La véraison is that magical moment when the grapes start to mature and change colour from green to purple. At this point in their development, the grapes no longer grow but, instead, ripen. (Actually, there’s a great deal more to it than that, but this is not the place to learn about it. Jancis Robinson’s Oxford Companion to Wine should be the first port of call for those of you who relish the minutiae of making fine wine.)

Suffice to say, it is a crucial time in the vigneron’s year, and it is celebrated in vineyards throughout France. But in Chateauneuf-du-Pape, they take it a stage further. Here, la fête de la véraison combines not only la véraison itself but also a celebration of the traditional arrival of the Avignon popes at their summer home.

This means that, in addition to dégustations on every corner, the whole town steps back five hundred years. Medieval knights joust and do battle; jugglers and tumblers, magicians and minstrels are everywhere; mules process through the crowded streets bearing barrels of  Chateauneuf-du-Pape: buy a specially engraved tasting glass for €5 and top yourself up as they pass. No, I didn’t need to be asked twice. The repetitive rhythms of medieval music may grate after a while, but this does not matter. We are meeting Nigel and Abigail at Le Verger des Papes for lunch.

Le Verger is located just short of the summit of a four hundred step climb. Continue to the top and you arrive at the chateauneuf itself. One assumes that the Pope was carried, because it is very steep indeed, leaving one in serious need of a glass of chilled rosé before one can even attempt to read through the wine list and the celebratory Véraison menu.

The food is good – the smoked duck and foie gras salad especially so today. But it is the wine menu to which you should devote your attention. It runs to a dozen pages of closely typed listings of all the great Chateauneuf names and all the great vintages, and if you happen upon the wrong page, your bank balance may be severely diminished.

But we’ve been here before. We know that Le Verger also has a cave. What’s more, we know that it has its own cuvée of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, exclusively available from them. At €49, it is not inexpensive, but in this town, it is remarkable value. It is the classic GSM – Grenache, Syrah, Mourvèdre. It is ripe and rich, lush and luscious. It is also very powerful, admitting to 15%ABV, but probably more. We drank the 2011: the Grenache was big and fruity; the Syrah was nuanced and spicy; the Mourvèdre was gamey and full on, its notoriously tough tannins already softened and fully integrated. 

We managed another glass.

We walked off our lunch on the way back to the car, parked in the vineyards a kilometre or two from the centre of the village. The internal combustion engine has no place in a medieval village and the route was barrée some distance away. But it was a good walk in every sense, taken in company with others who had enjoyed similar experiences, and – indeed – were still doing so, having topped up their special glass from the final mule at the edge of the village.

Ripeness is all.

Today from the everysmith vaults: There is a brilliant piece in the current Boston Magazine about Van Morrison’s time in the city and the writing and recording of Astral Weeks. So I’ve been listening to that important album, which was loved by almost everyone whose opinion I valued, but not by me. Maybe they knew something I didn’t.

Arles makes few concessions to the tourist.

Its 2000 year history embraces the Phoenicians, the Romans, the Jews, the Gypsy Kings and, of course, Vincent van Gogh, who lived here between February 1888 to July 1890. But although there is a defined tourist area, centred on the Forum, and although it attracts thousands of visitors every year, it remains defiantly a communist town, with a working class ethos. There is nothing pretty or twee here; Arles is as gritty and uncompromising as the dust which the Mistral blows around its streets and squares.

The excuse for our most recent visit was the new Fondation Vincent van Gogh, in which some 50 or so drawings and prints are on display in a beautiful hybrid building – half 15th century and half 21st century – located in a small street between the forum and the amphitheatre.

It is a refreshing exhibition, because none of the famous, iconic paintings are here – a fact which provoked an American family buying tickets ahead of us to cancel their visit (“You’re telling me you have no originals at all?”). Instead, we are encouraged to focus on his draughtsmanship, his printmaking and his subject matter. Appropriately for a resident of a communist town, van Gogh’s early ambition was to create prints which could be bought at an affordable price by the working class, showing activities inspired by their working lives. In Arles, he cut and trimmed reeds to make pens which which he drew peasants, artisans and labourers at work and at play. Many are poignant; all are dignified and none more so than the gravediggers in Cemetery in the Rain.

