Bordeaux 2017 at Two Years: St Julien
At the end of a day checking out 2017 St Estèphe and 2017 Pauillac I headed for my accommodation. So where would I be laying my head this night? A cosmopolitan city centre hotel at the heart of bustling Bordeaux, perhaps, a stone’s throw from the region’s best restaurants? Or maybe a luxury rural retreat, a spacious room with four-poster bed in a converted 19th-century château, with a panoramic view across the gently rolling vineyards of the Médoc and a mini-bar stocked with old vintages of Château Latour and Château Léoville-Las-Cases? Ummm……no.
I arrived at the chambre d’hôtes where I had reserved a room for the night long after the sun had set, the black of the night settling across the region like a heavy blanket. I know the Bordeaux region fairly well, but on this moonless night I could no longer see any familiar landmarks. Situated close to the main road which bisects the Médoc peninsula, I managed to drive past my accommodation before I spotted it out of the corner of my eye, leading to a hasty brake-reverse-and-turn manoeuvre. The gate was locked, and ringing the bell yielded no response. A knock on the main door produced a result, firstly in the form of two large, bounding Alsatians, followed by the wizened figure of my hostess, who I shall refer to as Claudette.
Claudette showed me to the room which was small but accommodated two low beds, one in each corner. The thought that I might be sharing (either with Claudette, or at the very least the dogs) did cross my mind, but I managed to resist the temptation to vocalise this thought. As my attention snapped back into the room I realised Claudette was showing me a booklet of which she was clearly very proud. Penned by her own fair hand, it described the history of the Médoc, beginning with the first traces of Neolithic man, ending thirty pages later with modern times (wine only made an appearance on the penultimate page; there is more to the Médoc than the vine, it seems). The water coming from the tap was a worryingly deep yellow hue, more like old Sauternes than Muscadet. But at least it was warm. My hostess informed me of her regulations, and particularly that eating in the room was forbidden – a dictat reiterated by a handwritten sign on the back of the door – and she then announced she was leaving to take her dogs for a walk. And with that I was alone.
