to Tours

A soft click comes from the far corner of the room. It is pitch-black; no light falls through the window. The click signals a connection, electrons flow, and the radio kicks into life. In a relentless crescendo, a murmur that's all but inaudible slowly develops into the clearly enunciated syllables of BBC English. Evan Davis is on the air.

A flick with the remote keeps the volume below shouting but loud enough to nag. The clock says 4:12, but it's not that late. The clock is inveterately fast, and the four-o'clock news is still inside its first five minutes. Body parts are still being fished from a West Yorkshire river. The killer was apprehended last night and has now fallen to the tail end of the bulletin.

I get up, get dressed, grab my backpack and am out of the house in twenty minutes. There was just enough time to water my orchid to keep it happy for the next five days. I'm going to France, though first I have to get to the airport, to Stansted, far out in the north-eastern plains, way beyond the reaches of the tube and municipal buses.

I've previously taken the train from Liverpool St., a comfortable ride of just over an hour, and always on time. But there is no way of getting to Liverpool St. efficiently this early in the morning. Night buses are no good for time-critical transport. Instead, a few days earlier I booked myself onto Easybus for the first time. It's a more convenient connection for a better price than the train. Now I just have to get to Baker St. from where the shuttle departs. There's a direct night bus and it turns up on time. Less than two hours after leaving my house I walk through the metal detector at Stansted. Things have gone so smoothly that I'm not even getting upset, as is my habit, at the nonsense that keeps masquerading for security.

Stansted is noticeably busier than Heathrow these days, but there's a mood of light-hearted expectation and forward-looking steadily hovering over the crowds like a faint mist. People are going on vacation, and they're not letting the airport get them down. I'm going to Tours today, the capital of the Loire region, but it's not the glorious châteaux or famous wines that I'm after.

Three years ago when I was leaving Grenoble a student handed me a dusty bottle with a black label and a bulky waist. "Do you like cognac?" he inquired. I didn't; I had never tried it. I told him I was eager to – and was stunned when I did. Jean Balluet Très Vieille Réserve was spectacular hooch, liquid bliss, a symphony of perfectly composed flavors. Upon finishing the bottle, I put it on my long-list of travel ideas to go visit Maître Balluet in Neuvicq-le-Château, the hamlet where he distills his cognac, and buy a few bottles off him.

I have rented a car in Tours and will drive to the Atlantic coast. From there, I'll then meander southeast over the course of four days, bisecting the wine-growing region dominated by the small town of Cognac. One day's drive farther to the southeast is Rodez, a town whose name I've never encountered. But it's got an airport (on average, a dozen hapless travelers a year apparently mistake it for Rhodes) and a connection to London. I'll fly back on Monday.

The flight to Tours has finished boarding. The plane is pretty full, but I got on early and scooped up a window seat. In the central aisle, three young women in identical dresses are flapping their arms in perfect synchrony, their beauty frozen in smile-less faces. Rookie flyers are introduced to the safety features of this aircraft. The women remind us not to inflate, in the case of an emergency, the life vest while still on board. There's a soft click in my head as my brain shuts off. The airplane rolls through the drizzle to the end of the runway and takes off.