Saving Our Skins

by Caro Feely

  The organic road we had taken and the age of our vineyards – some sixty-five years old – meant higher quality but also lower yields, and a subsequent lack of return despite higher prices than most. Perhaps this new opportunity would help redress the balance.

  Six weeks later Naomi arrived immaculately dressed in power-businesswoman style; beautifully tailored trousers, a red jacket and black patent leather shoes. In my torn jeans, paint-stained runners and a winesplattered – despite many washes – harvest shirt, I felt like a farming hick. It seemed half the farm had made its way inside the house, against my best efforts with the broom. I felt embarrassed as she stepped into our humble kitchen but Naomi was charmed by the rusticity.

  The vineyard looked better than the interior so I took Naomi around our vines explaining Terroir Feely. As we finished the tour, Thierry clattered into the courtyard in his old fourgon. Naomi stepped into the passenger seat and they took off to visit Château Le Payral.

  On their return we settled into creaky chairs at our battered kitchen table with cups of organic coffee. Naomi explained that she needed the grape skins dry and food-grade. It wasn't as simple as digging the marc – the leftover grape pomace made of skins and pips – out of the press and handing it over at the end of vinification, the way we did when we passed it over to the distillery for industrial alcohol. There was work to be done to find the appropriate solution.

  'Do you know of a manufacturing facility that could extract the polyphenols from the grape pomace?' she asked. Thierry, Seán and I shook our heads.

  'Les Sources de Caudalie, the cosmetics business built around grape extracts, might know,' I said.

  Naomi was a step ahead: she already had an appointment with them and with a professor at the University of Bordeaux. When she left, Thierry had us in guffaws about our shared feelings of being ploucs.

  'Naomi, so smart in her beautiful city clothes in my fourgon, mud everywhere! The seat full of dog hair. Ah, la honte! (Oh, the embarrassment!) With my bad English I thought Naomi had said she was going to follow me in her hire car. If I had known she was catching a lift with me, I would have cleaned up. Et en plus, I have a cold, there were used tissues everywhere, on the seat, on the floor. When Naomi got into my passenger seat, I was so embarrassed. I expected her to grimace but instead she gave me the most beautiful smile.'

  Thierry's misgivings about his well-garnished vehicle were mistaken. Naomi was smitten – charmed by Thierry, the fact that he was a seventh-generation winegrower, the wines and the stylish simplicity of their home, kept immaculate by Isabelle. I wondered how Isabelle did it; she had a full-time job, kids, a farm. Cars, clean and dirty, old and new, were a major topic of conversation in general in our commune at that time. Pierre de St Viance, our friend the bottler, was turning forty. He and Laurence, who was studying to become a teacher, lived in the massive middle section of Château de Saussignac, and were also close friends with Thierry and Isabelle. Pierre was powerfully built for the heavy work he did, bottling wine all over the region of Aquitaine, with red hair and the temper and sense of humour to go with it. His passions were his family and cars. There was an ongoing joke about how many cars he had and the fact that Laurence didn't have a clue how many there were or where they were, since many were garaged with Pierre's friends. As she herself said, tant mieux, so much the better, because if she knew she would probably have a cardiac arrest.

  Word had it the count was around twenty. We were planning to make it twenty-one. For Pierre's fortieth birthday, Thierry, Joel and a few other organisers of the Festival des Ploucs were making a collection to buy the ugliest, oldest car they could find. Emails flew: what, where, when. An invitation from Laurence to a party at Château de Saussignac arrived perfectly timed to save us from gatecrashing. Thierry said we were buying a 'quatrelle'. I didn't know what it was but it sounded good.

  Thierry thought the Renault 4L was an ugly car, but when I saw it for the first time I found it charming. We gathered at Thierry's vineyard to decorate the beautiful antique, covering it from top to toe in stickers for antinuclear proliferation, anti-genetic modification, anti-4x4, anti-rallying, pro-socialists and a few of my organic stickers to add a touch of green. For 400 euros we had a car that worked, if somewhat rusted and chesty. A few hours later, as we lifted our glasses of champagne to salute Pierre's milestone in the great vaulted living room of Château de Saussignac, the sound of a sick vehicle drifted inside. Laurence stopped her glass midway to her lips and said, 'I don't believe it.'

  Pierre flung open the windows to better hear the sound. He could probably tell the age and make just by listening. The cream 4L burst round the corner, a cloud of grey smoke coughing in its wake, like some crazed scene in a comic book. It shuddered to a halt in the garden two levels below us. We galloped down the massive chateau stairs, two-metre-wide chunks of stone, to the cellar that led to the garden and the 4L work of art. 'It is exactly like the one I had when we were courting!' cried Laurence. 'Oh, it fills me with memories.'

