Maurice set off from Paris by foot and walked the lands of France for months with its undulating
hills in the North east part of France, and East of the Parisian Capital, searching for the forgotten vines... searching
as far as the eye could see and as far as the heart could fonder searching for gold from a vine as he had heard
spoken from so many folk.
The hot August summer air did not make his journey any easier with the sun beating down and braising his skin
not unsimliar to that of a grape as he explored the dry baron ground, the hills and rows and rows of endless vines
that somehow managed to flourish, given the dry sedimentary rock composed of chalk, Marl and limescale in the
summer months of France. Maurice walked for what felt like an eternity in search for the gold from a vine.
On his journey, Maurice found it hard not to be completely enamored by the beauty of his home country, vastly
different to that of his hometown in Paris but the sights of the vines in the valleys were breathtaking, the vines
which were laden with grapes were overwhelming... good but not laced with the gold he was searching.
And so, Maurice walked off the beaten path in search for the myth which was said to be hidden in vineyards where
grapes could be churned to liquid gold and with this desire leading him like a compass he continued his quest.
It was not long and Maurice was lost in a paradise of a vine system, all around him was a maize on intricate root
systems to the ground and trunk, canes and shoots above... undaunted though, he passed through in search of the
sacred fruit. Finally, Maurice knew he had arrived. He stood in a vineyard, once hidden from the world. A secret
place like the ones he had heard in stories from his childhood, once fenced in by trees and furrows that disguised
it. He stood there in the Furrows of vines which boasted the deepest colour of grapes he had ever seen, waving at
him as if a breeze was moving through their branches. The grapes were very small, about the size of a pea, were
round, growing in tightly packed clusters. The seedless berries were a dark red, deep magenta, or black and that
had delicate, thin skin that almost popped open when bitten. He picked it by hand the ensure that the fruit was
not damaged and ripened to perfection what came known to be named “the harvest”
Maurice knew at that moment he had found what he had been looking for... some years later and with perfection...
after the “first fermentation” the “assemblage” the “second fermentation” the “aging” the “riddling” the
“disgorging” the “dosage” and the “corking” he too was sipping on liquid gold, the bubbles dancing across his
tongue, his life forever changed,
The story goes, that since 1870 when Maurice found these ancient vines he continued to pass on his treasure from
generation to generation and signed by his own name, Maurice Matisse, the boy from Paris lost in the valley of
vines looking for the perfect grape certainly found it and is now enjoyed by people all over the world.
Maurice Matisse based in the premier Cru village of Vertus, in the prestigious Côtes des Blancs, Champagne, France.
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