Because the work is unfamiliar, at least to me, it commanded more time and attention than we expected. So much so that by the time we passed through the exit, it was time for lunch. Serendipitously, the same street which hosts the Fondation, also boasts a restaurant which is one of our favourites.

At Le Galoubet, one dines underneath the vines on a beautiful terrace and eats from a small but perfectly formed carte. On the day in question, it featured œuf mollet on a bed of ratatouille to start and suprême of pintadeau to follow. Perfect. And the demi pichet of red to accompany the meal was from Estézargues, wine I first drank in Terroirs in King William IV Street in London. We decided quickly that this would be our new house red and left Arles, raced down the autoroute and arrived in Estézargues (midway between St Quentin la Poterie and Avignon) within the hour. Another hour later, our degustation came to an end and we were cruising home with a boot full of sublime CdR – including an unfiltered Cinsault which I commend to all you fans of natural wines.

With the Mistral keeping the clouds at bay, we spent the evening in the company of this wine, sitting in the courtyard and looking up occasionally to admire our very own Starry Night.

A good day. Vin and Vincent is a great combination.


Today from the everysmith vaults: another great combination, thanks to Wolfgang. Jim Hall and Tal Farlow in Central Park back in 1973. Only a short set but every bar is exquisite.

PS. For our American friends, I should point out that there is an 'original' in the Fondation. Here it is - A Pile of French Novels.

In the village of St Quentin la Poterie, la journée de la truffe was heralded by a fly-past of balloons, floating dangerously low over our ancient streets. The sound of their burners brought us out into our courtyards and prompted us to take ourselves early to market, there to purchase a modest amount of the famous tuber melanosporum for the delectation of diners at Wilde’s.

December is always a busy month for restaurateurs – hence the absence of a new blog for some weeks, sorry – and it was both pleasure and business to take a week out for the truffle fête in the Gard.

The truffle is serious business as well as gastronomic pleasure in this part of the world. An entire month is devoted to it, with epiphanies, demonstrations, manifestations and dégustations throughout January. But the highlight is the truffle market in Uzès.

The rich, earthy aroma of the truffle pervades all of the Place aux Herbes. In one corner, pigs and hounds are demonstrating their prowess at sniffing out the truffle. In another, the marchands have set out their stall – large companies next to ageing couples who have been fortunate enough to find a couple of these highly prized mushrooms on their land. Others were cashing in: vignerons were boasting of the perfect matching of truffles with their red wine; a stall was selling petits pates Nimois, a sort of mini pork pie made from pork, veal, foie gras and truffles and without doubt one of the most delicious breakfasts I have ever eaten.

As we eat our pies, we stroll through the market, sniffing at the more tempting examples. Finally, we make our choice from a charming couple from Montaren. She places the selected truffles on the scales, and performs some complicated mathematics on a scrap of paper.

“€85.”

“C’est trop chère” say I. “€60.”

“€75” she says.

“€70” I counter.

“Bon.” She extends her hand. I shake it and pass over the money, explaining that these are for my restaurant and so I would like a reçu. She shakes her head, hands me the truffles in a paper bag bearing the logo of a local shop and turns her attention to other trufflers.

In my best Gallic fashion, I shrug. I accept that there will be no receipt, and trust that HMRC back in the UK will understand. We have no time left for debate. We are due to meet Tom and Jim Cantwell at La Terr’In, the restaurant in St Quentin presided over by Chef Axel Bachelard. Like the other restaurants in the Uzège, he is preparing a special menu for the day and each of the seven courses will feature the tuber melanosporum.

What a feast! Foie gras and truffles, egg and truffles, goat cheese and truffles, Bresse chicken stuffed with truffles, truffle risotto, truffle and Armagnac chocolate.

