For most people I know, holidays are a time to relax. And in the English language, “relaxing” is becoming ever more synonymous with drinking. But for us wine writers, things are different. Outside holiday time, our diaries are stuffed with back-to-back tastings. I certainly don’t ask for pity, just incredulity at the number of wine tastings we might be invited to in one day – between one and six from September to June with just two or three weeks off for Christmas.
So, I must admit, I positively relish the holidays as a time when any exposure to alcohol – and I do realise it’s a potential toxin – is voluntary. For me, relaxation is not having to take the milk thistle extract that I have persuaded myself protects my liver from occupational hazard.
As a result, by the end of our first week this year in our holiday house in the Languedoc, my husband was complaining rather peevishly about the short rations he felt the cellar mistress of the household was administering compared with his generous output from the kitchen. I suppose his disappointment at a relatively empty wine glass must have been all the more bittersweet because our house happens to be surrounded by vineyards.