Nightingales, Butterflies and Chapel St. Luc

By James Mann

On 14 June 2003 we had yet to experience our infamous canicule (heat wave) but the weather was warming up nicely with temperatures rarely falling below 20 deg C at night. During the week a letter had arrived inviting us to a wine tasting evening at Domain Rossignal

(Nightingale in English). Pascal, the owner,

who we now know well is the grandson of the original vineron. The grandfather had combined the trades of vineron and blacksmith. His wines were typical of the wines of this area

at that time in that they were wet, alcoholic and

useful for cleaning down engines. Pascal's father increased his area of vineyard and joined the local Cave Cooperatives. This was, and still is, an association of several vinerons, sometimes up to 30 or so, who together have their grapes made into wine at a central jointly owned cave, using skilled labour. This not only shared the cost hut also considerably increased the quality of the wine.

When Pascal inherited there was a growing trend to move out of Cave Cooperatives and to become Cave Particulars and this he did. With a Cave Particular a single owner grows the grapes and makes and bottles his own wine. Like a Single Malt whisky in Scotland. The emphasis is now on quality and with each vineron concentrating on the grapes best suited to his vineyards the quality of the local wines holds up well against many of the well-known Bordeaux wines.

Our invitation was to taste a Cotes du Rousillon red that had won not one, but two, Bacchus awards. We put on our French disguise by driving there in our 1974 Ciuoen Ami 8. Arriving at the table piled high with the usual French nibbles we found Pascal poised with a bottle of the Bacchus wine at just the right temperature and the correct angle to pour the usual generous half glass for tasting. Not this time, at 12.5 Euros per bottle, when I usually buy his Vm de Pays Catalan at just over one euro a litre envrac, we got just a large thimble full, but what wine, superb on the nose and pure nectar to sip. This was not a wine to be guzzled down. It was as far away from his grandfather's wine as it is possible to get. I bought a couple of bottles to lay down for a very special occasion trying not to think that 25 euros was usually enough for a whole months wine.

At an earlier visit Pascal had told us that his vineyards were some five kilometres away surrounding Chapel St Luc. We had visited the Chapel before on a three hour round walk from Le Boulou but had never been to it by road. The sun

Marbled White on Privet

by Beryl Johnson

was still shining and it was a lovely warm evening the biting heat of the day having passed so we decided to visit the Chapel and admire the surrounding countryside, for although the Chapel is only at an altitude of204 metres the ground falls away on all sides giving a dear view. We followed the narrow winding road through the vineyards remarking that like Suffolk the road went round the fields/vineyards not daring to encroach on the fertile bit. Also like much of Suffolk there was a single crop but here it is divided up into small parcels, which average little over a hectare each. They are of differing colours according to the grape variety and the lines of vines run in various directions influenced by the inclination of the plot and the angle of the sun for the longest period of the day. The last 200 metres to the Chapel were up a steeply rising dirt track.

The Chapel is surrounded by an extensive grassed area that slopes down to the surrounding apron of cork oak trees. Anne and her friend Diana, who featured in "A Place of Tranquillity'' went off to sit on a fallen log and listen to the nightingales and other birds that were in song. I ambled off to investigate the few white butterflies that were fluttering from flower to flower amongst the rough grass. These turned our to be Marbled Whites with up to twenty in sight at any one time. To one side dose to the trees a small group of dainty smaller whites were flitting around and identified as Wood Whites, they kept themselves to a small area not nuxmg with the other species. A much larger white-based butterfly turned up and began patrolling back and fotth. Very common to us he was easy to recognise as the white version of the Scarce Swallowtail. He soon got fed up looking for another of its kind and flew off for pastures new freeing me up to look elsewhere. As usual for this time of the year there were plenty of Pearly Heaths. The several Clouded Yellows and Walls I ignored for these two species vie with each other as to which is on the wing for the longest period of the year. The considerable number of small dark butterflies that were keeping low to the flowery spread all seemed to be Purple Hairstreaks but following a different one proved that there were a number of Long-tailed Blues with us. A flash of blue and I was off to chase another species, a small busy insect waylaid me and as the single one I saw landed I thought of all the Small Skippers that had given me enjoyment in Suffolk. The blue was no where to be seen but after a few minutes it, or at . least one of the several Small Blues I saw, gave a good display of colour in the sunshine. The two distinct different Fritillaries caused me great problems and as they refused to senle, exact identification was beyond my limited knowledge. Seeking an easier task I concentrated on the red and black insects acting in a fairly sedentary way on the flowers. The identification of the nonlepidoptera was not my present concern but the Burnet Moths I recognised and spent a long peaceful time counting spots and was pleased to find about equal numbers of both Five and Six spots. A noise disturbed the concentration. It was Anne and Diana politely asking if I intended spending all night on my knees in the grass, they were hungry. Being reminded of it I realised I was also in that state. As we made for the car we passed a couple of Painted Ladies and saw a crafty Red Admiral soaking up the last rays of the falling sun. The best times are unexpected, what was to be a simple wine tasting turned into a very pleasant and relaxing evening prior to an excellent meal.

Wood White

by Beryl Johnson