Bordeaux 2015
Monsieur Propriétaire swung the steering wheel to the left, in doing so piloting his Land Rover Discovery Sport HSE Luxury from the smooth tarmac of the narrow road onto the dusty, gravel-strewn track that ran alongside the vines. He was still getting used to this car’s handling, partly because he usually let his chauffeur Pierre do the driving, and partly because he had only collected it three weeks ago, giving up his two-year old Porsche Cayenne in the process. The trade-in was a sacrifice, but one he felt had to be made if he was ever going to fit in among his team in Bordeaux. His multinational corporation he could rule with an iron fist, hiring and firing at will, but Bordeaux was different. Here, he wanted to be accepted, to be able to smile and chat with these men, their souls honest and true, their hands engrained with the dirt of the land. He wanted to be part of their team. To understand their jokes, and their technical talk. He wanted to be part of the family. Deep down, he wanted to be loved.
And so his new chariot, urbane and yet hopefully more in keeping with his pastoral vision, was part of the plan. Pierre had driven him down from Paris in it, the first time he had left the helicopter at home, a sacrifice less willingly undertaken. Nevertheless, the long drive had been a more pleasant experience than he had expected; the roads had been clear, he had been able to work en route, and as they neared his destination he was rewarded with a drive along the famed Route des Châteaux. Despite having purchased his estate seven years ago this had been his first trip along the D2. His driver, much to Monsieur Propriétaire’s surprise, seemed to know the lay of the land. He had enjoyed Pierre’s joke about Château La Lagune, the first classed growth they had encountered, being the premier grand cru classé of the Médoc. And at Pierre’s suggestion they had taken a very brief detour to inspect the majestic Château Margaux. He really must get to know Pierre a little better, he thought to himself. He could be useful.
Coming back to the present, Monsieur Propriétaire brought the vehicle to a halt in a cloud of dust on a crest overlooking the vineyards as they sloped down to the palus, the alluvial land free of vines that borders the Gironde. He and his two companions, the directeur général and the directeur technique, slipped out of the car, three pairs of feet landing on the hard, cracked and crusted soil. This was very close to the spot where we first met these three protagonists last year, during the early summer of 2014. The proprietor had learnt his lesson though, and was more correctly attired for Bordeaux this time. Anticipating a trip into the vines, he had left his Armani slip-ons at home and instead wore Maison Margiela calfskin ankle boots. And the Austrian Loden jacket had also been consigned to the poubelle, his tall frame now draped in an Isaia ‘Cortina’ suit, in a blue check. The proprietor felt very much like he belonged in Bordeaux. Inwardly, he hoped his team felt the same way about him.
