It was hardly my most glamorous hour. Soon after arriving in the heart of the sophisticated Champagne region I was teetering at the top of a narrow and exceedingly tall cellar vault. In a blue boiler suit. And a pair of gardener’s gloves.
I was having trouble knowing where to look. Below, the vault disappeared worryingly for 30m into an inky gloom. Above my head hovered the substantial behind of Christian, my beardy abseiling guide who looked like Father Christmas on an outward-bound course.
“Allez-y!” he cried as I slid slowly down into the chalky recesses of Leclerc Briant’s champagne cellars via an entrance traditionally reserved for bottles.
Maybe it was the thought of all the bubbly waiting at the bottom; maybe I wanted to put some distance between me and Christian’s looming bottom. But I surprised myself as I picked up speed and whizzed down the vault with all the finesse of a Bond girl – or at least a Bond girl in a boiler suit. Of all the things I’ve done in my life to get a glass of champagne, from passing exams to enduring an endless stream of relatives’ weddings, this was the most fun.
Champagne, it seems, is getting a sense of humour. No longer the domain of snooty sommeliers and extortionate prices, you can head to this beautiful part of France for a weekend of frothy silliness and relaxed pootling through vineyards, with the odd avian spectacle thrown in for good measure. And with the new TGV-Est high-speed railway, Reims is a mere 45 minutes from the centre of Paris – closer than Versailles.
After my unorthodox entrance into the champagne cellars, in the town of Épernay, I padded through the dark network of tunnels and caverns where the walls glistened with condensation and row upon row of dusty green bottles lay in silent anticipation of when they would be allowed to go pop.
Learning about the production of champagne is an essential part of understanding this region. For the locals, it is more than just a provider of jobs: it is a hallowed process they are immensely proud of and eager to teach to visitors. Just take a look at some of the stained glass windows in Reims Cathedral – no sombre Madonna and child, but a joyful celebration of the grape and man’s ability to turn it into the finest drink on earth.
The next morning it was time to venture into the vineyards. Armed with a map and a bicycle, I pedalled out of Épernay past men playing pétanque and onto the terribly grand Avenue de Champagne, puffing my way alongside the stuccoed mansions and manicured lawns of Moët et Chandon, Perrier Jouët and Mercier.
Out in the countryside the gentle hills were scored with ranks of vines stretching out to the horizon. It was March so they were bare, the gnarly brown stalks curling up from the ground and twisting round the wires like witches’ fingers. Startled partridges burst out of the undergrowth as I passed; a hare raced across the track and then lolloped down a row of vines.
Between the hills I meandered through important wine-growing villages – Chouilly, Cuis, Cramant, Avize – with pretty Romanesque churches, and tractors rumbling through the streets. In Hautvillers, I made a quick detour to the abbey to pay my respects at Dom Pérignon’s tomb, before settling into the café in the main square for a plate of local cheese. Around me, in the soft afternoon sun, sat a group of walkers in muddy boots, some villagers and two farmers. Without exception we were all sipping champagne – and it couldn’t have felt more natural.
Which is more than can be said for my 5.30 alarm the next morning. I was now at Lac du Der, an hour’s drive south east of Épernay, where I had made my way the previous evening and had one too many ratafias (champagne liqueurs) in the hotel bar. So it was with a bleary head that I fumbled my way down to reception to meet Emmanuel, head of the local Ligue pour la Protection des Oiseaux (LPO, the French RSPB) for a spot of early-morning crane-watching.
Lac du Der provides a crucial stopping point on the cranes’ migration across Europe – the avian equivalent of a motorway service station – where up to 40,000 of them congregate every October and March for a breather. I could hear their shrill squabbling as we reached the edge of the lake but, peering into the blue mist on the water’s surface, I couldn’t see any birds. Emmanuel smiled and trained his telescope onto the far side of the lake. Sure enough, I peered through the eyepiece to see a vast throng of cranes slowly waking up and stretching their wings.
“But… they’re miles away,” I said, slightly regretting leaving my warm bed.
Emmanuel smiled again and glanced towards the east. “Patience, mon amie.”
It was when the sky was turning the colour of a robust rosé that the first dots appeared. Slowly the dots became blobs, then bird-shaped silhouettes, their long legs trailing behind them as they flew over our heads trilling noisily, towards the plains where they feed. For the next 15 minutes a constant trail of cranes followed the leaders, the pink sky scarred with a wobbly trail of birds, like a five-year-old’s scribble with an indelible marker pen. Some broke off to form giant V-shapes, others flapped in perfect unison – an exquisite display of ornithological ballet in the early morning mist.
Twenty minutes later I peered again through the telescope – nothing to see but reeds, some rippling water and a handful of rebel cranes who just couldn’t be bothered to get up.
Personally, I was glad I had dragged myself out of bed. Pleased too that I’d taken the time to look beyond the Champagne stereotype. Friends had raised their eyebrows when I’d told them where I was going.
“Well, how very la-di-dah,” they’d said. True, I’d eaten wonderful food and drunk more than my fair share of fizz, but I hadn’t spent a fortune, I’d got out into nature and not once had I had to change out of my scruffy old jeans. Except, of course, for the boiler suit.
