Spring has broken in Burgundy, the cool air scented not by blossom or sun but by broken earth which is the very scent of life itself. From Gevrey-Chambertin, south through the vineyards of Musigny, Nuits-Saint-George, all the way down to Puligny-Montrachet, here soil is being broken between the vines. Magnificent gargantuan cart-horses walk sagely between the vineyards’ narrow rows drawing a plough that makes calm scraping sounds as the instrument’s single human driver follows behind.
I open the window on my side of the car, and the smell of wet, rich, ancient, live-giving soils of clay and marl and limestone is overwhelming. It smells of iron and stone, of cool and wet. Of goodness, and of peace. This extraordinary land, the most famous wine land in the world, is quiet. It is only the horses. And two, three individuals seated on benches among the vines, tending and caring and loving these magical mystical plants that, in six months’ time will give birth to the greatest of wines.
We cut back at the village of Puligny-Montrachet, taking a bead up the slope of the Côte-d’Or, heading back north along a narrow road. Before us lie the vineyards of Montrachet, and Bâtard-Montrachet, then Chevalier-Montrachet, open-air cathedrals of vinous glory. The stumps are short and low, the guyot-style tendrils creeping like witches’ fingers along a taut wire. Soil is russet, with chalkstone and darker clods and, in places, a powdery gravel. Marine green moss grows on some of the older, thicker vine stumps. Beneath a broad, cool grey spring sky, it is all enchanting. Glorious, in fact, as man’s intimate nurturing of nature is presented at its very best among these vineyards.