There’s poetry in the lines. The regimented rows of reds and whites, then, always last, always fashionably late, the blushing rosÃ©, the young bride, so fruity and fresh.
CuvÃ©e Tranquille, from the slopes of Mont Ventoux, snow covered and winter bleak now, tar black roads covered in snow, but still, listen, still you can hear the echoes of the shouts from a summer cycling tour triumph.
Cotes Du Rousillon Villages, the slopes and scandals, the intimacies of the lives as ordered and ordinary as the vines, intertwined, each totally the same, each totally unique.
Chapel Down’s English Rose, blushing and peachy, like a perfect perfumed May day, blossoming, blooming, pregnant with plump freshness.
Brouilly of course, so evocative a name you can almost taste the contents of the bottle floating it’s way to the table atop a waiter’s arm.
Hautes Cotes De Nuit, inky black, blackcurrant, juicy and dark and a little bit scary at first but warm and friendly once you get to know them intimately. Old friends with a touch of mystery. Bouncy Billecart-Salmon RosÃ©, flipping up stream, dancing in the froth of fresh water rapids.
It’s such fun to get lost in those words on a bleak, bitter winter day like today.