My Burgundy, by Aubert de Villaine

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A narrow but nonetheless majestic hill that looks out to the East – and sometimes the South – on a vertical line of sixty kilometres: that is Burgundy, not the one that runs from Chablis down to Beaujolais, but its heart, its historical and organoleptic essence. It starts in the streets of Dijon, dominates a string of villages that have added to their names those of their most famous cru, surrounds as would an amphitheatre the medieval town of Beaune and finishes in Santenay. If one wants to extract even more quintessence, it would be the Cote de Nuits, twenty-five kilometres that the whole world dreams of. And in the middle the absolute epitome, the domain of Romanee Conti, its cross and vines

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