Wouldn't you know it, another nice day. Breakfast this morning consisted of fruit, fromage frais and muesli. Chris was pleased. We said our goodbyes to Dominique, while he concerned himself with a small digging machine, on a trailer, parked outside his house. We had spoken the night before about following the Burgundy wine trail. This would have meant some main road riding and possibly crossing Dijon. In addition, Dominique was keen that we should visit the source of the Seine, just a few kilometres from his home. In fact, one of France's Grande Randonnée* footpaths passes the bottom of his garden; the one that follows the course of the river. [I can't remember the number]. He went on to say that a significant number of his guests had walked this trail, including the Spanish ambassador to France.

Chris chose another route. We passed close to, but did not see, whatever landmark proclaimed the source of the Seine. We were in an attractive, rolling landscape of woods and fields, soon followed by a flat stretch alongside a railway line. We had crossed the north-south watershed. From here on, all the rivers flow into the Sâone or Rhône or directly into the Mediterranean. The next river valley for us would be that of the Ouche. We were now looking for food. After some uphill exertion and a descent, through a village, I spotted a baguette being carried home for lunch, but no grocery store. We passed under an autoroute, the A38 and continued southwards. The heat of the day was beginning to get to us. In Sainte Marie-sur-Ouche, after enquiring about shops with no result, we turned back 100 metres or so with the intention of trying an unpromising looking café-bar, set slightly back from the road. In faded paint on the flank wall above the café terrace, along with the enticement of long unavailable apéritifs, was the offer of Casse-croûtes. Snacks. Propelled by the urge to eat, I almost crashed through the door to find myself looking directly, at close quarters. into the purple-veined abundance of a mature peasant's nose. He was wearing a flat cap and field clothes of faded blue cotton. He looked alarmed, even guilty. Further inside was another man of similar age I moved past him and addressed myself to the proprietor. She was sitting on a high bar-stool to one side of the cash register, with her knees apart, so my first glimpse of her, as she swivelled to face me in her short black skirt, was of her underwear. She might have been drinking since breakfast. She was not a pretty woman, with monkey-like features, probably mid-forties in age, her dark hair in a tight medium length perm, [think Kevin Keegan and SV Hamburg]. There were no casse-croûtes or any other comestibles, she informed us. She directed us to the next village, Gissey-sur -Ouche , by pointing the wrong way, her sleeveless blouse revealing enough tightly tufted armpit hair to stuff the divan in a doll's house. In order to maintain the lunchtime trade, as there was no lunch, I suspect she was giving the old boys the same view as I had had. This was France possibly a little too profonde for us. We were back on the bikes for Gissey, and food.

Things inside may have been hot indoors for the peasant farmers, but outside for us cyclists, it was becoming even hotter. The next few kilometres along the river valley were not strenuous, but the heat and the hunger were beginning to take their toll. I had pulled ahead of Chris and reached our oasis a few minutes before him. I parked my bike in among the plastic tables on the shaded terrace and entered the bar, to be told rather abruptly that I could not leave the bike there, that lunch was only served in the back room and not after 1pm . It was five to and Chris was not yet to be seen. He arrived, looking very much in need of what he was about to receive, at one minute to one. We left the bikes unlocked outside the restaurant, and went in to eat. The dining room was much larger than I had expected with twelve four- seater tables, four of which were occupied by, as we found out later, separate gangs of building workers. The room was deliciously cool, insulated as it was by its thick stone walls. Any irritation we felt at not being able to eat outside, was immediately dissipated. A litre of wine, a large jug of iced water and a basket of bread were placed in front of us as soon as we sat down, quickly followed by a chopped ham salad. This was beginning to look very good. I decided, against my usual resolve, to drink my share of the wine albeit heavily diluted with the iced water, of which we had two refills. The main course was a large tomato stuffed with sausage meat and served with rice, followed by cheese and ice cream. As we ate, the masons and carpenters, gang by gang were making their way back to work. I had a coffee and congratulated the proprietor on his cuisine. He confirmed that his usual clientele were local building workers. It sure beat the caff, if a little more expensive [11 euros] but still excellent value. On our way out we refilled our water bottles at the bar, while our hosts, now in a much more friendly frame of mind, explained that Tuesday was their afternoon off and that was why they were so keen to get lunch over with quickly. They were to spend the afternoon in Beaune. We wished them well and said we might see them there.

