by Caro Feely
SAVING OUR SKINS
Copyright © Caro Feely, 2014
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, nor transmitted, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publishers.
Caro Feely has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Praise for Saving Our Skins:
'Caro Feely has written a careening memoir in Saving Our Skins. So impassioned that it could inspire you to drop all security, move to the backwaters of France, and bet your life, all for the love of making wine.'
Alice Feiring, author of Naked Wine
'Should be required reading for anyone who loves wine! Even a teetotaller will drink up every page of Saving Our Skins, for the fascinating behind-the-scenes of organic farming. Making good wine is truly a labour of love and respect for the earth – often, we learn, at the expense of the wine farmer. Caro takes us along in her grapestained pocket to experience the picking, the pressing, and the profit questioning: can her family afford to continue making natural wine? We quickly turn the pages, eager to find out – and we can't help but root for Caro et compagnie as they creatively keep on top of things, namely a precious heap of grapes!'
Kristin Espinasse, author of French Essais, Blossoming in Provence and Words in a French Life
'In Saving Our Skins, Caro's courage and determination leaps off every page, redefining what it means to be brave when you're at the mercy of the weather, uncertain cashflow and endless, often puzzling, French bureaucracy. Caro has produced a beautifully written sequel which in turn seduced and terrified me about the prospect of owning an organic vineyard in rural France. I thoroughly enjoyed the urgency of her writing – I needed a rather large glass of wine when I'd finished. Bravo Caro.'
Samantha Brick
'Caro Feely understands that winemaking is an art, a science and a business. Saving Our Skins entertains and informs as it tells the story of her family's struggle to make a living making organic and biodynamic wine in the south of France. Required reading for wine lovers everywhere and anyone dreaming a vineyard dream.'
Mike Veseth, author of Wine Wars and Extreme Wine and editor of The Wine Economist
Praise for Grape Expectations:
'Captivating reading for anyone with dreams of living in rural France.'
Destination France
'I was moved and delighted by this book, which has vast and useful amounts to say about wine and the passion of wine-making, about France and the great adventure of family life, and above all about the trials and challenges that build a marriage… splendid book.'
Martin Walker, bestselling author of the Bruno, Chief of Police series
'Really liked Caro's book; it's not the usual fall in love with France story, it's warts and all – including horrific accidents! Definitely the best – and most realistic – tome coming from the 'A Year in Provence' genre.'
Joe Duffy, Irish radio personality
'bright, passionate, inspiring, informative and absolutely delicious'
Breadcrumb Reads blog
'Filled with vivid descriptions of delicious wines, great food… a story of passion, dedication, and love'
Bookalicious Travel Addict blog
Author's note
This is a true story. However, for privacy, certain characters have fictitious names and sometimes the order of events has been changed a little to suit the pace of the book. All speech is based on memory and aims to capture the gist of what was said at the time and the sense of the character speaking.
About the author
Caro Feely is a wife, mother, daughter, wine educator and tour guide, organic farmer, and speaker on wine and ecology. She lives in Saussignac in the Dordogne on the farm where this book is set.
Dedicated to my family, Seán, Sophia and Ellie, with all my love.
'Now this is a story of nature, of love, of family, of not giving up. A call to arms for the earth, for the vines, the flowers and the trees, for us.'
Contents
Part One – Root
Chapter 1: Diamonds of Destruction
Chapter 2: Gifts and Grace
Chapter 3: Ploucs, or Country Bumpkins
Chapter 4: Grape Skin Magic
Chapter 5: Inhaling Grapes
Chapter 6: Vendanges!
Chapter 7: Animal Activists and Amoureuses
Part Two – Leaf
Chapter 8: A Seed is Sown
Chapter 9: Roller Coaster
Chapter 10: The Last of the Summer Wine
Chapter 11: Wine-tasting Boot Camp
Chapter 12: Snowed-in in Alsace and Burgundy
Chapter 13: A Taste of California
Chapter 14: The American Dream
Chapter 15: Fire!
Part Three – Flower
Chapter 16: The Gestation
Chapter 17: Saint-Émilion Stories
Chapter 18: The Imperfect Day
Chapter 19: Volunteers and Red Tape
Chapter 20: One Hundred Guests
Chapter 21: Noël aux Chandelles
Part Four – Fruit
Chapter 22: Rose Hips and Risk
Chapter 23: Killer Chemicals
Chapter 24: Wine Adventure
Chapter 25: A Shocking Death
Chapter 26: Chasse au Trésor Périgord-style
Chapter 27: Gold for Green
What Can You Do to Ensure a Healthy Future?
