My first trip to Burgundy, 10 years ago or more, was death to the leg muscles but good on visuals. It was a cycling tour - a travel magazine assignment leapt upon without stopping to look at all the close contour lines on the map. Hills and more hills. Agony, sometimes defeat. But the September sun turned vineyards close to harvest into blazing golden tapestries, flung out around villages of mellow stone. It looked divine.
I've been back several times since then, but always in a car and always in a rush. You need long, empty days to soak up the atmosphere of the place - wandering in the cool cloisters of the great Cistercian monasteries; studying the Byzantine patterns of Burgundy's famous painted roofs. Anything less is as frustrating as having only one sip of a great wine.
Next time, maybe, I'll be back on a bike, spinning along quiet country roads, stopping for occasional chats with farmers rosy-cheeked and cherubic as medieval monks. And the occasional degustation - oh, all right, if you insist. The bike would be handier for that, too. On the edge of Savigny-les-Beaune on that first trip, I remember wobbling severely after much too prolonged a sampling of the local beverage - proferred by a man of whom we'd asked directions. No harm done. Yes, two wheels look tempting again, with a less ambitious route.
I might just take a sliver of the Route des Grands Crus, pedalling north from Beaune through Nuits-St-Georges, Vougeot, MoreySt-Denis, Gevrey-Chambertin - villages all in the lee of the limestone escarpment of the Cote de Nuits. Or head off in a more or less straight and manageable line south-west, to Pommard, Volnay, Meursault, Puligny-Montrachet, jewels of the Cote de Beaune. From top to bottom, this precious strip - the Cote d'Or, Burgundy's solid gold centre - is less than 30 miles.
The extraordinary thing, for a region so famous and so accessible (the Paris-Lyon motorway, the N6, rips through the middle), is that Burgundy still oozes quiet charm. It feels unpretentious, down-to-earth - whether you're in the wine-drenched heartland, or further out where the focus of farming shifts to snails, Charollais cattle (the town of Charolle is in the south) or, around Bourg-enBresse to the east, plump, blue-footed poulets de Bresse - the only chickens in the world, as far as I know, to have their own appellation controlee.
The town of Beaune is the ideal touring base, not just because it's centrally located but because it's such an entrancing place. Apparently founded by Julius Caesar in 52 AD and duly ramparted, it acquired magnificent buildings in phases. The first period of architectural splendour came in the 14th century; the Dukes of Burgundy - then a vast and prosperous entity encompassing wealthy Flanders - took up residence here, in the palace that is now the Musee du Vin in the Rue d'Enfer. In the mid-15th century, money was still in ample supply: Nicolas Rolin, chancellor of Burgundy, had enough to build the Hotel-Dieu - the most exquisite hospital building the world has ever seen.
Whatever you do, don't miss this wonder - also known as the Hospices de Beaune. The traditional roof of coloured tiles is the biggest, the most intricate, in a region that has hundreds - patterned, it is said, to resemble the vineyards in autumn. Inside in the vaulted halls with their painted ceilings, you can picture generations of patients exultant at being tucked up under warm red blankets, in beds built cosily into individual alcoves of polished wood. It's perhaps not all that surprising that the Hotel-Dieu was in use, as an old people's home, until 1971. We can only presume they kept out of the pharmacy, with remnants of bizarre cures such as shrimp's eyes and fish glue mouldering in big, old jars.
Medieval buildings like this one stand shoulder to shoulder with the fine old premises of the wine merchants, built mainly in the 18th century when Beaune had become Burgundy's wine capital. Along its narrow streets, negociants such as Latour, Drouhin, Jadot, Bouchard Pere et Fils, are still headquartered in classically proportioned, limestone grandeur, while their wines lie in wait in a maze of ancient cellars - some of them used by the monks who first realised the potential of the vineyards a millennium ago.
It is difficult to separate Burgundy from its wines. Or, certainly, from food and wine. You don't have to drink here to have a good time, I suppose (though it pains me to think of anybody missing the pleasure of wine at its most sublime). But let's hope you are a hearty eater - a gourmand hungry enough for experience to fill your shopping bag to bursting point at Beaune's Saturday market, stock up on cheese at Le Tast' Fromages, buy dangerously good chocolate in Boucher. And then, aha! feast on snails in a light curry sauce and roast pigeon with bacon in an ace restaurant such as Le Jardin des Remparts.
If you have time to venture beyond the Cote d'Or, e (acute e) restaurant of Jean-Luc Barnabet. Better still,visit Chablis - the village itself small and pretty. At its core is the ninth century church of St Martin, its stout doors studded with horse-shoes nailed up for luck by pilgrims passing through on their way to Santiago de Compostela.
Or go in the other direction: south to Macon. The landscape around here feels more Mediterranean - warmer and brighter, with fields of sunflowers and orchards as well as vines. Again, there are sleepy villages of honeyed stone, garlanded in geraniums - tiny, dreamy places that will quench your thirst in style with the best of Pouilly-Fuisse or Macon-Villages.
Which reminds me: if you do like wine, the best tour of all can be made back in Beaune, sitting down. Install yourself at a table in the Bistrot Bourguignon, a relaxed place where the genial patron, Jean-Jacques Hegner, indulges his twin passions for wine and jazz. Fifteen wines from his ravishing list are available by the glass; another 70 or so, including many stellar treats, by the bottle. Taste your way around Burgundy - and, glancing around, you may well see some of its most acclaimed producers. "They all come here - Coche-Dury, Charlopin, Lafon - oh, many more. All, all, all," says Hegner, who gets jazz going in the back room on a Saturday night.
One freezing November afternoon, looking out from a Burgundian attic into a streetscape of gargoyles and drunken roofs, I wrote a postcard home. Some day, it said - threat or promise, take your pick - I'll have a house here. Nothing happened until a few weeks ago when I was back near the same spot and the same crazy notion came to mind. Maybe. Oh, dear. Maybe.