Our hay is uncut, and the cows are cooped up in the barn. The ash-leaves unfurled only days ago, and the fox cubs are still living under the hedgerow. The potatoes have not flowered nor have the beans gripped their poles. The ponds are cold and the fish sluggish. Only the magpies, policing the hedgerows for fledglings, have a summer air about them. In their curatical uniforms, manically chattering and abusing the young, they give a distinct impression of hormones. The rest of nature has struck 2002 from its agenda, and is now burying its head in the warrens.
Nevertheless, Corney & Barrow is offering, in its urban innocence, a selection of "summer wines". I have consumed the lot, to the accompaniment of Haydn's Creation, the most life-affirming of his many life-affirming works, and the best possible substitute for summer. The Muscadet sur Lie was the first to make the journey into darkness. The words "sur Lie" refer to the local way of inducing the ludicrous Muscadelle grape to acquire a taste - by leaving the must on the lees throughout fermentation, and then racking off the wine straight into the bottle. As for the result - well, it enabled us to ponder the leaden skies above and the leaden kippers on our plates, and not feel entirely defeated.
Muscadet gave way to the Argentine Pinot Gris. C&B tells us that the Pinot Gris is "thoroughly at home in Argentina" - which distinguishes it from everybody I have met, and in particular from the Argentinians. As a Borges fan, however, I believe that it is right and proper to be thoroughly not at home in Argentina, so long as you stay there. This bright, zingy concoction, which enabled us to swallow those ghastly kippers, made us thoroughly at home in summerless Wiltshire. As for Argentina, who knows. In any case, it is winter there, and all the banks are closed.
The Rheingau Riesling, according to C&B, is "light in alcohol". Actually, at 11 per cent, it is three degrees above the traditional measure for Hock, and testimony to the great efforts made by the Germans to produce plonk for the proles. A supple, fruity mouthful despite its strength, and a tribute to the Schonborn family, which has been making wines since 1349, and has now diversified into cardinals.
Finally a real Beaujolais, with smooth, melodious fruit and deep rejoicings in the stomach. Most Beaujolais is crap; this is perfection - a wine that can be drunk chilled as an aperitif or, when summer refuses to appear, at room temperature (that is to say, chilled). This wine, consumed after dinner with Haydn's great dialogue between Adam and Eve, was all that we shall know this year, and all that we need to know, of summer.
