Of Jurancon, Madeleines and Memories

And so it is with our own past. It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect. And as for that object, it depends on chance whether we come upon it or not before we ourselves must die.

Proust

One of my Proustian madeleines is Jurancon. Even the name provokes awakenings, the rolling r and the sibilance of the cedilla, the word is full of contours mirroring the way wine slides and grips the palate.

Points in time…

I first tasted Jurancon in a restaurant in Blandford Street. I remember the attractive golden hues glinting in the glass, an irresistible nose of marzipan and pink grapefruit and a ray of acidity singing to the bottom of the glass. I tend to forget names easily, but the name of this wine etched itself firmly in my consciousness.

Cut to a white-clothed table outside a restaurant in Bearn overlooking a valley bathed in early evening summer sunshine and a glass of Jurancon catching the golden light. Then move to a vineyard and the smell of warm earth and white rocks between the vines and the brilliant light. And finally across the valley to another domaine whose vineyards are overlooked by the Pyrenees, and standing in the small winery at the end of the day surrounded by hundreds of bottles ageing in wine racks. A bottle of ten year Jurancon is brought out by the vigneron; it is honey coloured and smells memorably of honey as well as white truffles, straw, roasted almonds and Turkish delight.

Aerial view of the vineyards of Jurancon

Two years later. I am having dinner with my future wife at Scarista House in Harris – it is our first holiday together – and I order a bottle of Jurançon sec from Clos Lapeyre to accompany the platter of langoustines resting on a bed of salad leaves just plucked from the garden.  The wine was fabulous:  extra bottle age had conferred opulence to go with its natural tanginess; it conveyed ripe mango and mouth-watering pineapple flavours dusted with crystallised fruits and underscored by lacy minerality. On successive evenings as the setting sun melted into the western ocean we drank other bottles of Jurançon which happened to be from different vintages (some older, some younger). The excitement of being in love sharpened the senses and made everything a discovery to be cherished and squirreled away in the memory vaults. We sat, talked, ate and embraced the moment as the Jurancon flickered on our tongues.

I only have to broach a bottle of Jurancon and the memories come flooding back as if every point of time I had ever drunk this wine could be summoned in an instant. But they can’t be summoned so easily. These involuntary memories are empyreal and poignant; the wine is the conduit to the past, the arousal of the senses liberating memories from their cloistered realm.