Oops, I Sipped It Again…

Just back from Brittany and finally getting used to saying that name without thinking I should be saying “Britney” – but still not over the shock that that should be the case. I have never wanted to know anything about Ms Spears but have effectively had no choice in the matter. What can it all mean …?

Not technically Brittany, in fact, but the Pays de la Loire (formerly the “Loire Inférieure,” so you have to admit those marketing and publicity folk do have their uses sometimes) but all the names are of the like of Kernandec and Trescalan so they’re not fooling me…

We foraged on the pristine beach for oysters (not the best, but OK served Rockefeller) and lovely mussels and clams and didn’t get in the car for five days, which says a lot about how things went.

I’m only marginally obsessive about drinking local wines wherever possible and the French make it easy by being so extraordinarily provincial in these matters. So we drank Loire wines and only Loire wines the whole time. This was possible because the French are also extraordinarily systematic in covering so many of the necessary vinous bases within a single region.

There are Crémants de Loire good enough to get things goings smoothly fizz-wise; between the blancs chenin and sauvignon one could hardly wish for more in the Dry Whites Dept. (although Muscadet standards are rising so fast that it would be a shame to miss out – only gros plant lags terminally behind).

Reds are more varied than one often thinks too, with the odd Sancerre pinot noir flying the flag in the face of all those terrific minerally cabernet francs. Rosé from here – as from everywhere (except California, which sells the most) – are unrecognisably better than a few years ago.

But if I had to choose any single favourite it would be a sweet chenin blanc. If it says Coteaux du Layon on the label (or, better still, one of the sub-regions Chaume, Quarts de Chaumes or Bonnezeaux) you can buy with confidence: making sweet wine is such a vexed business that only the obsessives bother to do it. No need for fancy puds or foie gras – just a sunny patio, an ice-bucket and a sunset.