White Wines of the Rhône Valley

    I visited the Rhône Valley in the summer of 2016, staying in Orange and Rasteau. I wandered around deserted stony vineyards, drank carafes of wine in restaurants that served indigestible cuts of meat, and experienced the terror of a giant bee flying up my shorts on a train platform. I love the region and, inspired by a recent book by Matt Walls, decided to do a spot of tasting. In this post I'm going to concentrate on whites, and will turn to reds another time.

A vineyard in Rasteau

    The 2018 E. Guigal Côtes du Rhône (£12, Tesco) has a lovely aroma of pear, peach and melon. It has plenty of body, befitting a wine that contains 60% Viognier plus sizeable doses of Roussanne, Marsanne and Clairette, and a noticeable bitterness on the palate. Like most whites from this warm and sunny area, there's not a lot of acidity, but it's not flabby, probably owing to the Roussanne and a splash of the acidic Bourboulenc grape. The alcohol is high at 14 percent, but it doesn't stick out. It's excellent value. 

 At £40 a bottle, the 2016 Jean-Luc Colombo Condrieu (Oddbins) certainly isn't cheap. Nor is it very good. I had this wine over two years ago and felt that the oak wasn't in harmony with the Viognier grape. The issue this time around was different: the wine is past its best. The aromas are elusive, and I was obliged to plunge my nose into the glass for a good sniff. The initial smoky Burgundian note proves fleeting and gives way to a very light tropical fruit aroma and a hint of petrol. The palate is rather watery, offering a suggestion of pineapple; the most interesting aspect of the wine is the kiss of tannin which you can sense on your front teeth.

    Guigal's 2017 Condrieu (£39.99, Majestic) is in a different league. It smells fabulous, like a super rich peach and apricot yoghurt overlaid with new oak. The wine has a wonderfully lush mouthfeel which, combined with the heady alcohol and stony/tropical flavours of the Viognier, brings to mind a Sauternes, albeit one with no sugar! There's enough acidity to make your mouth water, taking the edge off the booze. It's an immensely satisfying drink, and I kept thinking it would be the perfect wine to drink with a roast chicken. 

    In my opinion, whites from the south of the Rhône Valley can suffer from having too little Viognier in the blend, or perhaps none at all. The 2017 Chante Cigale Châteauneuf-du-Pape (£26, Woodwinters), is a case in point, Viognier being forbidden in this legendary appelation. The wine has many good points: it really fills the mouth and has a voluptuous texture, thanks to partial barrel fermentation. Despite the elevated alcohol, there's a notable freshness on the palate, courtesy of the 60 percent of Bourboulenc, Roussanne and Picpoul in the blend. It also has a distinct mineral touch. Still, I felt it lacked something. The fruit leans towards the tropical but the flavours are a little hard to pin down, and it doesn't have the explosive aromatic lift of a fine Viognier. 

Cairanne

    During a tasting in the wine village of Cairanne five years ago, I asked what flavours Grenache Blanc, the mainstay of white wines in the southern Rhône, brings to the table. 'Rien (nothing)', was the answer. The grape makes up half of the 2019 Boutinot La Fleur Solitaire Côtes du Rhône (£10.50, Woodwinters), and you can see where the man was coming from, for it's somewhat hollow on the palate. There's a nice pear character on the nose, though, which returns on the finish. A quarter of the wine is fermented and aged in used oak, giving it a touch of creaminess. The acidity is decidedly low, maybe due to the crazy heat of 2019, and you can sense the alcohol in your throat. 

    

   My last tasting sample was the 2019 Le Plan des Moines Les Silènes Cotes du Rhone (£10, Villeneuve), which has higher acidity than the average white from the southern Rhône. More typical are the abundant body and intoxicating alcohol. The stone fruit aroma is reticent, while the palate is more stony and salty than fruity. 

 The nature of the blend had me scratching my head. According to the wine merchant, it's 50% Grenache Blanc, with the other half Clairette. It seems too fresh to be a blend of these low acid grapes though. I think it's likely to contain some, perhaps a lot of, Roussanne, which has more acid and might account for the stony, mineral note. Evidence to support this comes from the back label, which reveals that Grenache (the red kind, I suppose) and Roussanne are the principal grapes used in the producer's wines. One thing's (almost) certain: there's no Viognier in this one.  

Note: Like the 'Emperor of Wine', Robert Parker, I purchased my own samples. In my case, of course, there was no alternative. 

James Young Simpson

 

   I cannot remember when I first noticed the statue of James Young Simpson. I've been in Edinburgh for a very long time, and the city's many statues usually escape my notice. 

   It is found at the western end of Princes Street. He is seated and leafing through a tome while gazing to the west, towards Haymarket. He has a lion's mane on his head and the square jaw of a boxer.

