Tuesday 11th June Nice one Cyril

Had not slept well thinking of chums at home but cheered after receiving an  email with better news and having read up on yesterdays scary diagnosis, felt more positive about that too.

Left the berth early morning and after 2 locks, approached another self service lifting bridge. I dropped the crew at the landing stage. She was pretty exhausted by the time the bridge was lifted. Just one more lock and we were at Tannay by 11am. I was keen to explore this “joyous wine village” as described in the fluvial and taste some tannaysienne wines.

Eric and Gill wanted to top up an empty fuel can and set off in search of a filling station. After a cup of tea we set off on the steel wheels to catch them. The village was a straight 2km climb with no let up. No sign of the hardy duet duo. Where the hell have they got too? We wondered. We were chuffed to complete the climb without dismounting or stopping but were in a bit of a lather as we reached the 14^th century church. A nice boulangerie beckoned and a ham and mushroom pizza, a pain, and a gougeres hit the bottom of the saddlebag. Lunch was sorted. The adjacent caves de Tannaysienne looked deserted. Collette texted Eric to see where they were and did they want bread and to warn them of the hill. The reply left us speechless. They were a further 500m past the square at a super u marche and had just got fuel and bread. Almost incredulous, we followed the road out of Tannay and sure enough, spotted Eric at the pump filling his can. He decided to return to Duet with his booty, have a spot of lunch and ride back up the hideous hill meeting us at 2pm for cave visits. It was now that I discovered he had once run the London Marathon so confirming his lunatic tendencies.

We set off to find a picnic spot. As fortune would have it, we fell upon a vibrant Tavern. A salubrious joint with rusting tables on the gutter come curb. The welcome inside this hostelry was heart warming. A room full of raucous laughter from a crowd of some 10 french rurals. 9 chaps and a slumped women at one end of the bar staring vacantly at a milky ricard.  This was clearly not her first of the day. Her eyes were struggling to focus on this alien arrival and suddenly her neck muscles lost the battle and her head slapped back down on the bar narrowly missing the jug of water next to her ricard. It was just after 1pm. She was not alone in her state of inebriation.

I escaped outside to the gutter table with a pression and a minute glass of white for the crew. Salivating over the lovely Pizza, we were soon interrupted by the village jester who found it impossible to speak without laughter. Perhaps a nice trait but certainly not infectious. I eventually gathered that today was st. Bernebet day and if it did not rain today we were good for a decent summer. A bit like our st. swithin, I vainly attempted responding still not sure whether he was just taking the rip a little. He was harmless and actually grew on me as lunch continued. As we sat, 4 dutch cyclists decided to take the remaining table.  Our first dealings with Netherlanders this year did nothing to dissuade me of an air of arrogance many evoke. Dutch Doris was almost on my lap without a passing excuse me and actually laid her arm across the back of my chair (it is not the one facing collette in the picture but next to the woman against the wall). Her arm very quickly removed, the subsequent conversations in Dutch and English on our separate tables became a battle of the volume controls. Pleased to see the back of them, we enjoyed a second drink with just 3 visitations from the rurals making contact in some strange slurred rapid dialect accompanied by snorting laughter. I gathered it was something to do with the Dutch having fancy battery bikes and us having no VA VA VOOM.

I cheerily paid my 7euros 20 (5 for the beers) and with hearty farewells and shouts of Pas de va va vooms echoing in our ears, we rounded the church and greeted the fitness fanatics freshly arrived up the hill from hell.

Twenty minutes later we sat outside a metal warehouse in the middle of a field waiting for the patron to arrive, Eric having called an intercom and surprisingly making contact. The beaten up Peugeot soon arrived with a chap donning jeans and a lurid green tracksuit top and his girlfriend sporting an array of piercings. “The chef is away” He pours us a melon a Tannay speciality, dry, fresh and crisp, it is rather nice. His girlfriend gets the biggest glass and he pours himself an overly generous serving. This is new to me in Degustation procedure. I suggest we try the caves in the town centre again.

Good news is it is open. Cyril greets us keenly. He is keen to practice his English. The tasting room is atmospheric. Dating from the 1500`s a Fireplace dominates the room but my eye is taken by the glass cleaning area. A flat granite surface which slopes down towards the side wall where there are holes outside to the road. A very efficient plumbing arrangement but a tad draughty in winter I suspect.

