It’s only 150 years since a toff was roasted in the remote Dordogne village of Hautefaye. The poor soul was a French aristocrat resented by the locals. Perhaps he was an outsider. Perhaps he was a second-homer taking advantage of the delights of the Dordogne without ever turning up to any 19th-century equivalents of today’s wine and cheese festivals, arts exhibitions and boules tournaments.
Silly fellow. Outsiders in 2013 — well, the Brits, anyway — are proper joiner-inners and the French are perfectly happy to have them around. But my goodness there are a lot of them. Never mind Chiantishire in Italy, this is where the 4×4 brigade decamp from Marlborough and Malmesbury every summer, soaking up in the lovely countryside while desperately hoping to sniff out a château on the cheap with, ideally, a few acres of vines out the back.
Grape expectations abound in the Dordogne — and for good reason.
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