Wines of St. Emilion certainly have a magical quality. There are places that change you. St. Emilion is not one of them, region doesn’t change you. It gets you drunk.
Honestly? That’s better.
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GPS, Cornfields and the First Lesson in Humility
We arrived by car the first time. With enthusiasm, a navigation system, and the naive belief that French people enter GPS coordinates the same way the rest of the world does.
They don’t.
French coordinates operate on their own philosophical system, rooted in the assumption that if you truly want to get somewhere, you’ll figure it out yourself. The critical detail: in English, East and West. In French, Est and Ouest. That “O” is not a zero. It’s west. Our GPS didn’t send us to a vineyard. It sent us to a cornfield. Not by mistake. More like a character test.
We lost a good hour. We stared at the field, then at the navigation, then at each other. Someone said: “Wine?”
Logical.
Bordeaux at the Cemetery
Nearest supermarket. One bottle of Bordeaux, proudly labeled appellation contrôlée. What could go wrong?
Everything.
The only quiet spot we found for the tasting was a cemetery. We spread out beside an old tombstone, opened the bottle, and poured with genuine hope. Then came the silence.
The wine was exactly what you’d expect from a bottle bought at a motorway supermarket and opened on a gravestone. No taste, no aroma, no soul. Its only connection to grand cru was the color. That’s when we understood the first important rule: appellation contrôlée from a supermarket is like a Michelin star at a petrol station. Technically possible. Practically suspicious.
The cheese helped. But only because the cheese had flavor.
Vineyards of St. Emilion: Wine or Bicycle?
When you finally reach the vineyards of St. Emilion, you understand you’ve entered a different world entirely from Médoc.
No corporations. No visitor centers. Just small family châteaux and people who pour you wine while looking at you as if they’re handing over a family heirloom.
“This is the finest wine we produce” — we heard that sentence roughly fifteen times. After the third glass, you start believing everyone.
The ideal way to explore it all is by bicycle. Except — when you’re drinking, you shouldn’t cycle. And when you’re not drinking, what exactly are you doing in St. Emilion? This is a dilemma I failed to solve on either visit.
After the third grand cru château, we understood two things. First: everyone here makes the best wine in the world. Second: we needed to get off the tourist trail.
The Uncle Who Pointed the Way
We turned off toward Montagne. First winery — clearly a cooperative — was closed. An uncle, fastening his corduroy braces, arrived to unlock after a quarter of an hour. We had clearly interrupted his afternoon siesta. He looked at us the way a man looks at people who have just interrupted his life.
We tasted. Suddenly we were standing before wine equal to or better than anything on the tourist circuit — at a third of the price. Tourists hadn’t arrived here yet. Or if they had, the uncle had discouraged them with a look.
We asked him: if he himself had to buy one wine from this area, which would it be?
He paused. Then said: “Thomas Thiou.”
He picked up the phone and explained something in rapid French. Our colleague’s son, who’d lived in Paris for years and spoke the language fluently, translated with barely suppressed amusement:
“I’ve got three guys here from Slovakia. Nice enough. Talk a lot. Won’t buy much — but they’ll buy something.”
We didn’t even know where he’d sent us. Just an address. It wasn’t until we saw the entrance road to Château La Couronne that we understood we’d been promoted to a different league.
Thomas Thiou and Wine as Religion
The vineyards had their own heating system running beneath the roots. Thomas Thiou was already waiting. He didn’t look like a winemaker. He looked like a man who had decided to make wine entirely on his own terms — and expected the world to adapt. While most Bordeaux producers work with classic blended cuvées, Thomas makes pure Merlot. Alone. His way. Uncompromisingly.
He talked about the soil for an hour. About barrels and tannins for another. We tasted directly from the casks. I have never drunk better Merlot in my life.
Then came the moment of reckoning. The price.
Cheapest bottle: €43.
We looked at each other.
And then we thought of Château Pétrus. The most legendary name in Bordeaux’s Pomerol. A standard vintage starts at four thousand euros. The oldest historical vintages — 1945 — sell for eleven thousand and more per bottle.
Eleven thousand euros. For one bottle of wine. Are there people who pay that without thinking? Yes. Apparently without blinking.
How to taste really expensive wine?
We asked a local sommelier whether he’d ever tasted wine at that price.
“Occasionally the moment arrives,” he said with a smile. “Every so often, a high-ranking official arrives — usually Russian or Chinese — with his entourage. Knows nothing about wine. But he says: open me the most expensive thing you have. We open it. He tastes it, says ‘not bad’ and sets the glass down. The others nod respectfully and move on. That’s when our moment comes.”
From that perspective, €43 for Thomas’s reserve is an absolute bargain. We each bought three bottles. Thomas smiled with the quiet authority of a man who’d spent two hours with three odd characters from Central Europe and decided to be generous about it. He gathered the open bottles from the day’s tastings — more than we’d bought ourselves — and handed them over:
“That’s for your evening, gentlemen.”