I confess that not one of us was able to complete the the full menu. We were pretty much defeated half-way through. But Axel, charmingly, priced each individual course for us, so that we were able to pay not €60 each for the magnificent seven, but a modest €45 for five.

But even without finishing, we had experienced enough of this mysterious tuber to appreciate why it is so celebrated in kitchens and dining rooms throughout the world. 

As Alexander Dumas, said: "The most learned men have been questioned as to the nature of this tuber, and after two thousand years of argument and discussion their answer is the same as it was on the first day: we do not know. The truffles themselves have been interrogated, and have answered simply: eat us and praise the Lord."

He knew what he was talking about.


Today from the everysmith vaults: The anniversaries of Subterranean Homesick Blues and Blood on the Tracks have prompted me to revisit these extraordinary recordings - not that I needed much encouragement, and I still prefer the New York version of BOTT. Live, I was in the audience at Wilde's last Sunday for definitely, positively, absolutely the final Swaps gig before the Beth hiatus. Quite brilliant.

The great and the good of the shire assembled in the Town Hall last week for the Mayor’s and Mayoress’s Civic Dinner; there to eat, drink, raise money for charity and listen to an after-dinner speech by Matthew Taylor. Jill and I were also present.

It was a glittering occasion. Mayoral bling was plentiful. Dinner jackets, lounge suits and “long evening and short cocktail dresses” were the order of the day. The food was fine; the red wine excellent. The company and generosity thereof outstanding.

But our fellow guests will forgive me for observing that the most interesting twenty minutes was the witty declamation of Matthew Taylor, the Chief Executive of the  RSA, the Royal Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce. Back in 1992, he stood as parliamentary candidate for the Leamington and Warwick constituency, so his audience at the Town Hall consisted of many who had actively campaigned against him as well as his agent at that time and several who voted for him: “vote Labour with no illusions” was our rationale at the time. He also worked as Chief Advisor on Strategy to Tony Blair, a role which probably united the entire room in opposition to this aspect of his career, given that Blair’s strategy was to stay in power long enough to feather his nest for decades to come.

Matthew Taylor is, of course, the son of Laurie Taylor, the ubiquitous sociologist and broadcaster, a man whom I have met twice. The first time was at a Marxist seminar at the University of York sometime in the late ‘60s; the second was at a corporate convention – NCR I think – at which he was the keynote speaker and I had written every other presentation. I observed to him on the latter occasion that we had both travelled a long road in a short space of time, and he had the grace to smile ruefully. As did I.

Such a journey is common. Amongst soixante-huitards, it is the road well-travelled. Laurie Taylor is by no means the only one I have met along the way.

But as I encountered more and more councillors at the Town Hall,  many of whom had been in and out of their seats according to electoral responses to policies beyond their control, I felt just a tad humbled.

They have not sat at home bemoaning the state of the town, the country and the world. They have tested their opinions in the public domain and worked for what they believe. And for every councillor who was involved in the granting of the licence for a sexual entertainment club or for the closing of LAMP, there are many who have contributed positively to the town and who have, like the Mayor and Mayoress John and Jane Knight, raised awareness and funds for charities such as One World Link, Leamington Children’s Centres and Shopmobility. (£3700 was the total for the Civic Dinner.)

Maybe we – I mean I - should learn from their example.

Today from the everysmith vaults: 2014 is one of those rare years in which I have not seen Bob Dylan live and in concert, so I have been listening to some of the recent shows (notably those in Australia earlier in the year).  He has found his voice and his enthusiasm. Again. A remarkable late flowering. And the Complete Basement Tapes is only a couple of weeks away …

Fifteen years ago, on a cold, crisp, clear day in February, we drove into Uzès for the first time and wandered through the narrow streets, past the Duché, in search of lunch. By chance we discovered an authentic bar à vins called Au Suisse d’Alger. The patron was Jean-Louis Bouvard, the eponymous Suisse d’Alger, and he made this English couple very welcome, happily discussing the couple of dozen wines available by the glass and, when it became clear that we were struggling to make a decision, decided for us. We each received a glass of Clos du Caillou. It was gorgeous.