Acknowledgements
Part One
Root
In biodynamics we talk of a root day when the earth forces are powerful. It is a good time for a seed to take root, for root-related activities like hoeing around the base of the vine, and for us humans to feel rooted.
Root days occur when the moon is in the earth constellations Capricorn, Taurus and Virgo. It is easy to confuse these astronomic constellations, a reality visible in the sky, with the star signs of astrology that use the same names. They are different.
We found that the earthy elements in our wines were reinforced on root days; the forest floor, the truffle. It was a better day to open an aged red wine than a young fruity one.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.
Wendell Berry
Copyright © 1983 by Wendell Berry from Standing By Words.
Reprinted by permission of Counterpoint.
Chapter 1
Diamonds of Destruction
The vineyard was dressed in shimmering diamonds; delicate buds perfectly highlighted with bling. From the window the vines looked like emerald clusters trellised on silver cords. It was silent, almost as if it had snowed: even the birds were in shock.
Seán and I walked from the eighteenth-century stone farmhouse to the first vineyard a few metres away, our footsteps crunching ominously. Up close, the buds were like fairies
dressed in pink and lime cotton wool, then wrapped with silver spun sugar. My stomach cramped with fear.
We had been in the vineyard business long enough to know that the glitter came at a high price. On a winter's day it was beautiful; on a spring day after 'bud burst' it was devastating, fatal to the young shoots. Friends often spoke of a late spring frost fifteen years before that had destroyed ninety per cent of the region's harvest. My mind scrambled to the implications as I gazed at the scene.
Since moving to France three years previously our lives had been on a roller coaster. Renovating our property, converting the vineyard to organic agriculture and making our own wines were at times terrifying. Fear of the unknown, two farm accidents in our first year and constant financial worry had not put us off. We found our new life strangely fulfilling, though I often wished for a stable job with some certainty. Seán, the love of my life, and I worked all hours and we were still far from finding equilibrium. We exchanged a glance. The anxiety in his eyes made my stomach churn.
The valley below was all blossoms and bright green, the odd strip of icy white showing on farm roads and ploughed fields. A ribbon of blue, the Dordogne, wound its way from Bordeaux to Bergerac in the middle distance. I drank in the beauty, wondering how much of the vibrant lime foliage would be left the following day once the frost had taken its toll.
Down the hill it was worse: we estimated more than half was lost. Seán tried to calm my panic but I knew he was worried. From the tall, long-haired, clean-shaven journalist I had met fifteen years before he had transformed into a rugged farmer, still sporting long hair but with the winter beard necessary to protect his face from the harsh conditions in which he pruned the vines. It was a hard slog through the three coldest months of the year but one of the tasks he enjoyed; an opportunity to be calm and quiet, to listen to the vines and the land with no interference except the rhythmic snip of his secateurs.
We had had our confidence shaken by the massive life change we had made – city professionals to farmers. At times I felt we were astronauts going through g-force into outer space rather than merely changing country, job and language. This latest setback was another chip in our security.
I told myself there was no point in worrying about things we couldn't control. We just had to get on and deal with it. We walked back up to the house, the frost crunching menacingly.
Seán reached into a filing box on the mantelpiece in the kitchen, then sat down heavily at the pine dining table worn with years of use. This was his makeshift office, the place where he kept track of mountains of paperwork related to vineyard and wine, overlooked as he worked by two paintings, a still life of fruit and flowers by my grandmother and one of sunflowers by me. He made observation notes in his vineyard file, detailing the estimations we had made. He looked resigned and tired. I plodded to my office to work on the quarterly accounts. A few minutes later I heard the kitchen door close then saw him trudge past my office window, down to the vineyard where he was finishing the tying down, the last step in the pruning process.
Our method of pruning was the Guyot system, the most widespread pruning and trellising system in Aquitaine, where one or two canes are tied onto the bottom wire of the trellis. In other regions different pruning and trellising methods are used depending on the climate. I needed to stop thinking about climate; it reminded me of frost. I turned to the accounts. Usually I avoided office work like the plague, but now it offered an escape from what was outside.
By the afternoon it was so hot it was difficult to believe there had been frost. The silver was gone, leaving a browning as if the buds had been burnt. As I kneaded a batch of dough, my thoughts were consumed by where we might be by the end of the year. Bread-making was part of my 'become the self-sufficient wife my husband dreams of' programme. I didn't expect to enjoy it but I did. There was something meditative and therapeutic about the process.