1,820 Kilometres of Silence
We drove home in one stretch. 1,820 kilometres. A car full of wine. Departure at three in the morning.
My son said three words the entire journey: yes, yes, and no. In that order, in response to: did he want a break, could I get him something to eat, and would he like to take over the wheel.
Somewhere before the Slovak border, submarine syndrome set in — that particular claustrophobia of too many hours in an enclosed space, where even silence starts to feel aggressive.
The wine survived. The relationship survived. Barely.
Never again by car. Not in one stretch.
Second Attempt: Wiser, But Not Enough
Five years later, we returned. By plane. Smarter by one decision. We stayed near the Lycée Václav Havel. Historical town, museums, cathedrals, parcs and Cité du Vin. We explored Bordeaux by bicycle, tram, river ferry. Culture this time, not cornfields.
But we couldn’t help ourselves.
One day we took the train and stepped off directly at Saint-Émilion station. Through the medieval Porte Brunet gate we entered a town that had changed in five years — more tourists, less authenticity, prices moving in one direction only. We found the network of limestone caves once used for storing wine.
Walked through the arcades of Cloître des Cordeliers, where former ecclesiastical spaces had become a shopping passage with cafés. Climbed the tower of the Monolithic Church. And La Tour du Roy — the Kings Tower — where the most significant Bordeaux producers meet each year to quietly agree on prices for the next season. No press releases. No announcements. Just wine, handshakes, and numbers.
📍 Tip: You can easily get to the church tower, which offers a stunning view; the keys are available at the information center.
Investment disaster
After the fifth tasting, St. Emilion begins to look different. The streets are prettier. People seem wiser. Even the vendors who’ve been working you all day start to feel like old friends. This is a dangerous phase.
In this phase, we decided to establish an investment-grade wine archive.
Its cornerstone: a vintage bottle of Château Trianon.
We bought it with the gravity of people doing something important. We wrapped it carefully and carried it to the station like a christening gift.
On the platform, we waited among tired, slightly swaying tourists for about an hour. The usual end-of-day vendors were still circling. Evening light over the rooftops. That particular smell that clings to St. Emilion even when you can’t explain why.
Someone produced a penknife. Someone else found a glass.
The investment archive did not survive the evening.
Either/Or. A Problem Without a Solution
St. Emilion is best explored by bicycle. The vineyard trails between châteaux, the morning mist over the vines, the smell of earth after rain. Perfect.
But when you’re drinking, you shouldn’t ride.
And when you’re not drinking — what exactly are you doing in St. Emilion?
This is a dilemma I failed to resolve on either visit. Bicycle or wine. One excludes the other. A third option doesn’t exist — unless you bring someone who drinks juice. But I wouldn’t take that person to St. Emilion. I’d feel too sorry for them.
📍 Practical Tips for Visiting St. Emilion
Footwear: The town is full of steep cobbled lanes and limestone setts. Leave the dress shoes at home. You need something you won’t trip over after the third tasting.
Getting there: Train wins. Forget the car and the GPS-in-a-cornfield experience. A direct train runs from Bordeaux (Gare Saint-Jean) and gets you there in 35 minutes. The station is a short walk from the historic gates. Bonus: you can taste without guilt.
Logistics: If you buy more bottles than you can carry — and you will — most producers (including Thomas Thiou) can ship directly to your home. Saves your back and avoids 1,820 kilometres of submarine tension.
When to go: May, June or September are ideal. You’ll miss the peak holiday crowds and the scorching heat that, combined with red wine, tends to shut a person down surprisingly fast.
Reservations: For the famous names (Grand Cru Classé), book your visit and tasting weeks in advance online. If you’re after authenticity and the uncle-in-corduroy-braces experience, head to satellite areas like Montagne-Saint-Émilion or Lussac.
❓ Frequently Asked Questions
The town itself is a tourist magnet, so restaurant prices on the main square reflect that. However, wines of St. Emilion from smaller producers — like Thomas Thiou — start at a very reasonable €15–40, which for the quality on offer is genuinely good value.
In the town centre and at larger châteaux, yes. If you venture into villages like Montagne, French — or at least hands-and-feet with a smile — becomes essential. The French appreciate the effort even if you only manage „Bonjour.”
Not at all. St. Emilion will teach you to drink wine with your heart. Most producers are happy to explain the difference between Merlot and Cabernet without making you feel tested. The only requirement is curiosity.
As the author puts it: “The best investment is the one you open.” Unless you’re a professional collector with a climate-controlled cellar, look in the €30–60 range. The wines of St. Emilion are fantastic and you won’t feel the trauma when you open one with a penknife at a train station.
The Monolithic Church — carved entirely from a single rock and the largest of its kind in Europe — is unmissable. So is the view from La Tour du Roy (Kings Tower). The village itself is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and functions as one large open-air historical museum.