   I am uncertain if I saw the statue before I chanced upon the building where he used to live. And it was chance. Many years ago I worked as a poorly paid teacher of English in a language school on Queen Street, and walking home I would pass the building which bears the memorial to this scientist. He was, it says, the man who 'discovered the anaesthetic power of chloroform'. 

   This sounded rather cool to me. A modicum of research revealed that he and his nineteenth century pals would conduct experiments on their own persons, which was how the chloroform discovery was made. 

   My research also revealed that Simpson was buried in a cemetery very close to my home. I rather like graveyards, and this fact piqued my interest still further. Indeed, a path which leads from the city centre towards my home passes directly above Warriston Cemetery. 

   The gates were always closed, however, and I learned that the place was not open to the public. And yet, on occasion I saw people within its confines, usually with dogs. Eventually I noticed a big hole in the wall. Here was the way in! 

   So, today, after a wait of several years, and driven in by a combination of mild curiosity and the boredom of lockdown, I climbed over the wall. On the other side, a muddy, sticky morass serving as a path awaited me. 

  I had expected a kind of wasteland featuring homeless people, dog poo and condom wrappers (cemeteries having apparently become a popular venue for sex). I saw none of this, however, the overriding impression being instead one of neglect and the passage of time. Most of the tombstones I passed were no longer upright, having presumably been pushed over. I discovered a couple of spots where gravestones had seemingly been thrown together, like Christmas trees dumped on the street in January.

   Sounds were few: the soughing of the wind, birds chattering and the squeaking and creaking of tall, ancient-looking trees whose branches were threatening to snap off. A handful of dog owners passed me, perhaps wondering what on earth I was doing there with a bag of shopping from Tesco. 

   I walked through a tunnel to the northern end of the graveyard. Here the place was in pretty good shape. I soon realised that the cemetery was actually rather massive and, after checking out a couple of dozen likely candidates for Simpson's grave, I admitted defeat. I had a tub of ice cream in my shopping bag and I was wasting my time. On the way out, I almost fell over; I held on to my shopping at the cost of a hand caked in mud. 

   Upon returning home, my wife's reaction to my spur of the moment tour of the cemetery was as anticipated: a knowing shake of the head and, upon seeing my muddy hand, the well-informed observation that I was lucky I'd remained upright. 

A Parting

 

The three of us met in an izakaya close to the library. Outside it was sultry, a typical June evening in Fuji. We didn’t eat much, just a few sticks of yakitori, and we drank three or four glasses of beer each. The Australian was in good spirits. He was eager to leave Japan and the city that had served as his home for three months. He had come for the wrong reasons, he told us, although we never found out what those reasons were. He was tired of being broke. Maybe he would have lasted longer if he hadn’t been sent to the back of beyond, but there it was.

Yoshiwara Honcho Station

After dinner we crossed the huge vacant lot opposite Mos Burger in virtual pitch darkness and walked in the direction of Yoshiwara Honcho Station, where cockroaches scurried along the single platform in the heat of summer. The arcaded street was as usual deserted, and we went up some stairs to an empty bar which had been the scene of a few amusing drunken incidents.

In fact, a lot of very funny things had happened in those three months. There was the can of chu-hi he had shotgunned in Mini Stop, the wrestling match with the Japanese guy with bad breath, the eye infection, the dance in the Peruvian restaurant, the short-lived friendship with Three Tooth, the cardboard box which had come to serve as furniture, the empty jar of pasta sauce used for cheap red wine. Now it was over.

After a couple more beers the American and I got up to leave. We said our farewells and I for one felt quite moved. I would miss this Australian. Before we parted he had one final, inevitable, request to make of us.

“Have you got any money? I’m gonna stay for a bit and I haven’t got any cash.”

We both handed over a few thousand yen, and I never saw him again.

The Forbidden City

   I read today that the Forbidden City in Beijing has reopened.

   I went there in the fall of 2007, as it happens. It was perhaps the shortest visit ever made by a tourist to this hallowed site. I wrote some  brief notes about my experience at the time, which I have copied below:

   The approach to the Forbidden City was swarming with folk from the countryside. They brandished guides and maps, and tried to convince passers-by to have their picture taken. Most went about their work half-heartedly, but a few were persistent, grabbing people by the sleeve. 

   Inside the walls groups of Chinese tourists in red caps and shabby clothes jostled and shoved each other and anyone else who got in their way as they sought to look inside the buildings. I felt an urgent desire to get out as fast as I could. 

   After leaving, we walked along the moat that surrounds the Forbidden City, where hardly a soul was to be seen. The willow trees across the water were swaying gently in the breeze.  It was a beautiful and serene setting.

   I have never liked crowds, but looking back I think I overreacted. As the photos show, it wasn't that busy and the vermilion walls look magnificent. Maybe I will return someday. 

   One thing is for sure: I looked better 13 years ago. 

