The church bells boomed out over Meursault yesterday morning, just prior to the weekly mass at 10.30, as a dazzling sun vied with a brittle breeze to warm or chill any exposed flesh. Inside, the congregation ranged from youngsters of just a few vintages to stooped old-timers whose memories stretched way back into the last century.

The choir sang with gusto and the congregation added some respectable volume – unlike the mumbling hush that descends on an Irish Catholic church when the ‘singing’ starts. A half-dozen altar boys, from tall to small and dressed in white albs with wooden pectoral crosses, did service for the priest. Demeanour matched height, the younger ones a little gauche and self-consciously aware of their place in the spotlight, the older ones more assured and confident in their movements.

The children formed a mini fashion parade, the girls in bright dresses and neat cardigans, hair held in place by delicate little bows or decorated hairbands, the boys in crisp shirts and shorts, with every errant hair on their heads plastered immovably into place. Are French children the most charming in the world? On this evidence, yes.

An hour passed easily, every interlude filled with glorious organ music. Presently, the priest bade us farewell and finished with the hope that the weather may improve for the holidaymakers – a sentiment with which they and the vignerons audibly concurred.

And then the fleet footed were away, exiting quickly over the ancient, polished flagstones and crossing the square to the boulangerie to stock up on warm baguettes – crackle-crusted and marshmallow centred – soon to be devoured with a hearty Sunday lunch, finished off perhaps with a final crust topped by a blob of pungent, runny époisses, and a glass of Meursault.

Tags: Meursault, Burgundy