Simply a matter of taste

We stopped the car in a tiny village, high above the lake, and stepped out into another little world. All around us the hillside glowed with variegated greens, browns and yellows in neat rows, like an experiment in Pointillism on a backgrond of regency stripe. The little vineyards ran in between low grey walls and imposing villas. Brown signposts announced the 'Domaine due Chateau' and 'Domaine de la Chasse', pointing the way to the slopes where landowners had been cultivating their special vintages for centuries in this warm sunshine along the shores of Lac Leman.

'Degustation et la vente' - first taste, then buy. No neon signs, no gaudy publicity, just a handful of ancient establishments with excellent but understated service and outstanding wine. In the local village 'auberge' Madame served us with a small carafe of sweet white wine 'de la region'. She made no comment as we helped ourselves to a pack of peanuts to ward off the worst effects of wine on an empty stomach in the middle of the day. Probably not the best of accompaniments to her fine wines, but needs must - we had left our lunch in the car and the opportunity to taste and see was too good to waste. We struggled with the peanuts - tried to pull the top apart in vain, tried to find the cunning spot the manufacturers had prepared for easy opening, battled with instructions in French, and failed. Mademoiselle appeared silently at our elbow with a little dish for the peanuts and a pair of scissors.

There was something about the wine, politely served in its carafe, so lovingly poured, that told us, even in our ignorance, that here was something you do not buy in your local supermarket. It was gentle, light, sweet and delicate and yet so wonderfully unassuming. The auberge, at first sight, had seemed expensive and we were doubtful whether we would be acceptable in our casual attire and just before lunch, tourists simply asking for something to drink. But for these people it was just ordinary life. On closer inspection, we discovered a room full of locals, eating, drinking and taking no notice of us beyond a cursory glance, accompanied by a friendly smile from Madame.

Yet to us the occasion was steeped in history: a whole community whose life revolved around those neat little rows of vines with their gnarled trunks and autumn leaves. Here and there a little tractor drove by; amongst the vines men wandered along the rows, checking this and that. The main harvest was over but a few last bunches of grapes still hung from the lower branches. Small areas of the vineyard had already been cut down, their twisted black branches lying in heaps and their trunks roughly hacked off, close to the ground. Another world where a community lived and worked, centred on the planting, the pruning, the harvesting, the bottling and the final, all-important 'degustation'. To us it was fascinating, novel, exotic; to them simply 'vin ordinaire'.