http://www.domaineducardona.com/index.htm

(go to Recettes and 'Civet d' oeuf a l'Hypocras' for The Eggletons)

I had a dream last night about Domaine de la Roumenghia in Lezignan, south of France last night. Found Eggletons while I was looking for it.......

DREAM: Moving a load of stuff, group of people, in what seemed like VW
camper vans, packed full of stuff. Had to travel carefully because
we were being followed/pursued but it wasn't panicky or rushed. At
one point I was driving a flat fronted van from a funny position on
top of a load of boxes, that seemed to a bit unstable.

All I can really remeber clearly was asking where we were going, and
someone said 'Domain de la...' and I said 'Domain de la WHAT?! and
then I was So releived, because I knew I knew it so well, the relief
was amazing, that I put my head in my hands in the dream, and went
into an altered state (or something different). I was ecstatic to be going back there....

I woke up and wrote Domaine de la Roumenghia (sp) which is where I
picked grapes in France many years ago.....(funny I had mentioned the
vendange to Jib the other day)

(Many thanks to Jib and Eric in France who are trying to find it for me; will try and find photographs later from 22 years ago....)

Other vignerons in the area:

http://www.bluewine.com/search/fr/index.asp?no_categorie=210482&nom_cat=Corbieres

"Where am I? Inevitably, this question haunts you when, on the very first day your gaze, from the vines of Castelmaure, falls on the Serre (limestone mountain). The heavy, arid mountain – lying like a dozing old lioness, petrified – speaks to you only of the South. Your eyes dream of the Andalusian sierras heated white-hot by the midday sun. Of the soothing ochres of the Atlas as evening falls. Of the violence of the Argentinian pampas, when the wind rises.
Because you must not underestimate the Serre. This magical mountain, a sort of limestone crown eaten away by vines, protects the little plateau of Castelmaure over its full length from the cyclothymic influences of the sea. In its recesses survive, in a perpetual struggle with the rock, sober garrigues whose only vanity lies in the powerful fragrances of thyme, rosemary and lavender they give off. Springs, caves and a host of other mysteries lie hidden in its entrails. In contrast to the Mediterranean light of the Serre there is to the north the dark and angular brilliance of the long flows of black schist. Here, in the Corsican way, the thickness of the maquis, hesitating between green and anthracite, covers the slopes of the high hills annexed from time immemorial by the heavy hoards of wild boar whose hard bristle reflects the shades of the soil. Between the kermes oaks, junipers, strawberry trees, mulberry trees and rockroses, there remain tracks, paths where Man only rarely obtains the right of way."