Quitting the banks of the river, we ascend a steep tortuous road, shut in on either side by high stone walls—for hereabouts all the best vineyards are scrupulously enclosed—and finally reach the summit of the heights, whence a view is gained over what the Saumurois proudly style the grand valley of the Loire. Everywhere around the vintage is going on. The vines are planted rather more than a yard apart, and those yielding black grapes are trained, as a rule, up tall stakes, although some few are trained espalier fashion. Women dexterously detach the bunches with pruning-knives and throw them into the seilles—small squat buckets with wooden handles—the contents of which are emptied from time to time into baskets—the counterpart of the chiffonnier’s hotte, and coated with pitch inside so as to close all the crevices of the wickerwork—which the portes-bastes carry slung to their backs. When white wine is being made from black grapes for sparkling Saumur, the grapes are conveyed in these baskets to the underground pressoirs in the neighbouring villages before their skins get at all broken, in order that the wine may be as pale as possible in colour.
The black grape yielding the best wine in the Saumur district is the breton, said to be the same as the carbinet-sauvignon, the leading variety in the grand vineyards of the Médoc. Other species of black grapes cultivated around Saumur are the varennes, yielding a soft and insipid wine of no kind of value, and the liverdun, or large gamay, the prevalent grape in the Mâconnais, and the same which in the days of Philippe-le-Hardi the parlements of Metz and Dijon interdicted the planting and cultivation of. The prevalent white grapes are the large and small pineau blanc, the bunches of the former being of an intermediate size, broad and pyramidal in shape, and with the berries close together. These have fine skins, are oblong in shape, and of a transparent yellowish-green hue tinged with red, are very sweet and juicy, and as a rule ripen late. As for the small pineau, the bunches are less compact, the berries are round and of a golden tint, are finer as well as sweeter in flavour, and ripen somewhat earlier than the fruit of the larger variety.
We noticed as we drove through the villages of Champigny and Varrains—the former celebrated for its fine red wines, and more especially its cru of the Clos des Cordeliers—that hardly any of the houses had windows looking on to the narrow street, but that all were provided with low openings for shooting the grapes into the cellar, where, when making red wine, they are trodden, but when making white wine, whether from black or white grapes, they are invariably pressed. Each of the houses had its ponderous porte-cochère and low narrow portal leading into the large enclosed yard at its side, and over the high blank walls vines were frequently trained, pleasantly varying their dull gray monotony.
The grapes on being shot into the openings just mentioned fall through a kind of tunnel into a reservoir adjacent to the heavy press, which is invariably of wood and of the old-fashioned cumbersome type. They are forthwith placed beneath the press and usually subjected to five separate squeezes, the must from the first three being reserved for sparkling wine, while that from the two latter, owing to its being more or less deeply tinted, only serves for table-wine. The must is at once run off into casks, in order that it may not ferment on the grape-skins and imbibe any portion of their colouring matter. Active fermentation speedily sets in, and lasts for a fortnight or three weeks, according to whether the temperature chances to be high or low.
The vintaging of the white grapes takes place about a fortnight later than the black grapes, and is commonly a compound operation, the best and ripest bunches being first of all gathered just as the berries begin to get shrivelled and show symptoms of approaching rottenness. It is these selected grapes that yield the best wine. The second gathering, which follows shortly after the first, includes all the grapes remaining on the vines, and yields a wine perceptibly inferior in quality. The grapes on their arrival at the press-house are generally pressed immediately, and the must is run off into tuns to ferment. At the commencement these tuns are filled up every three or four days to replace the fermenting must which has flowed over; afterwards any waste is made good at the interval of a week, and then once a fortnight, the bungholes of the casks being securely closed towards the end of the year, by which time the first fermentation is over.
