On to Beaune

We gobbled down the French breakfast, paid the bill, thanked the ‘madam’ for her gracious hospitality, quietly leaving Amboise on the D61 for Montrichard, The N76 would then take us via Vierson, Bourges and Nevers. We stopped for lunch at St-Benin d’Azy, another tidy conventionally pretty town, with the ubiquitous church, market square encircled by provincial brightly painted cafes. The group, currently exhibiting a much more adventurous spirit, confidently swaggered into the nearest ‘truly French’ bistro. Bursting with childlike enthusiasm began to immediately trawl through the extensive ‘a la carte’ menu, aping the mincing effeminate food critics of ‘The London Evening Standard’. “I say Jack”, said John the electrician, “I quite fancy starting with the Foie de Porc Braise followed by Le Cassoulet de Castelnaudary, I do realize that it is not indigenous of the region as a result much better consumed in it’s native Toulouse or Carcassonne, but I feel like some ‘fill belly’ before my Cremets d’ Anger”. “A fine choice” returned Jack, the oily rag, “Oddly enough, I prefer the Poulet a l’Estragon avec Galette de pommes de terre complimented by a much lighter Saint Emillion au Chocolat for dessert, and, of course a selection of local fromage to mop up all the grease”. “Fuck me you Bastards,” responded Graham, the bus driver, with a smile on his face, “You have only ordered all of my favourite dishes, I shall have to settle for Rognons au Mais, Gigot aux Flageolets avec Chou Farci Chasseur accompanied finally by a small portion of Gateau de Marrons, that should satisfy my kench!” Geoff and I feasted on oeufs avec pomme frites washed down with un tasse de the. Every body replenished, by the early evening of Sunday 14^th of November, the D973 led our little convoy to Chateau Chinon, Autun then diagonally south east into medieval Beaune. 

The town square of Beaune is encircled by wonderfully twisted blackened timber framed 16^th century buildings randomly subdivided by smaller courtyards that disappear down even narrower winding alleyways. It is also notable for covered Gothic arched walkways supported by limestone columns on polished flagstone paved floors plotting the original 13^th century market.

We were not staying in the historic centre but we were offered, by our wine importer, William Trufore of Prothero and son, Bold street Liverpool, the facilities of his room at the local 1960’s motel. Ominously, it was at this point that things could have gone seriously ‘belly’ up. Earlier in the day we had contacted him regarding the arrangements for the evening. It was then that he suggested we should freshen up at the motel before we attend the soiree at the ‘cave’ of the ‘Patron’. Traditionally, on the night of the release of the wine personal, prior invitations had been sent out to the ‘great and the good’ of the village to attend the celebration dinner that evening. These would include all the local gentry, the priest, the chief of police, the Mairie, the editor of the village newspaper and anyone else who had an interest in the Beaujolais Nouveau, but principally, the all important ‘acheters’ of the wine. We met our wine importer for the first time, M. Trufore just as he was leaving the motel. He hurriedly explained that he must attend an important pre-arranged business meeting before the dinner; he insisted that we should remain there to relax, benefit from the hotel facilities but above all take time to recover from an arduous day’s drive.
After the meeting he would return to the motel at 7.30 escorting us directly to the venue where we could enjoy the events of the evening. By 7.45 there was no sign of William, naturally we were beginning to become concerned since the dinner was planned to begin at 8.pm. By 7.55 we realized that we either had been overlooked or simply forgotten; we decided to do something about it, but how? We didn’t know where the cave was located.