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 villages that lie along the course of the Layon, 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 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.
Twenty (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, something akin to Bill Murray’s adventures in Groundhog Day; I must have driven across that bridge at least half a dozen times that day, each time with the same lack of hope. Eventually, 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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