An Afternoon in Pomerol

Some afternoons you plan for weeks, and some just unfold perfectly on their own. Our afternoon in Pomerol was a little bit of both — the kind of day that quietly sets the tone for everything that comes after it.

I’ll be honest: before this trip, my Bordeaux knowledge was surface-level at best. I knew Saint-Émilion from the postcards and the wine labels, and I’d heard the word Pomerol thrown around in wine conversations I was only half following. But there’s something about learning a place by standing in it, glass in hand, that no amount of reading can replace.

We started in the gardens of Château de Sales, and they are exactly as dreamy as you’d hope — roses everywhere, manicured in that effortless French way that makes you wonder why your own garden (read: the tree pit outside my NYC building) can’t get it together. The château itself feels like it’s been holding its breath for a few hundred years, in the best possible way.

Bruno de Lambert welcomed us himself, and I can’t say enough about how he shared his family’s château with us. There’s a particular warmth to being hosted by someone who genuinely loves a place and wants you to love it too — not a tour, not a pitch, just pride. We tasted through the wines, which is always a slightly dangerous proposition at midday, and then sat down for a lunch that stretched on the way only long French lunches can. Nobody checked a watch. Nobody rushed the courses. This is the part of French life I keep trying to smuggle home with me.

The real star of the afternoon, though, was Sally. She made herself right at home under the table, curled up like she’d been attending Bordeaux wine lunches her entire life. At this point I’ve stopped being surprised — that dog has better travel manners than most humans I know, and she has strong opinions about which restaurants have the best under-table real estate. (For the record: châteaux rank very highly.)

A huge thank you to Neil and Talia for organizing the whole thing. Days like this don’t happen by accident — someone did the planning, made the calls, thought of everything, and then made it look effortless. We just got to show up and soak it in, which is the best kind of guest to be.

If you’re heading to Bordeaux wine country, my honest advice: don’t skip Pomerol in favor of the bigger names. It’s smaller, quieter, and somehow more personal. An afternoon here feels like being let in on a secret — the kind of secret you immediately want to tell your friends about.

This was the prologue to our Bordeaux days — next came a wedding weekend in Clérac, and then a full day in Saint-Émilion.