this juncture since the wines more than deserve their own article, suffice to say that the chef almost kills half the sales team by skirting the wall of Leoville Las-Cases at 100mph. Day one over. No fatalities. Just.

Tuesday 4th April

More appointments. After meeting Mme. Gasqueton at Chateau Calon-Segur, my solicitor calls me and nonchalantly destroys my life. I can feel the last drops of sanity seeping from the soles of my shoes. During the afternoon, its one UGC after another: Haut-Bages Liberal where I spot "harlot of primeur week" squeezed into a ridiculously short skirt that would embarrass a hooker, more cosmetics plastered onto her face than the ground floor of Selfridges could provide and high heels that must leave here with rickets. I also spot the famous Texan man with the large Stetson who appears to have walked off the set of Dallas. Next it is down to Brane-Cantenac, then the picturesque Cantemerle.

(Tasting at Brane Cantenac.)

In the evening, dinner at Chateau Pontet Canet with Alfred Tesseron. I am sure that the cuisine is identical to the lunch I ate there a couple of years ago: I could be wrong. Anyway, the dinner is delicious; the wines delectable, the American guests er, interesting, one of whom cannot help but utter a sentence without a salacious innuendo, including an open suggestion of a menage-a-trois with Mon. Tesseron and his wife. What was unsettling was the undertone of seriousness and when I discover that my licentious friend is residing chez Tesseron. I just pray that Alfred locks his bedroom door. We leave amidst torrential rain, raid the mini-bars back at the hotel since Pauillac effectively becomes a ghost-town after dark.

Wednesday 5th April

Drive down to Chateau Haut Brion. I have burnt an 80's electro-themed CD for Johan. He appears to appreciate Soft Cell's extended version of lost classic "Insecure Me?". Even Danielle Dax's lasvicious "Cathouse" evokes a positive response. The traffic on the Bordeaux ringroad is not as bad as I had feared, but we still manage to take the wrong exit and end up drowning in the city's suburban quagmire. As usual, I stop a passer-by and ask directions to the globally famous First Growth that must be within one kilometre, but I might as well be asking directions to Pluto. Surely it must be similar to standing in Parliament Square and asking where Big Ben is?

We finally locate the chateau. The weather has changed dramatically: bitterly cold with a raw Atlantic breeze that chills the bone. It must alter the character of the wines and the perception of tasters, yet that inclement weather does not prevent me from gauging Haut Brion as a magnificent wine. Prince Robert of Luxembourg greets me, one of the many proprietors aware of my site and inquires about the possibility of advertising? Considering he owns half of Europe, I consider charging him ten grand a week plus a Da Vinci and a case of Haut Brion 1989. Seems reasonable to me.

Afterwards we drive towards a negociant tasting, becoming suitably lost on the way and end up driving towards Paris, then drive up towards Pomerol, miss the turning and end up heading in the wrong direction for the third time in a day. We pack in a couple of UGC tastings which involve us driving through the middle of a vineyard in a vain attempt to penetrate the locked iron gates at Chateau Grand-Mayne.

In the evening we drive back to the Left Bank for dinner at Chateau Palmer, during which I manage to guess the two vintages correctly (1983 and 1989, both stunning.) Trouble is, I demur voicing my opinion and allow Daniel Johannes to bask in the glory. I should take assertiveness courses when I return to the UK. The beans on toast is commendable, though perhaps I was expecting something a little more "haute cuisine" and we depart around eleven and head back to our crappy hotel in Saint Emilion that would embarrass a slothful student.

Thursday 6th April

A pretty hardcore day of tasting on the Right Bank, commencing with Chateau l'Eglise-Clinet. Thankfully the clement spring weather of the first two days has returned to replace the Siberian climate of yesterday. Denis Durantou is in good form, his wines splendid. Then it's off down to Chateau Pavie. I spot proprietor Gerard Perse outside, probably patrolling the grounds in case HRH attempts to enter. Next, my inaugural visit to Chateau Valandraud, which is bustling with clients. I have a brief introduction with Jean-Luc Thunevin and his wife, taste a few Right Bank garagistes, consequently depleting their annual production by ten percent, say hello to Jean-Luc's roosters in the back garden, then drive up to Chateau Ausone.

