Luscious whites prove to be Burgundy's best surprise

After a week of drinking our way through the heart of Burgundy, I started to wonder if the English language got something wrong using the word as a synonym for a rich shade of red. In my mind, it's now just as likely to mean a pale, almost translucent gold that flashes green in the right light. Because the white wines of Burgundy are just as glorious as the reds. Perhaps, to this palate, even better.

An exploration of Burgundy's whites logically starts in Chablis, a charming town in the northwest part of the county. The landscape is idyllic: Rolling hills of vineyards slope up from the lazily meandering River Serein, forests edge the hilltops like coxcombs, towers of chateaux tease the eye on various horizons. The town itself lies at the bottom of the valley, climbing gently up its own slope. It's easily walkable, and characterised by features that were becoming familiar: an austerely beautiful early Gothic church; bits of old city wall and towers; townhouses of prosperous medieval merchants sitting beside classic 19th century French architecture; a curious domination of wine shops and domaines. (There's also a nice complement of gourmet shops, clothing boutiques and home decor shops, making this one of our better shopping spots.)

Chablis was the best town we visited for available tastings. We spent a lengthy amount of time at William Fevre, one of the biggest producers in Chablis. It was here that I gained my most distinct understanding of "terroir" as our hostess took us through five wines, each produced from vines grown within a few miles of each other, each with a distinctly different taste. Beyond Fevre, we tasted at two more shops and could have availed ourselves of three or four more opportunities. In a region where we'd come to expect closed shutters and locked doors, this was miraculous.

The most important lesson for the wine neophyte? Never say you like chardonnay better than Chablis. Or vice versa. Because they're pretty much always the same thing. Almost all the vines planted around Chablis are chardonnay. Why, then, does the wine here tend to taste so different from the rich, buttery, oakey chardonnays that California drove to world domination? Terroir again. Chablis wines tend to be crisp and fresh with a minerality that's sometimes described as "flinty" or "steely". You can almost see the vines taking in the flavour of the pale, stone-strewn soil. Think lemonade vs. apple juice: both good, but very different. Compared to the rest of Burgundy, and much of the rest of the world, Chablis' chardonnays tend to spend less time in oak and more in steel. I tasted very little here that I didn't like, and found many wines that were both well matched with food and perfectly drinkable on their own.

Many wine experts believe Chablis is good, but that the greatest whites in the world come from the Cote de Beaune 100 miles to the southeast. The must visit names here are Puligny-Montrachet and Meursault. Unlike the marvellously tourist-friendly Chablisiennes, however, we found few wineries open for tasting.

Our best tasting experience here was at Domaine Leflaive in Puligny-Montrachet, rather inevitable because they seemed to be the only domaine in the village open for tasting. (Neophyte lesson number two: do not pronounce the "t" in Montrachet, and do your best to roll that following "r".) Well geared up for tourists, Leflaive operates a hotel and restaurant as well as his tasting room, all of which are obviously targeted at the well-heeled foreign visitor. The staff was friendly, informative and fluent in English, and their performance was complemented by M. Leflaive himself, who stopped by tables to introduce himself and ask what has led us to his house. (We lied and said we'd read about him, because saying "you were the only place open in town" didn't seem particularly endearing.)

As with many of the larger makers we encountered in Burgundy, Leflaive actually produces wines from across Burgundy, owning rows of grapes in a variety of vineyards. Thus we were able to taste a Puligny-Montrachet beside a Meursault and a Chablis. Interestingly, we each had a different favourite.

It's fortunate that we got a sip of Meursault at Leflaive, and ordered a bottle of the stuff over lunch, because we didn't do any other tastings in that equally famous village. Instead, we had a long, meandering, post-prandial hike looking for any of a list of young wine making stars featured in an article in The New York Times. It became obvious, after fruitless searches for two and being haughtily turned away when we found one, that the writer had expected us to be looking for these names on a wine list, not on the back streets of Meursault itself. We didn't even find these worthy names in the local wine shop.

Still, it was a wonderful walk. Meursault sits on a low hill, with its town square at the crest and its affluent streets winding downwards. The streets are filled with prosperous farmhouses and elegant little chateaux; once again, he had a feeling that here was another place that had been prosperous for a very, very long time. When the architecture grew boring, you merely had to lift up your eyes to the patchwork of vines on the surrounding hills to be inspired. The lack of tasting in Meursault proved a point: you don't even have to like wine to enjoy a wine tour, because the landscape is such a feast for the eyes.

We love wine, of course. And those who opened for tastings were rarely disappointed, as one of us was almost always sure to buy a bottle. The ultimate proof of the success of our trip lies in the photo below, with each girl's investment on a different step. Much of this stuff needs to be cellared for years to be at its best, guaranteeing that we'll each have memories of this trip for many years to come.