“Where can we buy this?” we asked.

He pointed across the rue de la République to a small shop, La Cave du Suisse d’Alger. “Ma cave” he said.

He took us across the street and introduced us to his wife, Andrée, who was presiding over a wonderfully eclectic collection of wines and spirits. The frontage of the shop was narrow, but the depth was substantial. And so was the stock. There were local and Languedoc wines, of course, but they were from the then fledgling independent producers rather than the co-ops. What was unusual then - and is still today – was the plethora of wines from Bordeaux and Burgundy, from the Loire and Alsace, even from outside France! Not to mention several long-aged Cognacs and one of the largest collections of single malts I have seen outside Scotland.

What particularly impressed us was the enthusiasm with which the Bouvards discussed their wines and their selections, each punctuated by wonderfully told stories of the vignerons responsible for the wine. It was as if we were being shown round a private cellar by an amateur de vin rather than being sold to and it was, in no small measure, the reason why we decided that this part of the world would be the location for our second home.

Since then, La Cave du Suisse d’Alger has been our destination whenever we want a special bottle or two, an everyday bag-in-box, a new corkscrew or just a conversation about wine. The majority of our own cellar has been sourced from here or bought on a recommendation from here.

Jean-Louis and Andrée are retired now, but still make an appearance on jours feriés. Their Cave du Suisse d’Alger is under the aegis of Colette Arnaud who maintains the tradition of independent thinking about wine which Jean-Louis established a generation or more ago, talking with similar passion and erudition, and filling the shop with wines that she loves and that we, therefore, must taste.

There are now other caves and cavistes in Uzès and maybe half-a-dozen cafés which call themselves bars à vin. But ‘the Suisse’ was the first and – for us – still the best. We owe them a great deal. Santé.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Phil Lesh and the Terrapin Family Band have been on the road, including a couple of sets in London. And that's what I'm listening to right now. Enjoying especially vocalist Emily Sunderland. Better than Donna?

As I hope Iain Duncan Smith and his Department of Work and Pensions have remembered, last Saturday was my 65th birthday.

So we went to the seaside.  Specifically, to the fishing port of Sète which is almost, but not quite, an island – with the sea to the front and, at the back, the étang du Thau, long colonised by oyster and mussel beds. Towering over them is Mont Saint Clair, and three quarters of the way to the top of the mountain, along the Chemin de Huitième Station (the roads are named after the stations of the cross) is where Guy and Sophia had found us a gîte with the most sensational views over the Mediterranean.

Sète is famous for many things: Paul Valéry, sensational stretches of sandy beach, canals, fish and seafood, and its very own and bizarre water version of Medieval jousting.

Within an hour of arrival at the gite, we were canal-side, with a pichet of wine, and a grandstand view of the jousting. We selected our team – allez les bleus! – and settled in to watch the fun.

We won: the red lanceur ending up in the water five successive times.

Which was a great start and a good laugh. And to celebrate, we went for dinner. A fish supper. With, inevitably, in this part of the world, Picpoul de Pinet.

The thing about Sète is that it is very difficult to distinguish one place from another.

There is a vast swathe of restaurants along the quai.  They all look the same. They all have the same menus. They all are all priced about the same.

We chose Le Grand Bleu. Some atavistic memory had made me think it was good. Had I read a review? Was I thinking of IBM? In retrospect, I think I was confusing it with a famous oyster bar of the same name in Bouziques.

But as we sat down, we thought we were ok. It was early – we had young Dexter with us – and it was busy. With French people.

Problem was, it was too busy. The waiting staff couldn’t cope. And nor could the kitchen. So although the food was ok, it wasn’t the seafood delight that we had envisaged. But what the hell? Only my menu de degustation was actually bad. Everyone else’s was, well, ok. And they did have an excellent Picpoul de Pinet which washed away the majority of our issues.

