Picture this: It's after midnight in Pauillac and we're just about to go to bed. I hear a whistle from the street and peering through the gaps in the shutters I spy a man on the street looking up at my window. He must be the whistler. So, wondering whether perhaps he is need of help, I open the shutters and windows and say Bonsoir. As it turns out, he's staying at the hotel a few doors down and is looking for a cafe or anywhere that's open to have a drink and round off his night. We have a conversation - he on the street, me at my second floor window - about the dearth of activity in town. I learn that he's coming with a group of 35 people in November on a wine tour and will thus have to organise a night event. I inform him that given that I will be in Australia in November I can't assist him on that front. Et voila, we wish each other good night and I close the shutters again. I can only assume that he whistled at our window because it was the only lit window in Pauillac at 12.30 on Saturday night, in his words: "Pauillac, c'est mort" (Pauillac, it's dead.)
On further reflection, it is somewhat strange that I have not noticed a single bar or cafe in Pauillac. It's a town that has a reasonable population, and this is in stark contrast to the other towns I have spent time in in France. A mystery warranting further investigation.