It is strange, Alain Vauthier consistently makes one of the best wines of the vintage, yet insists upon offering souvenirs each primeur, as if his wine is not enough to merit praise. One year was an Ausone wooden case-end with Alain's signature (currently placed over my coathooks), then a luxurious information pack with CD-Rom and this year a nice book on the chapel of Ausone. Next year we will have a slice of fruit cake and a couple of balloons with Ausone printed on them.

Then to Chateau La Conseillante, a private tasting of the 2005 and several older vintages, where I am keen to sample the 1985 and 1990 from magnum. There is a delicious buffet lunch which Johan and I feast upon like peckish vultures, then in the afternoon a whirlwind of tastings, a visit to Cheval Blanc and Vieux Chateau Certan where I spot Jane McQuitty and a couple of other journalists, including Michael Broadbean who seems to have been lumbered with the job as chauffeur. I also spot Jacques Thienpont cycling back to his gaffe at Le Pin. Bugger, I wanted to ask whether I could drop by for bit of Pin 05, but his cousin Alexandre says he won't mind and so after the awesome VCC, we make an impromptu visit.

Jacques' laundry is drying on the line outside. Perhaps I should offer to take it in and then request a tasting? No need, my reputation precedes me, he knows who I am and invites us down to his tiny chai to taste his wines along with his son Georges, who is mastering the art of the pipette. Johan is busy snapping away, then its off for a couple more tastings before the days is finished.

Then off to Chateau Lafleur where Jacques and Sylvie Guinaudeau are waiting for me. Of course, Jacques won best moustache of 2005 last year and appears to have trimmed it specially for my visit. Whilst he discusses the growing season, I tacitly inspect his bristles to assess whether he can repeat his victory in 2006?

I bump into a couple of Squires Forum heavyweights in Saint Emilion: Scott Manlin and Craig Collins, discuss the wines tasted during the week, then have a coffee in one of the beautiful medieval squares tucked down vertiginous cobbled lanes in the village. Pangs of hunger means that Johan and I take an early dinner at a bistro in the village but all "wined out", we opt for a Coke to accompany our entrecote steak.

Back to the hotel, the bathroom floor still wet from where I flooded it that morning (what do you expect without a shower curtain?) I type a few notes, then fall asleep but as with every night, awake in the early hours and find myself sick with worry. I flick on the TV: surely there should be some French porn I can watch? The best I can find is a 60's Russ Meyer flick, "Supervixens", replete with buxom women prancing around in polka-dot bikinis. It is so God-awful that I turn it off and just lie in my lumpy bed thinking how stressful the last six months have been, entertaining the possibility that the next six could be even more stressful.

Friday 7th April

Wake up after two or three hours sleep. Obviously "Supervixens" is no cure for insomniacs or those with worries infesting their mind. After another crappy breakfast of stale croissant with jam of unascertainable flavour, we check out and head down to Jonathan Maltus' pad for a tasting of his Saint Emilion wines, including Le Dome, Teyssier et al. (and very fine they are too.) Then up to Clos l'Eglise where Helene is to be found still suffering the Black Plague. A quick jaunt down to Chateau Clinet for a private mini-vertical, including the legendary 1989, then back over to the Left Bank to Chateau Palmer for Johan to snap some photos.

(Right: gripping on for dear life as the world spins round.)

I spend 20-minutes in deep conversation with my estate agent in the middle of the vineyard, sorting out the minutiae of my house-moving nightmare. It is here that she nonchalantly informs me that a solicitor in the chain had me down as deceased until notified otherwise yesterday. Manager Thomas Duroux escorts us around the property, including the unfurbished second floor still scrawled with German graffitti and the roof, where I suffer a little vertigo and hang on for dear life. Thomas is explaining the composition of the vineyard: I have visions of plummeting down onto the Palmer verdure, but don't worry, I am not suicidally minded, not yet anyway.

Finally it is back home. I bid farewell to Johan, join the flight crammed full of journalists and the wine trade (alas no business class this time), catch the wrong train home to London Bridge and finally insert the key in the door.

This week has been highly successful on a wine front, yet has been without shadow of a doubt the most stressful of my life, so much so that my nan's passing has barely sunk in. Never before have I felt so homesick and helpless. But life staggers on.