 We start with the melon. Not as nice as the earlier offering and again I decline the chardonnay. The gamay is very heavy on tannin but the pinot noir is very nice. The ratafia is sweet and delicious. Collette tells him she prefers chocolat. Cyril rushes off and is soon back with an old cacao tin from which Collette is presented with a little bit of heaven.

We are building a relationship with the delightful Cyril who has been here 17 years and is now effectively head vigneron, He asks me if I prefer Irish or Scotch whisky. I reply Irish which is cool because Cyril is clearly pleased with this answer but just then a lovely elderly dutch couple arrive. Cyril appears almost short with them and winking at me, he whispers, “I have a special drink for you to try down in the cellars when they have gone!” We share another tasting with the dutch couple who are sweet and very polite. They buy three bottles and as soon as they have left, Cyril encourages us with a warning to mind our heads, and we follow him down a dark steep staircase into the 1566 built cellar. First stop is a huge stack of pinot noir bottles, there must be 500 perfectly stacked in rows. Turning to Collette, he tells her to pick one. She points to a middle row one. Cyril looks like a man about to do the tablecloth from the table trick and yes he grabs the bottle and pulls sharply on it. Out it slides but catastrophically, there is a chattering of glass on glass and 3 other bottles fall out. Cyril vainly tries the impossible, catching 3 with only two hands, one of which is holding Collette’s chosen bottle still. I try and cuddle the whole stack expecting any minute a huge rumble and disaster as the whole stack collapses. Miraculously and thankfully, not only does the stack hold but the falling bottles all survive the drop to the covered floor. Cyril lets out a rather forced laugh and attempts to replace the 3 escapees. This he does but the stack has lost its perfect uniformity. He then hands Collette the pinot noir, telling her it is a gift from the cellars to her to remember her visit by. Wonderful stuff but the best was yet to come. At the end of the cellar lay 4 oak barrels. The first two have chalk written Pinot noir on them. The next Ratafia rouge and the next Alcohol 87.2 %. This is the stuff that is mixed with grape juice to make ratafia. This is Cyril’s baby. He assures me it is as smooth as irish whisky and with that he removes the cork from the top of the barrel and extracts a sample with his pipette.

He is right, it is heavenly but the kick is staggering. I cannot talk for 30 seconds as my throat goes into shock. It is a wow moment. Eric slugs and pulls a very strange face whilst attempting to say something to no avail. Cyril cannot resist and slurps himself. Even the master struggles as his head turns purple and he convulses into a gurgled coughing wheezing fit.

He eventually manages to gather himself and points to the ratafia. Still with a voice somewhere from beyond, he delves into the oak cask and we taste the latest ratafia. Even the girls indulge and it is sweet and beautiful.

We take photos before lots of back slapping and return upstairs.

Cyril finds an old video featuring himself showing the stages of wine making which he insists sharing with me.

 We are very tipsy and I say that we are already 2 hours late leaving the mooring and that we must go. I explain that I cannot take wine on the bikes but give him 10 euros to get himself a drink as a thank you for giving us such a fantastic afternoon. He is horrified and at first refuses to take it. I insist and with that he picks up one of his top of the range display chardonnays and insists I accept it as his gift.

 

It had been a very special afternoon and I have since sent Cyril the pictures so if you are ever around Tannay, do not be too surprised when you see my ugly face on the walls of that old cellar.

Back at the boats, we quickly get under way. Capt Tim had told me of a lovely spot at the small farming community of Dirol. 4 locks and just 7kms away. The crew had fitness workouts at the lifting bridges. I would like to say she never complained. But I cannot!

 We arrived and as usual Tim had not let us down. It was a heavenly spot alongside old towers which are now just part of a glorified barn.

With cows grazing metres away and the lifting bridge in the background, the place was just a perfect example of why I love life on the canals.

 

 

One night you are in the middle of a town, the next in rural seclusion somewhere like this. With the church bells peeling and the 87.2% dulling my brain, I was drifting into euphoria sitting on the poop watching the stars supping a last red of the day. Bliss!