Alta Villa

Vélo Notes

A Sunday Ride to Hauteville

Odile arrived on Sunday morning, bringing with her a brightness that matched the summer sky. She took the lead on the road to Hauteville, her cadence light and steady, as if the pedals were part of a song only she could hear. There was a shift in the air — something new, something we hadn’t felt before — and we followed her through winding paths and whispering fields.

Hauteville greeted us like a quiet story from long ago. First recorded in 903 as Alta‑Villa, the "high village" rests gently on a plateau some 410 meters above the sea, gazing over Dijon and the soft curves of the Burgundy countryside. Time seems slower here, the kind that lingers in stone walls and speaks in the hush of vineyards.

We arrived at the home of Monique’s aunt, where her cousin Bernard welcomed us. Two bottles of Meursault had already been uncorked, left to breathe like old friends preparing to speak. Yet before we tasted a drop, Bernard guided me down to the cellar — a trove of dusty bottles and memories, each label holding a story waiting to be told.

Upstairs, we gathered around a table with the two bottles and a few thoughtful bites. Bernard’s mother, graceful in her mid-80s, joined us, lifting her glass with the quiet strength of someone who has seen seasons come and go. We soon discovered a small miracle — Bernard, Odile, and I were born in the same year. A toast followed, simple and joyful.

Monique’s aunt prepared lunch with care and warmth, while Bernard returned home to the next village over. After our meal, we crossed a field and followed a quiet road to his house. There, he showed me his own cellar — a ritual among wine lovers, perhaps, but it felt like an offering, a shared language. I learned he had once been honored as a master craftsman during the Mitterrand years. His pride was not loud, but it lingered in the way he spoke of his work, and in the wine he chose to share.

By late afternoon, we pointed our bicycles downhill toward Dijon. The descent was steep, and we picked up speed. I followed close behind Odile; Monique was just behind me. Then, in a sudden breath, Odile stopped. I braked hard — too late. Though I narrowly avoided hitting her, Monique tumbled behind me. A few cars pulled over, and strangers offered help. It was a jarring moment, a reminder of how swiftly joy can tilt toward danger. Thankfully, we were mostly unharmed. Odile’s wrist was sore, so she returned home to tend to it.

Monique and I continued to her mother’s apartment to check the mailbox. Her mother was far away, vacationing in Fiji. While Monique sorted the mail, she chatted with a friend who settled herself here from Africa. We opened a bottle of Champagne, the bubbles rising like laughter in the room. It was a small gathering, simple and warm, bringing the day gently to a close with sparkle, conversation, and shared presence.