Rasteau

        I wasn’t struck by the impact on France of the recent terror attacks until I got to Chambéry. It’s a lovely city: the Alps provide a majestic backdrop, and the handsome shuttered buildings in the old town are draped with the red and white flag of Savoie. Such were my thoughts as I sat in the Place du Théâtre drinking a strong coffee. Then three soldiers in fatigues and berets who looked as hard as nails walked past bearing automatic weapons. It was a jarring reminder of France’s troubles.

        Perhaps I should have been prepared, though. While I was staying in a guesthouse in the Provençal wine village of Rasteau, a few hours south of Chambéry, the owner told me that the number of foreign guests had gone through the floor. They were afraid, she said. It was a shame, I agreed. And it really is, for Rasteau is a wonderful place.

It’s hard to believe that Rasteau belongs to the same country as Paris and Nice. It feels isolated from the stresses of the outside world. Very little happens, and the chimes of the bell tower every half hour seem designed to rouse the locals from their reveries. In the late afternoon, when the baking August heat has slackened off a little, old men take over the dusty square for games of pétanque. Other wizened figures sit on benches to observe them.

Off the square is a no-frills bar, the inside of which is likewise the preserve of elderly gentlemen. The drinks list is eccentric. I wanted a glass of Rasteau’s Vin Doux Naturel (a delicious and sweet local specialty similar to Port). They didn’t have any. The nearby post office only does business in the morning and the grocery shop has irregular opening hours. The bakery was shut because the owners had gone on holiday. You wonder how the owners and employees of these establishments can possibly make a living.

I went to Rasteau because of its wine. Its reds are concentrated and spicy. I spent hours wandering around the arid and empty vineyards (the farmers were all on holiday, like the bakers). The soil was dark brown, becoming lighter the nearer you got to the village. Pudding stones, or galets, were spread over the surface, in some cases covering whole rows. Massive bunches of Grenache and Syrah grapes drooped from the vines, looking ripe enough to harvest even at this early stage of the growing season.

 At night the vineyards were so peaceful; nothing was audible except for the relentless croaking of cicadas. On a ridge across the flat and deserted plain I could see the orange lights of the wine villages of Séguret, Sablet and Gigondas. They stood out like beacons in the darkness, and I could almost imagine I had stepped back into the past. For surely this night view has enthralled moonlight walkers for centuries.