It can only get better. There is no worse.

My vision of a semi-swanky Bordeaux mini break was shattered BAM when I saw the place where the harvesters - that was me - sleep. Ouch. It made motorway motels look like The Four Seasons. Truly awful. From this description on I promise not to exaggerate. I have had many moments this week thinking hell is wine making. If it wasn't for the most fantastic guy I work with - my cellar boss - I may well have hung myself with the rope that's used to wench objects up to the VAT walkway on high. Health and safety n'existe pas in this biz here. If I fancied clambering onto 25 foot high slippery vats for the pumping over process (yup, real term), I was more than welcome. I have so much to tell you, I barely know where to start but suffice to say, dirty back-breaking manual labour ain't my thing. Don't get me wrong though. I have too much respect for those who get stuck into this side of the business.

Fast forward to where you find me writing. A heavenly resto in Sauternes. Eating what is basically a fancy French version of scrambled eggs and mushrooms but picture in the Michelin style of... I feel as though I've found religion here in this gorgeous village. Incidentally, I'm having a glass of the sweet wine of the same name as I write. It was ordered as an aperetif but since I'm tout seule was still half full when the eggs arrived. Technically a textbook terrible pairing. Eggs are notoriously tricky. But this is my new recommendation. Eggs with Sauternes after a horrid experience. It should, I hope, make you feel a whole lot better. I do. In spades. Helped by checking into a stunning hotel on credit card after driving around the region for hours with no room at any inn. Some kind of wine seminar apparently means every hotel, chambre d'hote, free cupboard within a 30K radius of Bordeaux was full. Apart from my new spiritual home here. It seems the Japanese couple due to take the master room at the chateau, took a diversion, so I got a 30% reduction. I almost told the dapper Monsieur in charge that at that point, after driving in the cellar van for two hours without sat nav, he could have quite literally named his prix. No joke.

And please let's not return to the no doubt necessary explanation of pumping over as I'll probably kill you. The process haunts me at night. And the grapes. Don't even get me started. Thinking about the process, I'm shocked I'm actually enjoying this glass of Sauternes now. The improvised chambre d'hote I slept in the previous night (improvised in that it was in fact just a random old house - friends of a hotelier who was full), had no lock on my door and an over friendly older guy who I wish I'd known was in fact very kind and not liable to creep into my room at night, as I may not have barricaded myself in with a chest of drawers, large chair and stand up fan.

Anyway, here I am getting distracted in the resto by my new iPhone wine notes app which techie husband thought may be useful. And the reality is that if desert here is as good as my eggs, I should throw all caution to the wind and indulge, putting on the kilos I've lost with 3 days of harvest. Did I mention that I spent an afternoon harvesting? Hand picking the grapes. Which also reminds me that tomorrow I'm assisting with the allegedly tricky Sauternes harvest. Lucky I've almost finished this glass. Or the fear would absolutely put me off.

Oops. I think I've just made the same error I make with Italian food where you are full with the pasta starter and forget the main course will still arrive. They appear to have treated the eggs as my entrée. A legume delight filled plate is arriving. The first time any French chef bar Alain Ducasse seems to actually like vegetarians; courgette terrine, ratatouille and raisin risotto (strangely it works beautifully). I was about to get the waiter's attention and discuss a red wine food pairing before a) greed got the better of me and b) I checked myself that a 6am work start and/or the vision of being over the limit in charge of a van in the wine region  was best avoided. Park the chocolate fondant please. It may make me want another glass of Sauternes. Plus I don't need the calories. Back to skinny Paris scene vendredi.