The following day, we read, swam in the pool, and took it in turns to babysit. Jill and I sneaked out at lunchtime – an excellent salad in Café St Clair – and that evening Guy and Sophia struck lucky with fresh sole and great service in the Restaurant La Marine. And on Monday, Jill’s birthday, we went to the beach and took to the sea briefly before adjourning to one of those beach bars which the French do so well. The girls had Mojitos, which the French don't do so well.

On Tuesday, we drove home via Marseillan and another – this time sensational - sea food lunch in the port of this gorgeous little village.

And so back to St Quentin. And so to bed. A wonderful long weekend which was all too short.

Today from the everysmith vaults: The 30th of August was not just my birthday, Ted Williams's birthday and John Peel's birthday; it was the anniversary of the release, in 1965, of Highway 61 Revisited. So I've been revisiting this album and my collection of outtakes most of this week.

Yesterday was the third and final day of the 39th Foire aux Vins in Uzès, the first at which Duché d’Uzès wines can properly qualify for AOC (Appelation d’Origine Contrôlée) status and, in the French way, the first at which AOC no longer exists. It is now replaced by AOP (Appellation d’Origine Protégée), which amounts to much the same thing, except that there are more controls now that it is merely protégée than when it was controlée.

Of course, for all the rules and regulations attached to both, neither AOC nor AOP has anything to do with what really matters: the quality of the wine. And this point was reinforced at the tutored dégustation yesterday morning, with your correspondent in attendance in seat A1, which meant I was the last rather than the first person to receive my tasting sample of each of the eight Gold medal-winning wines on offer. (Had the Sox not waited until the 19th inning to lose in Anaheim, I would have arrived in time to sit anonymously and with tasting priority at the back!)

It is over a decade now since I found myself in full agreement with the worthy men and women of the Syndicat des Vignerons du Duché d’Uzès and try as he might, the charming and articulate M. Michel Guerber, our expert œnologue, was unable to convince me that these were the best wines in each category from our region this year.

The white wines were over-reliant on the aromatic Viognier in the blend for body and style. The rosé wines were made in a manner which is neither refreshingly Provençal nor the only-with-food rich fruit of the Tavel style, although both winners were Grenache-dominant.

And the reds? Once again, I was profoundly disappointed. All were 2012, so perhaps a year too young for any Rhône blend to be drunk with pleasure.  But even so, they were thin and tough, with a linear, undeveloped and undeveloping taste; and although I received Brownie points amongst my fellow-tasters for my comment about them being charnu, the taste to which I referred was more unadulterated wood than soft, integrated tannins.

So it was with some relief that I was able, at the completion of the hour's tasting, to stroll down the marquee mall and find Stand 32, where the delightful Ms. Lillard poured me a delicious and generous taste of her La Gramière rosé, a Rhône blend which is crisp and full, with the perfect balance of acidity and fruit.

And it was with this taste still fresh in my mouth that I left the 39th Foire. I am proud of our local wines, and pleased for those vignerons who have worked so hard to achieve the elevation to AOC – sorry, AOP – status. But I am concerned that too much effort is being devoted to the production of wines which meet all the increasingly numerous rules of the appellation but which lack individuality and flair.

They are, I am afraid, what HRH Jancis would term 'serviceable'.

What they are not, unfortunately, is inspired or inspiring. Dommage!

Today from the everysmith vaults: Once in a while, now for example, I tune in to Cassandra Wilson, shuffling her to listen to the full range of jazz, pop, blues, covers and originals. It's a beautiful voice - totally at home in this eclectic repertoire.

We arrived back in France on Samedi Noir, the first Saturday of August, when most of the population of northern France is heading south at high speed and, in the case of those from the capital, combining high speed with Parisian arrogance. Inevitably, the A9 was one vast bouchon, so Terri avoided the autoroute and took us through the centre of Nîmes and the garrigues, a journey which allowed her to display her skills at the wheel and the manoeuvrability of her Renault Clio.

We had left Leamington at 4.30 in the morning, made it through security at Luton by 6, took off at 6.30, and landed at 9. By 10.30 we were home, by 11 we were in the Bar du Marché for an apéro, and by 12.30 eating our first meal in Le Terr’In, where chef-patron Axel Bachelard has opened his own restaurant just 100 metres from our house, taking over the premises in which Cyrille ran, successfully as we thought, 30 Degrees Sud.

