Remembering Burgundy

By Mary Margaret McCamic MW | General Manager, Karolus Wine Imports

The first trip I ever took to Burgundy was in 2009. I worked for an importer in New York City, and together with some of the wine directors at our top accounts, we all traveled to France to spend time with our producers.

Parts of that memory seem faded and distant now, like an old photograph, yellowing at the edges. Yet when I close my eyes, I can still feel what I felt back then. I can sense the warm sun on my shoulders, smell that fresh country air, and see green leaves rustling in the wind, vine after vine, for miles. Time is funny that way.

Since that trip, I have traveled to Burgundy many times, and typically I find myself there a couple times a year. This year, in these times, the inability to travel has stopped those plans in their tracks. All I have to rely upon to take me to Burgundy are the bottles of wine that I drink, and the long, winding corridor of memories in my mind.

The thing about Burgundy is that it almost feels like a different place and time. The streets and buildings are so much older there; from the perspective of a young American who had never been out of the country prior to that visit, it seemed like a whole different world. Even now, when I travel to Burgundy, it seems simpler, welcoming, and slower-paced than many other places in the world. Growing grapes and making wine is a natural part of everyday life there. Sitting on an old stone wall eating a sandwich, with a glass of wine in hand at noon, for example, might seem decadent elsewhere; in Burgundy, it feels like a well-deserved treat, but not a lavish one.

One of my most favorite trips to Burgundy occurred in 2017 with my now-husband. We spent time in Champagne, and then drove through miles of vines down to Chablis, where we spent our nights enjoying some of its best bottles, and our days walking in the slopes of Grand Cru Chablis and its seven climats. To think that millions of years ago, those slopes were under warm, shallow seas or that the Kimmeridgian soils that help create some of the best chardonnay grapes on earth are made of fossilized sea life is something that moves me even now as I type these words. The powerful feeling of being amidst those vines on a warm July day, look out onto living, geographical history is indescribable. On our last day in Chablis, we purchased picnic materials at its beautiful Sunday farmer’s market, packed up the car, and drove down to the Côte d’Or, soaking up the fresh summer air and stopping occasionally to photograph our favorite vineyards along the way.

We’d made it to the village of Volnay when our stomachs started growling, so we pulled over to find a place to stop, eat, and enjoy the bottle of Champagne we’d kept in a cooler from our time in Aÿ. It was a Sunday, late afternoon, and the air was warm, but comfortable. We decided to sit on a stone wall surrounding vines fairly high up on the slope, where we could sit, drink, eat, and contemplate the soil color and texture of Pommard, Volnay’s neighboring village, in contrast to Volnay itself.

I remember the breeze whipping the leaves, offering a constant, gentle rustling. I remember feeling completely at peace. We had not a care in the world. Our biggest concern was savoring every bite of our cheese, baguette, and bubbles on that beautiful day in Burgundy.

The world is an ever-changing place. Wine has the ability to ground us.

I am fortunate. My home is in Napa. The vines here can mend the soul as well, and it is far from a difficult spot to stay put when travel to Burgundy is not possible. But when I’m most weary, when I long for comfort and a feeling of peace, I take myself to Burgundy in my mind, and stay there for a little while. My memories are most vivid with a glass of Bonneau du Martray in hand.

Cheers.