Patrick Baudouin

As the rain began to patter on the windscreen I turned the steering wheel to the left, directing my car onto the bridge over the Layon at Chaudefonds-sur-Layon, and headed into the heart of the village. One of the last of the settlements that lie along the course of the Layon before it reaches its union with the Loire, Chaudefonds-sur-Layon sits entirely on the left bank, its houses clustered around the église, bibliothèque, mairie and of course the obligatory tabac. Hemmed in by vineyards to the east and south, and by the course of the river to the north and west, sometimes it feels as though it is only the aforementioned bridge that connects the village to the rest of the outside world.

Thirty (or possibly more) years ago I scoured the streets of this little village, on the hunt for Patrick Baudouin. Patrick was a relative newcomer to the Loire Valley wine scene, one who seemed to be quickly establishing an admirable reputation, whereas I was a relative newcomer to visiting vignerons in order to taste their wines (with no reputation at all). As the rain began to beat harder, I crossed the bridge once again as the hunt became farcical; I must have driven across that bridge at least half a dozen times that day, each time my sense of optimism that I would eventually locate Patrick’s domaine fading a little more. It reached the point where all, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, it seemed that I might be destined to continue this routine forever, driving back and forth across the bridge all day without ever reaching my destination. And then, maybe, waking up tomorrow and having to do it all over again.

Eventually I saw sense. With the rain having turned into a torrential downpour followed by a lashing of hailstones (well, it was July, and this was the Loire Valley, what else would you expect?) I gave up, defeated. I returned home, only to find I had left a skylight open and the sofa was now soaked through. It wasn’t the most successful of tasting trips.

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