I was 90 minutes north of Bordeaux when time slammed on the brakes. The rolling quilt of vines, tinged with the first gold of autumn, melted into the twilight mists. A pair of swans seemed to pose on the Charente River, its quiet, dark waters lined with towering, languorous poplars. It was a scene straight from a 19th-century landscape painting; it was Charles Trenet's song La Douce France in spades.I was escaping a restoration project at home by heading to Cognac for a long weekend. I had not been to the town before, but the very word evokes a postprandial winter's evening by the fire, feet snug in tweedy slippers, holding a glass to the flickering light, twirling it gently to watch its tears run down the sides, then that lovely mouthful of warmth.

https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/liquid-gold-why-cognac-is-best-in-autumn-rmqvngnq6

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