The Dachshund

       

          Many years ago I had the good fortune to visit Miyazaki a number of times. This southern Japanese prefecture must be one of the country’s most beautiful areas. My abiding memories are of palm trees and translucent rivers cutting through gorges.

        One sweaty summer’s evening I was present at a barbecue thrown by my ex-girlfriend’s family. In addition to myself and the family members, there was a down on his luck youth called Takayama (how can I still remember his name?), and he had brought his dog with him. It was a tiny dachshund which Takayama had not trained, and it became clear he was palming off the responsibility for dealing with it onto the hosts.  

My girlfriend’s family had a dog of their own, a shiba-ken which was as aloof and majestic as a beautiful Parisian woman wandering around a chic arrondissement. It hated the dachshund and would snarl at him if he encroached on her space.

My role on the evening in question was very simple. I wasn’t expected to play a part in the conversation – I couldn’t, because my Japanese was so terrible – but every so often I’d be asked if the food was delicious, or if I wanted another beer. As long as I smiled and gave the appropriate response, I was a welcome member of the group.

We all sat outside enjoying the barbecue while the dachshund gambolled around, yelping and relieving itself on the floor every so often. It had also figured out that my girlfriend’s mother was the weak link in the chain, and could be manipulated very easily. When food was ready it would run in her direction and begin humping her leg with abandon, like Ross’s oversexed monkey Marcel in Friends. She invariably gave in, rewarding the mutt with a morcel of delicious meat.

        At one point I went inside to use the facilities and made a faux-pas, forgetting to remove my shoes and put on slippers. My girlfriend’s mother pounced like a cat. ‘Maiku, da-me!’ she told me, before wiping the floor to remove my footmarks.

         After this incident, two thoughts occurred to me. One was positive, for I now understood that I was genuinely considered part of the inner circle. I don’t think I had ever been rebuked by my girlfriend’s mother before, and I realised this meant she was now felt comfortable enough to tell me off.

        The second realisation was less welcome. I now knew my place in the pecking order. To put it bluntly, I was below that intolerable dachshund. It could urinate on the floor and furiously hump someone’s leg without fear of censure. I couldn’t even go inside in a pair of shoes.

Weekly Housing

   While in Japan I lived for about a year and a half in what is known as ‘weekly housing’. As I never organized my own accommodation, I still do not know why it is so named. Perhaps the contract renews on a weekly basis, or you only have to give a week’s notice if you are leaving.

   At any rate, weekly housing has a bad rap. When I told my students at Tokyo City University that I was staying in such a joint, I was met with knowing looks. Can you hear your neighbours? they asked.  

   On March 15, 2011 I was living in weekly housing in Fuji city, feeling very much on edge following the massive earthquake which had struck four days earlier. Suddenly, at about half past ten at night, there was a violent paroxysm of shaking. A quake had struck Fujinomiya, just a few miles to the north. My wife and I bolted downstairs into the darkness.

   The power cables at the end of the car park were swinging from side to side. The few cars, mine included, were rocking like drunks. My left leg practically seized up from the surge of adrenaline that shot through my body.

   Fearing another tremor, we were reluctant to return to our weekly housing, so we stayed in the darkness for about half an hour. A hundred metres away I could see the shadowy bulk of the shinkansen line. No trains passed, the earthquake having triggered an automatic shutdown. It was dead silent and, curiously, most of our fellow residents were nowhere to be seen. Our minds turned to urgent questions: should we load up the car, would our flights leave as scheduled, would there be another tsunami? Eventually we climbed the steps and went indoors.

   Passing beyond the sham wooden door that opened into the living area, the first thing I noticed was the TV. There was another sound in the background, though.  Curious, I hit the mute button. The unmistakable noise was coming from the flat next door. My neighbour was snoring! In true Japanese style, he was utterly exhausted, so much so that he had slept through a terrifying earthquake.  

           

A city in Spain

The marble streets of the Old Town glisten with the yellow lights of the evening, and beautifully dressed women walk past languidly. Sitting outside on a wooden stool, a sherry barrel serving as my dinner table, I dine on fried chorizo and fish. The bar is especially popular with Dutch tourists, for some reason. A drunk beggar missing most of his front teeth appears and begins a mournful ditty. His voice is grating and he stomps and claps, before touring the tables in search of money.

          After I finish my dinner, I wander the streets. Bored waiters amble back and forth outside restaurants, most of which are deserted after 10 o’clock. The illuminated cathedral looks breathtaking, its sole tower seeming to point to the stars and moon. I pass signs of the economic crisis, like the four homeless guys crashed out inside an ATM vestibule on the main drag. On my way back to my hotel, I walk along the pavement above the bone-dry river, which looks dreadful. Four dim figures in hoods sit on the concrete bed, huddled round an invisible game, a small collection of bottles in the vicinity.

          That was Málaga a few years ago. I wonder how long it will be before I have the chance to go back.