The small town is considered the capital of champagne rather than its big sister Reims. It was cold, sparkling and beautiful. Then with an English-speaking guide you descend into the brick-lined cellars underneath.
Dimly lit, the cellars engender a feeling of reverence, bordering on awe. The dusty bottles are stacked in racks with deliberately bewildering numbers and letters at the top of each stack. Only the cellar master and his assistants know what they mean. And this is just the showcase. No bubbly served here for a start. The museum is full of the kinds of models I love. Strange skeletons for those who are into osteology; pots and shards for the archaeologists.
I spent time with the Romans. Did you know that Roman roads often had three tracks? One elevated for those Roman armies to march from city to city, and one each side for the horses and carts of the plebs. The champagne production section is just as interesting with oddities, and quirky information on the process itself. Ascend slowly up to metres high for a view of the surrounding vineyards and villages.
It only takes off in good weather, so check before you go. Vintage cars and vans are something of a universal passion in France. In fact, so popular are they that companies have sprung up all over giving tours in the sedate old ladies. The back of the van was set up like a bar and a bottle of champagne produced. Up stepped one of our party to do the honours of beheading the bottle. The bottle and the top with the cork have to be cold.
You line up the bottle so the join of the two parts of the bottle is facing upwards. Take the sabre in your hand; hold out the bottle and hit the end of the cork firmly. The cork flies off and into the vines to be retrieved as a souvenir. But I will. Which is a pretty bold claim.
