Julien Sunier Fleurie 2018
Julien Sunier is, I’m led to believe by pundits who are paid to lead you to believe such things, almost as Young And Exciting as Matias Riccitelli. I’ve got a few Suniers from various crus and I suspect I should be getting stuck into them sooner rather than later.
My natural inclination is towards larger-scale tannic reds, and that may be why I tend to forget my bottles of Beaujolais. I was impressed with this one, which was nicely – surprise – floral. Quite high acidity and low tannin as you would expect. Not as full-bodied as JP Brun’s l’Ancien and certainly more approachable at present than the Crus Beaujolais I’ve tried of his from the same vintage. I might have over-chilled this to start with – it seemed to take a while to develop its full character. Once it had, it was quite delightful in a delicate kind of way. I suspect I’m saying all the things Pinot Noir aficionados would say about Burgundy, but I think I’m happy enough to stick around in Beaujolais with my Suniers for a while and really get the taste (saving a substantial amount in the process.)
At roughly the same time Lego Marchbanks was tucking into his Fleurie in Malham, I was clocking up some miles for him in Warwickshire. Over a two-mile stretch along the rural footpaths I must have met twenty or so people coming in the opposite direction (it’s generally quite rare to see anyone.) They were obviously Very Serious Walkers – there were hiking sticks, lycra shorts and directions in waterproof holders. Not a bow tie or trilby in sight. As I stood back to let one pass on a particularly muddy path he told me it was a 100-mile, 48-hour challenge. As I walked on I thought about this but couldn’t grasp the concept. I while later, I met someone else and asked him if he was also on the challenge. He was. I asked over what period the 48 hours he had to complete the course were spread. 48 hours, he said, slowly and clearly, as if to a dimwit. (How did he know?) I was taken aback. How do they find their way at night? A head torch, he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the distance. My next question would have been about finding suitable places for basic bodily functions, but he had gone. Probably best not to know.
When I got home I looked it up. Blimey, they were just the marshals out on a freebie – the punters have to wait four more weeks for their turn.
I turned on TSF Jazz, poured a Rochefort and plotted my virtual 4.6 miles on Google Maps, happy in the knowledge that I had been by some way the sanest person in Mockley Wood during that period.