Dear folks

Let us introduce you to the Loire Valley. It may sound familiar, in the same way that Burgundy or Bordeaux does, or maybe Meursault. And if you're thinking it likely has something to do with wine, you'd be right.

We recently meandered ('steered' doesn't seem quite right) our boat Liberty into the heart of Sancerre country - Sauvignon Blanc territory - in central France. The weather'd been glorious, with most days in the high 20s or early 30s, and the rural farmland worthy of an oil painting by an old master. (Where where all the old mistresses in the art world? Why isn't there a famous painting called Whistler's Mother's Son?)

Anyway, as when we were in Bordeaux, our attention turned once again to wine. How could it not? This is France!

Sauvignon Blanc has long been New Zealand's premier grape, its intense juicy flavours putting Kiwi winemaking firmly on the international wine map. Except, except... Master of Wine and acclaimed wine writer Hugh Johnson now says the country's flagship variety has become 'somewhat predictable'. He suggests limiting cropping, and adding a touch of oak barrel ageing.

Which is interesting, because back in the late 70s - apart from flared trousers - there was a flare for making Kiwi 'fumé, which all but disappeared once Sav Blanc became all the rage. The grape itself was sturdy and popular enough not to need any augmentation; people wanted its gooseberry-asparagus flavour in buckets, and they got it. Suddenly, Montana Wines (as-was) lost its pole position in the New Zealand savvy stakes as more and more winemakers all over the country started making Sauvignon Blanc.

Meanwhile, the French continue to make their own Sauvignon Blanc in their own traditional ways, and, especially in the Loire valley, Pouilly Fumé. The 'fumé' refers to a grey bloom apparent on the grapes at harvesting, though confusingly it can also refer to barrel fermentation, where the wine ages a while in oak barrels that have been toasted, literally set on fire inside for a while before use. That's the thing about wine: the more you know the more confusing it gets. No wait, that should be the more you drink the more confusing it gets...

But by-and-large the French rarely call their Sauvignon Blanc by its varietal name; as with Champagne, Burgundy, Bordeaux, etc, it's usually referred to by its regional origin, in this case Sancerre.

In New Zealand this would be the equvalent of asking for a glass of 'Marlborough', except the Kiwi wine-drinking public has been brought up on varietal rather than regional names. It might well be that Otago Pinot Noir growers would relish the thought of people ordering a bottle of Otago in restaurants, but it's not likely to happen.

Meanwhile, the French avidly protect their appelations, and woe-betide anyone who tries to market their wines as Champagne, Bordeaux, Burgundy, Chablis or Sancerre. Montana Wines learned the hard way when they first brought out Lindauer 'Champagne' in the 80s, which is why it's now referred to as 'methode traditionelle' (and the French are even a bit twitchy about that!).

So, we were in the heart of France's Sauvignon Blanc country, but despite the historic town having many wine shops, we didn't find a convenient winery for tastings. The one we did drive into was closed, and the two women in the tourism office had already lost their chance to snare us, since they lacked Sancerre-ity, and seemed to not care that we were visitors from half a world away.

Instead we sat at a cafe in the town square and shared a local Sancerre with our friend Shaun who had just arrived from the UK and was staying on board for just over a week. It was lovely, fresh, minerally, clean and (this according to Liz) astringent. We decided we didn't need to scour the countryside for a winery, and so bought a box of the stuff from a local supermarket - and by box I don't mean a dozen bottles; I mean a three-litre BIB (Bag-in-Box, another of those dreadful English phrases that the French have now started using, along with 'sandwich', 'weekend', and 'burger'). We figured that it had probably been made down the road at a local wine cooperative, and it tasted fine.

Yours Sancerre-ly

Mike and Liz (and Shaun)