That was just four days ago as I write, and I can still taste the tenderness of the canette, the earthiness of the truffes blanc and the subtly citrus-dressed haricots verts that Axel served. It may not have been as refined in terms of presentation as his menu at Comptoir du 7, but it was delicious and, with a demi of the local rouge, it was the perfect welcome home meal.

We had been in the UK primarily for the grandchildren. Jill got to visit Dexi. I got to visit Maxi and Asher. And we both got to see the latest addition to the family, little Tiger.

But it is, nevertheless, good to be back in France and especially good to be back in St Quentin la Poterie. With the exception of the opening of Le Terr’In, which will receive another visit from us imminently, and an increase in the frequency of sub-tropical storms in late afternoon, nothing has changed.

Our old friends can still be found at their usual tables at their usual time. Our new friends are totally sympa and en accord with the rest of us, who are united by our love of France and la vie Français. The râleurs and flâneurs I have mentioned before are still evident. The fête votive in Uzès survived the storms with only a few cancellations of concerts, and the bulls charged down the boulevards with their usual insouciance, pursued and corralled by Camarguaise horsemen and women who had done it before milles fois. The fête in St Quentin is a couple of weeks away, and the Foire aux Vins takes place this weekend. I have seen the winners of the best wines and am delighted to see that our facture, Serge, has won a silver for his Cevennes red. On Sunday morning, as last year and the year before, I will be at the œnological tasting on the Esplanade, nose in glass and notebook in hand.

I am conscious that this is an idyll which must come to an end at some point this fall but not, I hope, before we have had the chance to contribute to the 2014 vendange for Amy and Matt.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

P.S. Richard and Janet, this one is for you. Great to meet you.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Robert Hunter, the Dead lyricist who worked so well with Jerry, has recently allowed a number of his recent shows to be posted on the archive. I have downloaded several and am very much enjoying these totally different versions of great songs.

When I joined the Twittersphere, the first person I followed was Jancis Robinson. If Jancis posts a link, I follow it and I am both wiser and better informed for doing so. If I am – as so often – ignorant of a grape variety, a domaine or chateau, a region, or a vintage, it is to Ms Robinson that I and my computer turn. And if I take the opportunity to taste one of her recommendations, I am seldom disappointed. She is, in short, my first port of call when seeking information about wine and the wine trade.

Last week, searching randomly through my fiction bookshelves, I found, between the swathes of Simon Raven and Philip Roth, a pristine copy her 1997 autobiography, Confessions of a Wine Lover. It is a first edition. It must have been a gift that Christmas. But it was unread.

It is no longer. I read it over the weekend with delight and pleasure, regretting that I had not read it earlier and that it ends in 1997.  And regretting also that I did not discover wine when I was at university and trying to find something about which I could write sensibly, because Ms Robinson and I are almost direct contemporaries. We have both drank our way through the profound changes in wine since the 70s, in my case with significantly less discrimination than she. We have both swilled our way through four hour lunches. We have both shared tables with people of gargantuan appetites – for wine, for food, for life. And we both now spend not enough time in the Languedoc.

The difference is, she made wine her life and, in doing so, gave to others a life-time passion. She wouldn’t and doesn’t claim to have transformed wine writing, although she did; nor to have taken on the pin-striped male world of the wine trade, although she did; nor to have approached each wine as a wine lover rather (as Parker terms himself) a wine critic, although she did.

In fact, the section about Parker and Parkerisation is one of the most interesting in the book. Although she is too polite – and she is always polite – to criticise Robert Parker for his influence on, especially, red Bordeaux, it is clear that she does not share his taste nor his tastes. She classifies one wine as ‘The Sort of Wine Parker Likes’. But she does acknowledge that, after visiting him in Maryland, he knows exactly “what wine is for: to convive with, to wallow in, sitting round a table in good company with good food”.

