Perhaps because I work every day with words, I have for a long time been fascinated by the elaborate terminology used by wine experts when they're telling us what to drink and why. Other subjects, of course, from opera to stamp collecting to golf, have their own languages, but none of them is quite so ornamental, so inventive, so delightfully imprecise or, on occasion, so self-consciously silly as the vocabulary of the grape.

My introduction to winespeak took place many years ago, one damp evening in London, when I was invited to my first formal tasting. Half a dozen of us - enthusiastic drinkers to a man, but by no means connoisseurs - had gathered in a set of dignified chambers in St James's, central London, the headquarters of a long-established firm of shippers. Here, amid the spittoons and flickering candles, beneath portraits of the bewhiskered gentlemen who had founded the firm, we were to sample wines from a few of the lesser-known châteaux in Bordeaux, and one or two promising upstarts from the New World.

As wine merchants go, our host Michael was young. He had been taken into the firm when his more elderly colleagues had realised that their equally elderly customers were buying less wine, often as a result of natural causes (or, as we would say, death). Michael's job was to find younger, thirstier clients with a good 30 or 40 years of drinking ahead of them, to educate them and, naturally, to make them faithful clients. We were the first batch, eager but ignorant, and Michael started the proceedings by demonstrating the basic steps of tasting. Watch closely, he told us, and do as I do.

We were rather puzzled to see that the first part of the ritual involved Michael's tie, an ornamental polka-dot creation made of thick silk. He very carefully tucked the end into the waistband of his trousers, and buttoned his jacket, advising us to do the same.

Next, he picked up his glass; not as we would have done, with a nonchalant grab, but delicately, holding the base of the glass between the thumb and the first two fingers. We stood in a line in front of him, ties tucked in, glasses cocked but as yet unfilled, waiting for further instructions.

Swirling, said Michael. You must learn to swirl, to let the air in and allow the wine to breathe. We imitated as best we could the small circular movements of his hand, swirling make-believe wine in our empty glasses and beginning to feel faintly ridiculous. It was to get worse before it got better.

We held our empty glasses up to the candlelight, to appreciate the imaginary subtleties of colour in our imaginary wine. We applied noses to our empty glasses, breathing in the imaginary bouquet. We took an imaginary mouthful and had an imaginary spit, thankful that our ties were out of the way of any imaginary drops. By this time we were ready for a large Scotch, but it was not to be.

As Michael finally poured the first of the wines to be tasted, he moved on to part two of wine appreciation for beginners, which was more like an anatomy lesson. Wine had a nose, we were told. Wine had body, wine had legs. Wine had a robe, a bouquet, a personality, an essence. And it was not enough, according to Michael, merely to go through the motions of tasting; one must also know how to describe what one has just tasted. So, as we dutifully sipped and spat, Michael provided a running commentary on the wines under review.

The first wine, so he informed us, was vigorous and well-constructed, even a little bosomy. The second was an iron fist in a velvet glove. The third was earthy, but generous. The fourth was a little young to be up so late. And so it went on. As we worked our way through the bottles, the descriptions became more and more outlandish - oak, truffles, hyacinths, hay, wet leather, wet dogs, weasels, a hare's belly, faded tulips, old carpet, vintage socks. Music made a brief appearance, with one wine being compared in its finish to a Bach fugue. Innocent youth that I was in those days, I was surprised that there was never a mention of the main ingredient. I now know that grapes, honest and worthy and indeed essential though they may be, are not considered sufficiently exotic to gain a place in the wine-lover's lexicon.

Over the years, I have been to many other tastings, in the course of which I've been exposed to a dizzying range of verbal acrobatics: often imaginative, sometimes ludicrous, occasionally elegant ('a wine that should be drunk kneeling, in the position of prayer' was one of my favourites). But, so far as I am concerned, none of them has succeeded in the impossible task of describing the indescribable; not, at least, with any degree of precision.

Never mind. Whenever words fail us, as they so often do, we can always fall back on body language, which opens up an exciting new world of opportunities for expression. The hand-assisted sniff, for instance, when one comes across a particularly complex bouquet. It works like this: holding the glass in the right hand, nose to the rim, the left hand performs graceful waving motions which waft the scented air towards the waiting nostrils. In exceptional cases, eyes can be closed; a discreet 'mmm' of appreciation is also permitted before the more intrusive sound effects of gargling and spitting take over.

In fact, almost every part of the upper body can be called upon to register degrees of approval or disapproval. Facial expressions, obviously, are extremely useful: the connoisseur's thoughtful frown, his elevated eyebrows, his wrinkled nose, his pursed lips. Shoulders hunched in concentration, the left hand clapped to the forehead in thought, eyes raised to heaven, even the uncontrollable quivering of an over-excited leg - I've seen them all. But I thought I would never see the ear used as an instrument to assess a wine's quality. I was wrong.

I was at a champagne tasting. How I came to be there I'm not quite sure, since it is not something I drink more than two or three times a year. But there I was, surrounded by people of some distinction (and, I have to say, considerable pretension) who were tasting six different marques of champagne. One of the tasters, a man with an impressively tinted nose that suggested a long and close relationship with the grape, suddenly held up his hand for silence. He raised his glass to his ear, tilted his head, and listened. 'One can always tell Krug from Roederer,' he said, 'by the sound of the bubbles.'

I know when I'm out of my depth. I left the tasting and headed for the nearest bar.

· The new film, A Good Year, starring Russell Crowe, was based on Peter Mayle's book of the same name. His new book, Provence A-Z, is published by Profile, £18

Peter Mayle's top 10 memorable wines in my life

Red

1982 Château Leéoville Barton

£575, Berry Brothers and Rudd 0870 900 4300

The hero of a wonderful wine dinner given at the Turf Club by Anthony Barton.

2001 Penfolds Grange

£161, Berry Brothers & Rudd 0870 900 4300

A stunning wine that I had for the first time in Sydney. I've had a weakness for Australia ever since.

2001 Opus One

£135 Berry Brothers & Rudd, 0870 900 4300

A reminder of my friend Steve, the suntanned gynaecologist and a great Opus One fan.

1985 Château Lynch-Bages

£134, Berry Brothers & Rudd, 0870 900 4300

We had dinner with two runners after the Medoc marathon, and this proved to be a most restorative wine.

2000 Château La Nerthe, Châteauneuf-du-Pape

£22, Wine Society, 01438 740222

One of the very best ways to mark the beginning of winter. Excellent with daube or cassoulet.

2005 Fleurie Georges Duboeuf

£8.99, Majestic, 0845 605 6767, www.majestic.co.uk

This is the house red at the Troisgros in Roanne, served chilled in a pewter jug.

Rosé

2005 Château Constantin Chevalier Rosé

£6.48, Wineshare, 01306 742164

The perfect accompaniment to summer in Provence.

White

2003 Meursault- Charmes Premier Cru Domaine Michel Bouzereau

£36.50, Berry Bros & Rudd, 0870 900 4300

One of many marvellous wines served at the wine growers' annual lunch in the collars of the Château de Meursault.

2000 La Chablisienne Chablis premier cru Côtes de Léchet la Chablisienne

£13, Villeneuve Wines, 01721 722500

A wine that I drank (rather too enthusiastically) on my first business trip to Paris. I was 19.

Digestif

La Vieille Prune, La Maison Louis Roque, Souillac

£13.19 half bottle, Wine and Co, 0800 1000 2020

There is no more soothing end to a meal. A digestif guaranteed to give you sweet dreams.