A Layman Exploring Wine 9

by William Powell

No, I mean places like the one my missus dragged me off to a few years ago: turn left at the arse end of nowhere, then keep going through the rustling wilderness for another good 20 minutes. When you live out here, you notice scenes in town that the average city dweller wouldn't even spare a weary blink for. Today I almost tripped over something that, on reflection, turned out to be a parka stuffed with a student, its contents busy trying to spray slogans onto a glass-recycling container.

Too Much Beer

On his knees! In filthy winter weather. Now, you might think that such a young, committed person simply had something to say in troubled times, but “Lea you slut” didn't exactly suggest a political or religious sense of mission to me. When I asked him why he was pursuing this rather questionable leisure activity—and in such an unhealthy posture, too—I got the ultimate (and remarkably self-aware) answer: “Had shoo much beer.” Just goes to show what that devil's brew can do. As I pondered this, I remembered Evelyn, with whom I once shared a flat for a while. Whenever she drank whiskey, she would phone her ex-boyfriend and sob his ears off.

Naked Around the Village Fountain

Or rather, she tried to, but the ex in question was by then quite happily married (perhaps not always at precisely those moments when the phone rang), and Evelyn's fondness for Scotland's national drink usually kicked in around four in the morning. Both factors shortened the conversations immensely. At least the ones with her ex-boyfriend. Almost inevitably, my thoughts moved on to my former neighbour Edmund, who was fished naked out of the village fountain three times after drinking too many “Hütchen”—brandy and cola—at the shooting club festival.

Three times!! And those are still the more harmless spirits—don't even get me started on tequila. The smell alone breeds conspiracy theories! But wine, that's a whole different matter. Admittedly, even with wine, the practised drinker can reach a stage that ends in surreal or embarrassing moments (sometimes surreally embarrassing ones), but I have a feeling there is still something creative, almost productive, about these escapades. Take French gardens.

The Counted Beans

I'd probably be among the first to say that there is hardly anything more superfluous, ostentatious and eccentric (depending on whether my mother-in-law was listening—if so, I might be among the second). I'd nod in agreement if someone claimed that this form of landscaping was probably dreamed up by a lovesick, mildly autistic mathematical genius while blind drunk. But it has something about it. Just like Spanish court ceremonial. Even the most anxious, petty-minded, anally compulsive bean-counter gets constipated and inhibited by it. But it has something about it. Just like the works of MC Escher or Peter Greenaway.

Who Needs a Chateauneuf Anyway?

I firmly believe that anyone who claims to understand Greenaway's films is either lying or currently following a mild jimsonweed diet, or both. Including Greenaway himself. But I am just as firmly convinced that Greenaway is a wine drinker. A passionate one. Someone who can get worked up when the wine is at the wrong temperature for the right bouquet. Someone who would happily write off an entire weekend for a Chateauneuf du Pape, just to savour that little drop alone with a blissful smile. Nicolas Cage, incidentally, I only ever see drinking beer!