Wine and somewhere at the end of the world
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Wine and somewhere at the end of the world

Wine and somewhere at the end of the world

Published on 22.05.2015

 

Soulac-sur-Mer, March, 20:35h

I have a weakness. I simply can’t resist visiting places which have practically everything. History, beauty, culture, passion, kindness. Places that wake up your senses and imagination.

Bordeaux is an incomparable place, where it is necessary to enjoy nature; the marvels that ripen with this nature at the end of every summer, and the magic Man created when he experimented with these marvels.

Wine is the blood that feeds this land. The eternal nectar, as old as Man himself, which impregnates the atmosphere and the land. Bordeaux lives for and on behalf of wine. By paying careful attention to all the details, you discover how tradition has converted this area of France into the maybe the most universal region.

And next to all of this, in the northern end of the vineyard route, Bordeaux hides the end of the world. But it is only seen as such in winter. It’s wonderful to be able to enjoy the contrasts, seeing with your own eyes in only a few kilometres, and with just a few weeks’ difference, how the greenness and life of the vineyards give way to a world painted pearly grey.

Here the white sands that should form a part of paradise are nothing more than dust that merges with a leaden sky, coloured by white clouds that seem to convert the scene into the negative of a photograph.

Birds flying away from the scene appear to be the only things alive at the moment. But this isn’t true because the Atlantic is acting like a fierce animal, desperately trying to catch anything within reach.

A palpable and occasionally deafening wind reflected in the foam of the waves and in the sand, which swirls in the air before it settles in my hair, battles against the world, just like the sea.

And, at that precise moment, a winter sun, on the verge of disappearing as it loses its fight against the night and is slowly swallowed up by the clouds, lights up the scene and timidly throws its rays onto the image, invariably reminding me of a beautiful end of the world.

Ignatius

 

 

 

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