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The afternoon heat was fierce, as we set off once more up the valley of the Ouche, and the Burgundy Canal. I was expecting an unpleasant backlash from that half litre of wine, but it did not arrive, thanks no doubt to the copious amount of water I drank with it. At Pont d'Ouche we turned west and climbed for several kilometres out of the valley, fortunately almost entirely in shade and at not too steep a gradient. The descent down the pretty, steep-sided, valley of the river Rhoin [not a mis-spelling] was a treat. As the valley opened out and the country became flatter we saw our first Burgundy grapes. We were soon in the centre of Beaune and the Burgundy wine trade.

Our impressions of Beaune were, that it was too pretty and too tidy. The tourist office was the largest and most elaborate of any we had come across so far. The square on which it is situated has pavement level lighting to show it off at night. The town appears to amplify its history to promote its current business, which is to sell very expensive wine to the wealthy all over the world. Nevertheless, Chris found us a reasonably priced, slightly cramped room in a functional modern hotel not far from the centre of town.

We showered, went out and taking advantage of their advertised 'Happy Hour', drank German beer on the patio of a bar across the street, while admiring their collection of North African artefacts. The restaurant prices were a little higher in Beaune than elsewhere, so we eventually went for the French national dish, steak and chips, on the terrace of a bar near the hotel. I phoned home from a call box across the street until Chris summoned me to my dinner. Afterwards, we strolled around town, drank a beer in another bar and went to bed. Before I tuck myself in, so to speak, some thoughts on the wine of the country. In fact at this point I would like to explain in detail, the essence of Burgundy wine production, but as I don't know enough about it, some of my prejudiced impressions will have to do. Here's what I think I know.

Good quality Burgundy is extremely expensive, in my case prohibitively so. Cheap red Burgundy, though not cheap, is really nasty, thin, tasting of cherryade carefully blended with automotive rust inhibitor. For example, as I write this, some months after the fact, I recently chose, as one of our Christmas wines a Côtes de Nuits at £6-99 a bottle. See above. I rarely drink white wine but I have drunk the odd bottle of Chablis, again from the lower segment of the market. This was passable. It's the reds I have it in for. Climate has a lot to do with it, although not the northernmost red wine producing region of France [the Loire Valley], the vines of the Burgundy region, predominantly Pinot Noir, occasionally suffer from lack of sufficient sunshine to fully ripen the grapes. This ultimately results in a shortfall of alcohol in the wine, which then has to be blended with more alcoholic varieties from elsewhere. Twenty years ago I was working at the back of a wine and food shop off London's Fulham Rd. It was the sort of place that sold partridge, pink champagne and quails eggs. I was talking, one day, to one of the Sloaney partners and he told me a story of a buying visit to a Burgundy vineyard. His appointment was for 6am. He thought this was a little strange, but agreed anyway. Before he had time to conclude his business, a 50,000 litre road tanker with Algerian registration plates turned up at the gates. The proprietor was unable to conceal his embarrassment.

Any chicanery, skulduggery or jiggery-pokery, on the part of the growers notwithstanding, I still think that the Pinot Noir grape, along with its northern cousin, the Gamay [the Beaujolais and Loire Valley grape] produces a thin, sickly wine, not to be found in those beakers of the warm south, filled as they are, by juice of the Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, Syrah, Grenache or Tempranillo varieties.

I am pretty sure this modern emphasis on grape variety, drives traditionalists in the wine trade to the brink of insanity, although the producers of the top quality wines are seeing no decline in their fortunes. Le Terroir and inconsistency of climate may still be the mainstays of les grands crus, but for your everyday customer, Chile, Argentina, Australia, South Africa and California produce a more reliable wine. In fact in France itself the high yield, low quality regions around the Mediterranean, instead of producing a liquid fit only for conversion into industrial alcohol, are now embracing New World methods, with a view to increased competitiveness.

Another not very interesting fact about the Burgundy wine business is that they have wine guilds. I know this because I've seen an Open University programme about them. Their members dress up as if auditioning for a part in Dick Whittington and in a spirit of mediaeval joviality, sing silly songs in praise of wine, while drinking enough of it to knock your casual imbiber off his bar stool. Do they want Marie-Antoinette back? It's this faux-mediaevalism that puts me off places like Beaune. Anyhow tomorrow we're off to Bourg-en-Bresse, which is famous not for wine, but for poultry. No discourse on chickens, I promise. Night-night.

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