Throwing and kneading – somewhat more aggressively than necessary – I reminded myself that it was not the situation we were in that mattered, but how we handled it. I was repeating that rather frequently. After ten minutes the dough was perfect, like plastic clay, and I was serene. We were healthy, we had an admittedly leaky roof over our heads and food on the table. We would find a way out of this new hole.
A couple of hours and many invoices later, the sound of tyres on the limestone outside announced the arrival of our daughters with Sonia, our neighbour, who took the afternoon school run. I waved and opened the door for the girls then whisked the bread out of the oven, poured elderflower cordial in recycled glass yoghurt pots and sliced into the bread. A delicious yeasty smell wafted through the air as I spread a layer of home-grown fig jam onto the slices.
We were into 'reduce, reuse and recycle' mode, gratefully dependent on gifts from friends and donations and hand-me-downs for our daughters' gear. I had put off buying new shoes for them for ages, hoping some would miraculously appear, but they both needed shoes badly now.
I had learned to offer food immediately they got home; otherwise things went downhill fast. Ellie at three and a half could play the tough guy. Her pretty blonde curls and glasses were misleading. She would stare and say 'donne-moi des bonbons!' (give me sweets!) – with 'or you'll regret it' implied. Seán assured me she was sensitive inside.
Sophia at five was already a sophisticated young lady rather than a little girl. Following a bumpy start after we arrived with her not speaking French, on my recent visit to school her new teacher had exclaimed: 'I knew Sophia was born in Dublin but I thought her parents were French! Her French is better than most of the class.' My accent was still so bad it was clear there was no French family involved. I felt very proud of her.
As the girls chatted about their day and ate wedges of bread, another car turned up our road and parked outside the tasting room. I reminded Sophia to do her homework when she had finished her goûter, her afternoon snack, asked Ellie to draw a picture, and walked out into the glorious afternoon sun, across the courtyard to the tasting room.
Ashley and Rob Lamb stepped out of a smart 4x4 and we exchanged kisses à la française. They had discovered our wines the previous year and were back in the region for a quick visit. Ashley's mother and father breezed in with them, dressed in stylish linen, he as dark-tanned as a Sicilian and wearing a striking Havana hat. We chatted as I fetched the samples from the stockroom, exchanging ideas of places to visit in the area: les Jardins de Marqueyssac, Renaissance-style gardens offering majestic views of the Dordogne; the market at Issigeac; the Château de Beynac where Richard the Lionheart lived for many years.
As they settled into the rickety garden furniture that sufficed for our furnishings, I poured taster samples of our latest sauvignon blanc vintage. We sipped. I swirled the wine around my mouth, enjoying the acidity and flavour, then spat into the crachoir, the spittoon, always set out on the table for myself and the driver. At the beginning of our adventure I had splashed myself liberally with wine and had to wear dark colours to tasting events. Now my white shirt was clear.
The wine was like diving into the sea: refreshing, mineral and zesty, like licking elderflower and gooseberry cordial straight off our fossil rock. The vineyard was on a limestone outcrop, a compressed seabed packed with million-year-old sea fossils. It seemed like decades since our first vintage release and a wine buyer's comment of 'thin, Italian style', although it was only two years. I was still sensitive to comments about our wines but now I had more confidence in them. I poured them with pride. It was a good feeling.
'I love your wines,' said Ashley. 'I never used to drink sauvignon blanc or sémillon. It's less than a year since we found you and I can't drink anything else. Others don't taste clean like yours. I never get a headache from your wines.'
I made a pretend grab for a microphone to record her comments. From the start we chose organic farming, something we felt strongly about, a motivation that went deeper than earning our daily crust; but we still needed to eat. After three years of organic conversion it was
starting to pay off in the quality of the wines but we still had moments of doubt – not about organic, but about the economic viability of organic in the modern economy where most consumers chose on price and didn't really know what organic or chemical agriculture was or why they should bother.
'People at work can't believe we drink your wine during the week with no bad effects,' said Rob. 'We opened our last bottle of La Source red a few days ago. Delicious.'
I poured the new vintage La Source into their glasses. After taking a deep draught Ashley's father lifted his tanned hand.
'Please leave me with this wine for the afternoon,' he purred from under his Havana hat. 'A shady terrace, a cigar and I could contemplate life for hours.'