Which is very much my view, and why I enjoyed so much her stories of lunches and tastings and conversations with the great and the good, the raffish and the louche.  Why I have only the slightest envy for the fact that she has led a life fulfilled with all objectives achieved. Why I don’t begrudge her the sense of contentment and satisfaction which is apparent on (almost) every page.

She is, currently, and we are – embarrassingly – discussing this 17 years after the publication of the book, probably the most respected wine writer around. And deservedly so. Because she is a true lover of wine.

And she is not a bad writer, either. 

Here’s to you, Ms Robinson. May you long enjoy the fruits (and tannins) of your labours.

Today from the everysmith vaults: In my head, I am listening to American Spring, a lovely album from 1972 by Diane Rovell and Marylin Wilson, the latter briefly married to Brian Wilson who produced at least some of this album. I have it only on vinyl (which is in France while I am in the UK), and although it was once issued on CD, it is no longer available. If anyone has it, I’ll trade …

And finally:

It’s a boy! Another boy!

There has been a run of boy babies on Cassi’s side of the family recently. My mother’s last six great-grandchildren have all been male, so we’re two-thirds of the way towards the Red Sox team in the late 2030s. This one looks like the shortstop to me.

He entered the world with an understandable reluctance, giving his beautiful mother, father and medical staff quite a few anxious moments over many hours. But he’s here now. He’s gorgeous. And he is very, very welcome.

What we must do now to celebrate his arrival is ensure that his head is wetted appropriately. And this grandfather is, as before, in something of a quandary: I don’t do champagne.

Traditionally, I revert to the classics. First daughter Vic was toasted with a 1970 Margaux; Cass with a 1975 Gruaud-Larose. We also did well by the boys: a 2000 Larrivet-Haut-Brion (Maximilian) and an excellent Vieux Télégraphe from Chateauneuf (Asher). So what will we drink to wet the head of the as yet unnamed child of Cass and Michael?

I have narrowed it down to two, and neither have the classy status of those I drank to celebrate the birth of my daughters and my first grandsons. The one is a vin de pays Principauté d’Orange; the other a vin de France from the Rhône valley.

In other words, both are magnificent wines which have fallen foul of the French wine laws and those who would enforce them.

The first is from Chateauneuf, and a highly rated domaine – de la Janasse. It was drunk in serious quantities at the weddings of Owain and Tess and Vic and Andrew. The one in front of me is a 2008, it is drinking beautifully, and it is made with love and care by one of the great families of C-Du-P. But it is merely a vin du pays because – wonderfully and illegally – it combines Cabernet and Merlot with the obvious and traditional Syrah and Grenache.

The second is La Gramière which is made naturally in small quantities and tiny vineyards close to the Pont du Gard by two Americans, Amy Lillard and Matt Kling. 

The one I have in mind is the 2011, because after starting life a tad reluctantly (just like the baby in whose honour it will be drunk), it suddenly starting singing its heart out about six or seven months ago. Right now, it is as good a Rhône as I have ever tasted. And for those of you who participated in the vendange in 2011, to drink it now makes every back-breaking minute worthwhile.

The problem is, it is not the kind of Rhône which the custodians of the Côtes-du-Rhône appellation enjoy. Probably because it shows up much of the dross that is produced and sold by the vat-load with Côtes-du-Rhône on the label. 

But it's about time us wine-lovers started to exercise their rights rather than doing what they are told by the merchants and pundits.

As you might expect, I have a glass of each in front of me as I type. The C-du-P which isn’t C-du-P is lovely, and warm, with a deep robe and massive depth of texture. The C-du-R which isn’t C-Du-R is luscious but structured, with blueberries and brambles and velvet and chocolate.

And it is the latter which I will drink this evening in honour of my new grandson. Here’s to you Cass and Michael and your new child.

David Ortiz Linforth has a certain ring to it ....

Today from the everysmith vaults: By chance this morning I clicked on the eponymous album, Papa John Creach. This is good and worthy of your attention. I commend it to you.