The town of St. Emilion is a poetic antidote to the tons of concrete that surround our daily life. The soft-spoken response to the hard edge of post-war living. Driving into this medieval town in the south of France, it appears delightfully abruptly on a hilltop above the vines.
St. Emilion is like a huge, rambling open-air museum. The entire town is a pleasing ochre, harmonious to behold, that illustrates quite succinctly a past linked with the extraction of limestone, which enabled the construction of this fortified town.
What stands out clearly, as I wander through this living museum, is that more than just limestone, it is fortified with materials as substantial as time and legend. Wherever I place my feet, I feel convinced that I'm stepping on a modicum of history. Even the hermitage has a story. The grotto, shaped like a Latin cross, is where the monk Emilion, after whom the town is named, is supposed to have retreated into in the 8th century. Close at hand, a spring believed to possess miraculous powers flows into an underground river that culminates in a public fountain, attracting the faithful. The fertility seat is another such attraction. A woman eager for a baby is sitting on it, eyes rolling heavenward, arms outstretched. There is as much beauty in her surrender to a force larger than herself, as there is in the architectural detail of the stunning catacombs or the segregated cloister.
Another seduction of St. Emilion is that it is not particularly easy to explore. It demands that I wear sturdy shoes and have the stamina to climb its perilously steep and winding medieval streets, if I really want to get to the heart of its wonder. And if I'm not trekking up arduous slopes, I find myself climbing 197 steps to get to, what my driver swears, is one of the best views I'll have for a long time yet. The Place des Creneaux, or the bell tower, of the monolithic church to which I clamber, overlooks the Dordogne valley, the surrounding churches, hectares of vines and chateaux. I am exhausted, but irrevocably in love with all I see, so I'll forgive that I've ploughed through thickets of travellers to get to this view.
Underneath the bell tower stands the huge monolithic church. And I have to admit that more than all the churches of Rome swarming with tourists, it is in the sanctuary of Saint Emilion — carved between the 9th and 12th centuries, completely free of adornments and devoid of religious trappings — that I feel truly at peace. Chiselled out of the rock from the natural grottoes that were used in prehistoric times, this archetypal structure is enveloped in a stillness that urges me to look within and confront the smallness of the self in the face of its monumentality.
And the more I walk and the higher I climb, the more I am rewarded by the fruit of my labour. Past these ancient remains and structures, past gardens that sway in the breeze, past families that come out in droves to picnic in the shelter of picture-pretty mansions, past great flatlands that look from above like gigantic combs lined with vines.
Glossy with health and vigour, the vineyards look particularly inviting. I visit several chateaux for a series of wine tastings and come quickly to the conclusion that when one speaks of the wines of St. Emilion, one should use the plural. For each wine has its distinct features, owing to the extreme diversity of soil, differential sun exposures, the climates present on different terroirs, and the idiosyncratic personalities of the men who produce the wines, stamping their individual product with a unique trademark flavour. I believe pleasure is intensified rather than beclouded by knowledge, and every winery I stop at has an enthusiastic winemaker at the helm, eager to share some insight into how best to appreciate the fruity aroma and balance that typify this region's wines. When I humbly ask for a glass of water after several tastings, the winemaker flies into a rage and says, “You know what we call it when someone asks for water from the fountain? We say he's asking for Chateau le pump! Drinking water is bad for you, child, because it'll cause you to rust inside.” And with this admonishment, he places another glass of Merlot firmly before me.
Having drunk more than what is good for me, I wander back into the town. Along the way, flowers open their faces to me with childlike exuberance. A veiled woman, like the good witch in children's stories, peeps out from behind her storefront, tempting me with a macaroon for which this town is so famous. She says of this sweet biscuit, crunchy outside and soft inside, made with ground almonds, sugar and egg whites, “The legacy of macaroons in this town dates back to 1620, when the Ursuline sisters established their convent in St. Emilion.” She adds with a rapturous giggle, when she sees how her offer of one macaroon has led me to buy and gobble them up by the handful, “Traditionally they wished you bon appetit before embarking upon a meal, because the traditional French meal was so excellent and of so many courses, that you really had to be valiant about it.” And I know exactly what she means, having gorged myself silly on cream of green asparagus with smoked salmon roulade soup, prime beef, and duck at a charming local café.
But more than the food and the possibility of a merlot body wrap or beer bath, it's really the quirky nature of the town, which is able to get as drunk on wine as it is on life, that leaves me desirous of returning for seconds.
Fact File
Getting there: There is a high-speed TGV train from Paris Montparnesse to Bordeaux. The three-hour train ride is the best option. But if you're keen to fly, there are flights from Paris Orly airport to Merignac, 10 km west of the Bordeaux. St. Emilion is 35 km northeast of Bordeaux, making for an easy drive.
Getting around: This small medieval town is best discovered on foot.
Accommodation: La Villa D'O, a charming 1850s' residence, just a stone throw from St. Emilion, offers unobstructed views of the vineyards.