For the last three days, I have been attending the annual “Southwold” Bordeaux tasting: a ritual inaugurated by Clive Coates in the early 1980s in order to blind taste a recent vintage from bottle as comprehensively as possible. Many famous writers have sat round a table debating the merits of “Wine Number 13” over “Wine Number 14”, only to find “Wine Number 13” is some lamentable estate that you had described as “undrinkable bilge” in the past. The wines are always fascinating, the banter and repartee between this very English set at time hilarious and unrepeatable.
I drive up on the Wednesday, an enjoyable drive around the M25 and up the A12 through Essex to to the coastal village of Southwold. It has retained its Victorian charm, a village famous, indeed practically built upon, the Adnams brewery, whose pubs serve the finest beer known to mankind. The afternoon is spent intensively tasting the Right Bank wines, the Saint Emilions inconsistent, Pomerols much more dependable. In the evening, we convene for a dinner in the “Crown” hotel, each person proffering something from their cellar. Tonight’s theme is Burgundy, highlights that include two wonderful Meursault Villages from Coche-Dury donated by HRH Jancis.
The following day is again, one flight after another through the Left Bank. Sandwiched between HRH Jancis and Steven Spurrier, I notice that our scores are remarkably consistent to each other. Who said wine was ineluctably subjective? After an exhausting day, I award myself a quick bath to relax and unwind. However, I am rudely interrupted by a young female member of the staff whose knock I had not heard. Her head pops round the bathroom door…any excuse to feast one’s eyes on a naked man’s body! I just hope they discount my bill in lieu of my offering cheap thrills. I feel sorry for the girl. How will future manhood be able to compare?
In the evening, the dinner’s theme is Bordeaux with some lovely 1985’s on da table. I spend the evening listening to the regaling of various tales of previous attendees, many of them internationally renowned, tales too tawdry and explicit to recount here.
On Friday, we finish with the dry whites and the Sauternes, the latter exceeding most people’s expectations. It then takes me four and a half hours to drive home, not helped by the fact that I drive 20 miles up the A14 in the wrong direction. That is the problem when the landscape is so monotonous: you cannot tell when you have made a wrong turn. I only realized when I passed a sign declaring “You are entering the Midlands” and issued a slew of expletives fortunately only heard by myself.
I then get caught in the Friday rush hour, so I turn on Radio 4 and tune in to a riveting, but utterly depressing play concerning an atheist professor questioning the existence of God after her estranged son (inconveniently a man of the cloth) is murdered. I spend five minutes listening to a crescendo of histrionic wailing, at which point I switch on my ABBA “Classic Gold”.
I get home around 5.30pm, order fish and chips and then think about tomorrow, when I will travel around the planet to New Zealand.
Nice one Neal, Would have loved to have seen that ladies face when she spied your spotted dick!!