A squeak and a characteristic pop broke the silence in the kitchen of the château, slumbering to the sound of the regular tick-tock of the clock. It is late morning yet the full brunt of the sun is already felt. The postman huffs and puffs his way up the hill. You only need to move the lace curtain a little for him to appear in full view. An ice cube clinks in a crystal glass. The amber-coloured liqueur flows gracefully, lifting the tiny iceberg to the surface, where it gently floats. The cat stretches and trots off across the tiled floor. The door opens and the glass is offered: "Hello mister postman. Any news?" And this is how Carthagène was enjoyed many years ago, in Languedoc.