‘There’s so much more to growing grapes and making champagne than I realised.’
Luc turned and grinned at her as they sped along the road. ‘And that’s what today is all about.’
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside an elaborate set of wrought-iron gates through which Hattie could see fairy tale castle towers painted in an elegant grey blue, topped with darker slate turrets and elaborate weathervanes. Hattie thought it looked very pretty and a little like a mini-Disneyland set in the middle of the city of Reims. She almost expected to see, at any moment, knights on horseback jousting with each other on the pristine green lawns.
‘This is the Pommery Champagne House,’ said Luc. ‘It’s one of my favourite tours. I thought you might enjoy it. You haven’t been anywhere since you arrived. I thought you deserved an adventure.’
He was right. Apart from that one brief visit to the village, she’d not actually been anywhere. So much for her fresh start and expanding her horizons. She shot him a grateful smile. ‘Thanks, Luc.’
He grinned at her, his face boyish and bright. ‘My pleasure.’
The tour guide, a pretty young Canadian girl who swapped from English to French with amazing fluency, paused before a set of double gothic style doors and waited until she had everyone’s attention, giving the young couple busy snapping selfies a sharp look until, chastened, they put their phones away.
‘Now we are going into the famous Pommery caves. In 1868 Madame Pommery employed French and Belgian miners to turn the ancient caves into a series of interconnected galleries which stretch for eighteen kilometres, thirty metres below the surface.’
Hattie frowned and looked over at a nearby tree. Thirty metres? She couldn’t imagine what that looked like.
‘We are now going to see the caves.’
With that she threw open the double wooden doors and on cue everyone gasped. Hattie had to admit it was a dramatic sight and thirty metres was a very long way down. A long flight of steep stairs unfolded, neat parallel concertinaed pleats tumbling down, down, down, and above them a curved ceiling of mottled chalk, stained with dark patches. For a moment everyone was silent. Then the phones came out and everyone started taking photos. Hattie preferred to stare up at the ceiling and take in her surroundings. It felt a little creepy and, as they descended the shallow steps, it was like entering another world. Hollow voices from around and below them bounced and echoed off the walls. Hattie shivered a little, as much from the gloomy atmosphere as from the temperature, and she was grateful for the sweater that Fliss had shoved into her hand.
‘You okay?’ asked Luc, and she felt warm fingers interlace with hers.
She glanced at him and he smiled as if his holding her hand was completely natural. Smiling back she gave his hand a little experimental squeeze. It felt good. Comforting and something else. She didn’t feel like she was on her own.
‘Yes, just a bit … daunted. I had no idea it would be so deep,’ Hattie whispered, overawed by the huge cavern and hanging onto the handrail on her other side. If you fell down these steps it was a very long way down. She cursed herself. That was such a Chris thought. Always expecting the worst. What had happened to the sunny optimism she’d always greeted the world with?
‘I never thought to ask – you’re not claustrophobic or anything? We can stay upstairs if you’d rather.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘I’m just being an idiot. I’ve spent too long doing things in my comfort zone. I’m supposed to be having an adventure, remember.’ Instead she’d spent the last few days worrying and stressing too much.
‘It is quite spectacular,non?’ he answered.
‘It is,’ said Hattie resolving to be awed and interested and not be negative.
It wasn’t that hard to be awed and interested, there was so much to see and marvel over – from the brick-built barrel vaults that held up the vast ceilings to the huge bas-reliefs carved into the walls, not to mention the wooden racks of champagne and piles of dusty bottles tucked into different niches. As their guide led them through the tunnels they stopped in front of one of the reliefs which she told them was fifteen metres across and six metres high. The image of drunken debauchery was cleverly lit by the beams of daylight that filtered down through a square tunnel high above them, enhancing the shadows and the depth of the sculpture. It was entitledSileneand dated 1884. ‘Alas, poor Gustave Navlet carved all of the reliefs by candlelight and it took him over two years. In 1889 Madame Pommery had electricity installed.’ Everyone laughed at the irony as the guide turned to lead them onto the next section of the caves, but Luc stayed put, staring thoughtfully upwards towards the light.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Hattie.
‘Mm,’ he said, a look of concentration etched into his face. ‘It’s reminded me of something I was going to do but I can’t remember what it was.’ He looked down at her and laughed. ‘And that doesn’t make any sense, does it?’
‘Not really,’ replied Hattie, laughing at his confused face as they hurried to catch up with the rest of the tour party.
The guide stopped by a wall where words, messages and images were etched into the soft chalk. ‘During the Great War, the city of Reims was constantly shelled. So many of the inhabitants of the city moved underground to live in the caves. They left their mark on the walls. There were classrooms, hospitals, dormitories and even gymnasiums for the children, who never went above ground for years.’
Hattie looked around at the walls and shivered. Although it was majestic, she couldn’t imagine living down here in the constant chilly air with no natural daylight, but she supposed it was better than the alternative. God, she was grateful she’d been born in the dying embers of the twentieth century.
‘Makes us count our blessings,’ she said.
The group moved on into a new set of caves.
‘Now here—’ The voice of the guide provided a welcome interruption. ‘What do you think these signs would have meant?’
Like everyone else in the group, apart from Luc, who had a distinct know-it-all grin on his face, she stared puzzled at a large sign which read ‘Manchester’. What on earth could the connection be between here and a distant British northern city? Then she saw another sign for Zurich.
‘Okay, Mr Smart-arse, spill,’ she whispered to Luc but he just put his fingers to his lips as the perky tour guide began to explain.
‘Back in the day, they would blend the champagne for the palates of specific markets and this is where they would store them. In fact Madame Pommery was one of the first to make Brut champagne, which she did for the British market. Before then champagne was always sweet. She had gone to school in England and knew that the preference there was for dry wines. She produced a champagne specifically for the British market and then later on went a step further, as you see here.’
