Clos de l’Écotard
Despite having stopped off to photograph the Thouet, a tributary of the Loire that has long hidden in the shadows cast by the Layon, the Cher, the Vienne and its other famous cousins, I arrived at Clos de l’Écotard bang on the appointed time.
Bringing the car to a halt at the entrance to the courtyard, the tall grey gates which hung from the imposing stone gateposts were closed, instantly reigniting memories of a fruitless visit to taste with the frères Foucault at Clos Rougeard, who always kept their gates (also tall and grey) firmly shut. And by and large, that was how they stayed; I recall one visit (many years ago now, in the pre-Winedoctor era) which started and ended with me knocking forlornly on the barrier, peeking through the gap between the gates, trying to spot any signs of life beyond. In the end I gave up, prompted not least by the enquiries of their elderly neighbour who had appeared at her window. She was helpful enough, but her trigger finger looked like it was itching to place a call to the local gendarmerie about the young ruffian who was loitering at her neighbour’s gate, clearly up to no good.
I found myself hoping that today’s visit did not have the same outcome.
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