Chateau de Créancey

It was a phone call from our dearest friends that did it. It was a plaintive plea: not so much a Happy New Year call as a Horrid New Year call. ‘It’s January. We hate January! We need something to look forward to. Let’s go to France for a long weekend and do the Route des Vins – the Côte d’Or in Burgundy. We don’t want much: just Puligny-Montrachet on tap… It’s your turn to organise it – we did it last year. Happy New Year, by the way!’

And that was that. The gauntlet was down and I had a job to do. Given that the cut of our hotel’s jib meant more to me than the difference between a Burgundy and a Bordeaux ever could, my research tended more towards bedtime than fine wine. Glad I am, too, otherwise we wouldn’t have found the highlight of our trip: the impossibly romantic and beautifully appointed Château de Créancey. It has been rescued from ruin and turned into a glorious B&B, and just happens to be in the middle of Burgundy, between Puligny-Montrachet and Chablis. It’s a compulsory stop on a wine-buying tour, and a natural detour if you’re doing anything else.

We set off anticipating luxurious hotelling, leisurely lunches and lovely wines, and we aren’t disappointed (thank God, or else the dearest friends would fire me…). We drive hard from Calais, eager to arrive at Créancey – and what a treat when we get there. Painstakingly restored by its owners, Fiona and Bruno De Wulf, the château is painted a pale, pale yellow, and sits in splendour at the end of a winding, tree-lined drive. We climb the steps in weary awe, to be greeted by Bruno, wielding a big circular ring of keys. The cavernous entrance hall is like a film set (mediaeval-blockbuster style). The ceiling is as high as the roof of a two-storey house; the fireplace at one end is big enough for a grown man to stand proud in. There’s also a baby grand piano, a couple of big comfy sofas, a huge visitor’s book, reminiscent of a giant book of spells, and a snoring dog curled up on a fluffy rug.

Bruno leads us up the creaking oak staircase. ‘Henri’s room’ for our friends, ‘Sophie’s room’ in the eaves for us: both are beautifully decorated, with sumptuous bathrooms (though no baths – soakers be warned). Our hosts’ flair for interior design, and passion for art and books is evident in every piece of furniture, on every wall and every shelf.

After a rest, eager to get the drinking underway (ahem), we head to Dijon to commence the tour. We drive through famous village after famous village, seeking small local growers and sampling their wares in cork-strewn ancient cellars lined with barrels and dusty bottles. We all find ourselves in white-wine mood – to such an extent that when, at one tasting, we’re offered 14 different bottles of white Puligny-Montrachet to try (grand cru, premier cru, appellation villages, etc), we do so without blinking.

‘What to do?’ whispered Mrs Smith. ‘Should I spit or swallow?’ You’ll be pleased to know, dear reader, that we all swallow, with the exception of the driver, who, responsible fellow that he is, tries to emulate the French vigneron’s very impressive spit (15 feet at least). It would be unkind to make too much of his dribbly imitation.

After a perfect day of successful wine tasting, we return to Créancey for the massage appointment that Fiona has kindly arranged (wine tasting is so stressful!). There’s no restaurant at the château, so we’ve booked a table, on Fiona’s recommendation, at a nearby Abbaye de la Bussière, the sister hotel to Amberley Castle in Sussex. Before we leave for dinner Fiona meets us in front of the fire with an aperitif, and gives us a bit of background, showing us pictures of Creancey in a state of ruin – fascinating for those of us who live in front of A Place in the Sun and Grand Designs, and think (naively) that we may do it ourselves one day.

Off we go to dinner, full of ideas about buying a wreck of a château and running a B&B in France, far from the rat race. At the Abbaye, we are regaled with stories of Fiona and Bruno, who are much loved in the area and, by all accounts, a lot of fun. Bruno is renowned for ordering the only bottle of Romanée Conti on the wine list – a snip at €4,500 – on April Fool’s Day, and nearly having a heart attack when the waiter merrily rushed off to get it. Fortunately, the waiter was stopped in his tracks and the joke lived on - as did Bruno…

Back at Créancey, in high spirits, we embark on a quick game of sardines, wondering if we might accidentally come across Bruno’s wine cellar stuffed full of Pétrus and Château d’Yquem. We found a secret staircase to the little library, but no trapdoor leading us downwards to the nectar of the gods. We think Bruno has squirrelled the door behind a work of art somewhere – a very wise move too.

Breakfast in the morning is a feast, in a beautiful room next to the cavernous entrance, with another man-sized fireplace. We are greeted by a table laden with delicious coffee, the requisite perfect French pastries, cold meats and cheeses and fresh juice: an excellent foundation on which to lay another day of wine tasting.

It has been a marvellous, unforgettable trip. We’ve mastered the art of leaving the Burgundian reds and going straight for the amazing whites (we know we’re philistines, we know!), we’ve laden the boot with Puligny-Montrachet, Chablis and a couple of bottles of Pomérol to show willing in case our palates mature, and we’ve found the most wonderful hideaway. At Créancey, we’re set up for the day, pampered by night, but mainly left to our own devices to enjoy our stay in Fiona and Bruno’s amazing home. It’s a restoring and uplifting experience that has given us cheer in January, and enough fine wine to last us through till… March?