I've been told by a friend whose life mission, it seems, is to convince those around her to look out at the world with awe and wonder that top American violinist Joshua Bell participated in a social experiment about human perception, taste and priorities.

His contribution to the experiment, conducted by the Washington Post, was to busk at a busy Metro station for 45 minutes. During that time, about 2 000 people walked passed Bell, whose concert in Boston two days earlier had sold out within hours despite tickets averaging $200 a piece.

He played continuously, several of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin valued at $3.5 million dollars. Only seven people stopped and listened for a short while before moving on. One, who recognised him, tossed $20 into his violin case; in total he collected $32.

Liesl, the friend, argues that, if we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made ... how much else do we miss? In a bid to please her and make certain I miss nothing of beauty, I purged the cellar of half a dozen wines I thought might be peaking, or gloriously old. And they were both gloriously old and things of beauty (although I suspect Liesl wants me to stop and smell the roses, not snort at the Bordeaux).

The 1978 Ducru-Beaucaillou (2nd growth, Saint Julien) had a classic aged claret nose of sweet cassis and forest floor. There was also oyster shell and toffee, and its palate was long and seamless. This vintage, however, was overshadowed by the others that followed. The 1982 La Tour Figeac (Grand Cru, Saint Emilion) was absolutely charming, a shoo-in for my list of Most Memorable Bottles. This, too, had delicate cassis notes as well as licorice and mint, undergrowth, metallic hints and supple tannins. On the palate it was still fruitful, fine and elegant. The 1989 Mouton Rothschild (1st growth, Pauillac) had the brick-red hue of an aged wine but it was still youthful and very fresh. There were hints of forest floor, plenty of blackcurrant fruit and powerful black olive, savoury tones.

Next up were two 1990s, a Palmer (3rd growth, Margaux) and a Reserve de la Comtesse (2nd wine of super 2nd Pichon Longueville, Pauillac). I had um-ed and ah-ed about opening these; were they too young, even at 20 years of age? I guess they were, although they both had the patina of age and whispers of decomposing forest vegetation. The Palmer had taut but fine tannins, and great length; the Comtesse was quite modern in style with spicier oak and a generous coffee-toasted fruit centre. In retrospect, I should have let the Palmer lie longer. Finally, the 1989 Guiraud (Premier Cru) was as impressive as the reds, and quintessential Sauternes with almond and marzipan, honey and lemon notes. It was rich but not unctuous, with vibrant apricot acidity.

Afterwards this surfeit of treasures, I stopped and stared at the Milky Way, and then sat quietly with Stitch in the starlight and listened to the waves. Beauty noted, nothing missed, mission accomplished.