La Rioja Alta

    

    We arrive in Haro at midnight, where, in true Spanish fashion, our host Francisco proposes a drink. A lone bar is open, and the silent streets and empty room suggest they might consider shutting early on a Monday. Most of us order a caña as George Michael plays on the speakers and an alsatian sniffs around and howls for attention. Despite the delicious cold beer, I decide against a tour of the deserted town and crash out in a huge room with oak beams on the ceiling. 

Tempranillo vines at La Rioja Alta S.A.

    

    The last time I went to Spain was four years ago, yet, as I wander around this famous wine town the next morning, waves of familiarity wash over me. A man's voice booms out from a café; a half-hidden figure leans out of a second floor window and beats a mat againt the wall; two nuns in black habits walk past a church; a woman stands on a street corner selling lottery tickets. There are old buildings with long cracks down the middle, and lovely views beyond the town over to hills and vines. 

    I came here for the wine, of course, and the sight of a row of trees shaped like gobelet vines turns my mind to the tasting ahead of us. We drive the short distance to my favourite Rioja producer, La Rioja Alta S.A., in the Barrio de la Estación. I ask Francisco, who is driving, which Rioja he likes the most, other than his employer's. 'Who asked this question?!', he jokes. 

    The wines are lined up for us in a crescent: eight reds and a solitary white - 'to cleanse the palate'. I'm not usually a big fan of whites, but the Lagar de Cervera Albariño is delicious, with peachy aromas redolent of Viognier. 

    Although I've had most of the reds many times before, it's a joy to drink them again. My favourites are the 2015 and 2016 vintages of Viña Ardanza. 'The Garnacha is the DNA of Ardanza', says Francisco. 'It brings spice, liquorice' to the wine. The Garnacha grapes are grown on vineyards covered in huge pebble stones, 50 miles away in the hotter Rioja Oriental zone, we learn. 'The winemaker calls it little Châteauneuf-du-Pape', says Francisco. 

Garnacha vines in Rioja Oriental

    

    We don't finish all the tasting samples, which feels almost like a crime considering the quality of the wines. (A member of the party later tells me he went round the table polishing off all the flagship Gran Reserva 890, however). 

    Over a lunch of Riojan vegetable stew and barbecued lamb cutlets, we drain the remainder of the 890, plus several more bottles of the Ardanza, including a velvety 2005 vintage. I ask in Spanish for more of the vegetable dish. 'His Spanish is good!' the waitress tells Francisco, filling me with pride. 

    This was my first trip abroad in over three years. I returned home tired but euphoric, with three goals: to go back to Spain; to drink lots of wines made by La Rioja Alta S.A.; to take up Spanish again. I can certainly achieve the first two objectives; we'll see about the third...

    

    

    

    

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. 

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. 

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.

Lockdown

   This is my sixth day of lockdown. 

   In some ways, I am reminded of being on a long-haul flight. There's a similar sense of unreality and boredom. I watch movies to pass the time, but often lose interest half way through. The same feelings of restlessness prey upon me. Above all, the highlights of the day are the same: meals and drinks. It brings me pleasure to think about what I will eat and which wine I will drink. Even when I go to bed I feel somewhat excited about the prospect of my first cup of coffee the next morning.

   As on an intercontinental flight, books serve as a lifeline. They are a double-edged sword, however, for in my case at least, they tend to have associations with travel. Yesterday, for instance, I pulled out my copy of The Last Temptation by Nikos Kazantzakis. The pages are yellow with age, and as I ran my fingers over the cover I noticed the word 'Canada' above the price. I remembered then that I had purchased it in Montreal in 2004, which caused a wave of nostalgia to wash over me. Then a journey I had made in Japan six years ago came to mind, when I went looking for a temple written about by Kazantzakis. The book, at least, is as good as I recalled. 

   My companion in this period of isolation is my nineteen year old tabby cat. Her daily routine is unchanged: sleeping in a ball, eating and drinking, lying on the rug twice a day in the hope of being brushed, rubbing her face against hard surfaces and staring into thin air. She seems unfazed by my sudden permanency, but then she does sleep for about twenty hours a day. 

   From my living room window there is a splendid vista. Through the bare branches of the trees I can make out Edinburgh Castle to the south, and beyond it the long dark ridge of the Pentland Hills. On the path beneath my flat, now adorned with startling yellow daffodils, a steady stream of people pass by. Many are dog walkers, but I also see cyclists, joggers, and people apparently just out for a stroll. By and large they make no effort to keep the recommended distance from one another. 

   On the few occasions I have left my building I have done so with the furtiveness of a cat. I open the front door, listen for the sound of people walking past, then scope out the surroundings. Only when I'm sure the coast is clear do I head into the street, where I walk down the middle of the road to avoid my fellow humans. 

   A friend wrote to me a couple of days ago that he was 'going slowly insane'. I don't think I'm there yet, but it does trouble me that I'm already excited about my weekly trip to the supermarket - in four days' time. And given that I'm seriously considering using my bottle of Pol Roger to make an Aperol Spritz, perhaps I have indeed already crossed the threshold into madness.