It should be noted that the Saumur sparkling wine manufacturers draw considerable supplies of the white wine, required to impart lightness and effervescence to their vin préparé, from the Vouvray vineyards. Vouvray borders the Loire a few miles from the pleasant city of Tours, which awakens sinister recollections of truculent Louis XI., shut up in his fortified castle of Plessis-lez-Tours, around which Scott has thrown the halo of his genius in his novel of Quentin Durward. A succession of vineyard slopes stretch from one to another of the many historic châteaux along this portion of the Loire, the romantic associations of which render the Touraine one of the most interesting provinces of France. Near Tours, besides the vineyards of Saint-Cyr are those of Joué and Saint-Avertin; the two last situate on the opposite bank of the Cher, where the little town of Joué, perched on the summit of a hill in the midst of vineyards, looks over a vast plain known by the country-people as the Landes de Charlemagne, the scene, according to local tradition, of Charles Martel’s great victory over the Saracens. The Saint-Avertin vineyards extend towards the east, stretching almost to the forest of Larçay, on the borders of the Cher, where Paul Louis Courier, the famous vigneron pamphleteer of the Restoration, noted alike for his raillery, wit, and satire, fell beneath the balls of an assassin. A noticeable cru in the neighbourhood of Tours is that of Cinq Mars, the ruined château of which survives as a memorial of the vengeance of Cardinal Richelieu, who, after having sent its owner to the scaffold, commanded its massive walls and towers to be razed ‘à hauteur d’infamie,’ as we see them now.
Touraine, from its central position, its pleasant air, and its fertile soil, was ever a favourite residence of the earlier French monarchs, and down to the days of the Bourbons the seat of government continually vacillated between the banks of the Seine and those of the Loire. The vintages that ripen along the river have had their day of court favour too; for if Henri of Andelys sneeringly describes the wine of Tours as turning sour, in his famous poem of the Bataille des Vins, the sweet white wines of Anjou were greatly esteemed throughout the Middle Ages, and, with those of Orleans, were highly appreciated in Paris down to the seventeenth century. The cult of the ‘dive Bouteille’ and the fashion of Pantagruelic repasts have always found favour in the fat and fertile ‘garden of France;’ and the spectacle of citizens, courtiers, and monks staggering fraternally along, ‘waggling their heads,’ as Rabelais describes them, after a night of it at the tavern, was no uncommon one in the streets of its old historic towns during the period of the Renaissance.
TAVERN ROYSTERERS AT EARLY MORNING IN THE TOURAINE.
On proceeding to Vouvray from Tours, we skirt a succession of poplar-fringed meadows, stretching eastward in the direction of Amboise along the right bank of the Loire; and after a time a curve in the river discloses to view a range of vine-clad heights, extending some distance beyond the village of Vouvray. Our route lies past the picturesque ruins of the abbey of Marmoûtier, immortalised in the piquant pages of the Contes Drôlatiques, and the Château des Roches—one of the most celebrated castles of the Loire—the numerous excavations in the soft limestone ridge on which they are perched being converted as usual into houses, magazines, and wine-cellars. We proceed through the village of Rochecorbon, and along a road winding among the spurs of the Vouvray range, past hamlets, half of whose inhabitants live in these primitive dwellings hollowed out of the cliff, and finally enter the charming Vallé Coquette, hemmed in on all sides with vine-clad slopes. Here a picturesque old house, half château, half homestead, was pointed out to us as a favourite place of sojourn of Balzac, who held the wine of Vouvray in high esteem, and who speaks of this rocky ridge as ‘inhabited by a population of vine-dressers, their houses of several stories being hollowed out in the face of the cliff, and connected by dangerous staircases hewn in the soft stone. Smoke curls from most of the chimneys which peep above the green crest of vines, while the blows of the cooper’s hammer resound in several of the cellars. A young girl trips to her garden over the roofs of these primitive dwellings, and an old woman, tranquilly seated on a ledge of projecting rock, supported solely by straggling roots of ivy spreading itself over the disjointed stones, leisurely turns her spinning-wheel, regardless of her dangerous position.’ The foregoing picture, sketched by the author of La Comédie Humaine forty years ago, has scarcely changed at the present day.