  After checking the engine and all other aspects of the superb addition to his car collection, Pierre declared, 'This will make a great rally car.'

  Everyone roared with laughter. It wasn't going anywhere but to a parts shop. His real rally car, a Citroën parked alongside, was regularly pitted against the mountains of France and beyond.

  This group of friends had become part of our stability in the new and unfamiliar world of France and wine when we arrived. To us nomads, living far away from where we grew up, like many people in the modern global village, they were like family.

  That evening we talked with Thierry about Naomi's visit and the possibilities of the venture. With the frost damage we would need new revenue streams by the following year. It was early days. Naomi hadn't even finalised a business name. I crossed my fingers.

  Chapter 5

  Inhaling Grapes

  Seán began preparations for our third harvest as I organised a multi-day wine tour for Chris, a client from Chicago. My research took me to top estates in Médoc and Saint-Émilion, including Château Pontet-Canet, a grand cru classé in Pauillac. I met the director, Jean-Michel Comme, a famous personality in the organic and biodynamic community.

  Some estates were beautiful but the wines disappointing; others were rustic but the wine magnificent; and some, like Pontet-Canet, had a stunning estate and vineyard and delicious wines – a deep well of black fruit with a touch of spice, minerality and zest. Jean-Michel mentioned that his family property, run by his wife, was near Margueron, ten minutes' drive from our vineyard in Saussignac. The Saussignac appellation, part of Greater Bergerac, was on the border of the most easterly Bordeaux appellation called Sainte-Foy-Bordeaux, the location of his family vineyard, Champ des Treilles.

  Taking up Jean-Michel's suggestion of a visit, I booked a tasting at Champ des Treilles. I loved orchestrating visits to give a flavour of the region, and the large corporate-style properties and grands crus classés contrasted with the smaller artisanal properties that offered a personal and authentic experience. Whatever the size, the vineyard had to strike a chord to be included. I had visited some of the most hallowed estates in the Bordeaux region and found them hollow, places I would not return to.

  A few weeks of planning later, I welcomed Chris and setting off to Margueron offered the first opportunity to chat. 'Where is your accent from?' he asked as we made our way cross-country on small rural roads. Rolling hills covered in vines ran to the horizon, interspersed with trees and stone buildings. It was no wonder the southern Dordogne was sometimes called the Tuscany of France.

  'It's a long story… a bit of an epic,' I replied. People were often curious about where we were from and how we ended up in this corner of France.

  'We've got time,' said Chris.

  I delved back to the beginnings of our vineyard dream some twenty years before. 'Seán and I met in Joburg in our early twenties. He was a journalist and I was a yuppie but a country girl at heart. For a while we played "we're just frien
ds" but it was much more than that. He made me see life with different eyes.' 'True love,' said Chris.

  'Exactly. We began to think of the future: we both had a back-to-the-land dream and we were passionate about wine. The logical step was to move to Cape Town, closer to where the vineyards were. About a year later we did just that. After searching for several months we were close to buying a small vineyard to work on weekends when the tech multinational I worked for asked me to move to Dublin. The Celtic Tiger was taking off and they needed skills like mine. Hence the accent – saffer with an Irish touch. Anyway, here we are, Champ des Treilles.'

  I parked the car and promised to continue the story later. Corinne Comme opened the door of the chai, pronounced 'shay', meaning 'winery'. She was slight with long, dark hair and she had strong, delicate hands and the air of an artist and shaman, a wise woman. After introductions she walked us out into the vineyards explaining their approach.

  Jean-Michel Comme, owner of the property and technical director of the only certified organic and biodynamic Médoc grand cru classé, was in the distance, working in an enjambeur tractor on his weekend off from Pontet-Canet. The tall machine looked like a strange insect mounted over the vines. An enjambeur tractor straddles the vine row rather than driving between the vine rows, a necessity in a very high-density vineyard like theirs, planted at around 8,000 vines per hectare. We made our way towards him, climbing a gentle slope covered in vines. Corinne stopped to touch them, almost stroking them, or to remove a wayward shoot every few metres.

  'In spring we collect a sample of flowers from each parcel to see what the perfume is; that gives an early indicator of the aromas that will follow in the grapes and then the wine,' she said leaning in to inhale deeply from one of the bunches of grapes. I followed, breathing in the aromas. I had never smelled a bunch of grapes before; we always focused on tasting. I was astonished by the delicate perfume hanging in the air. It made sense – so much of a wine's character came from the aromas.

  Jean-Michel stopped the giant insect and jumped down to greet us. He was fit and muscular, with a square jaw and determined eyes that explained why everything at Pontet-Canet was perfect: it was run with military precision. Corinne talked about the Champ des Treilles, their terroir: soil, climate, vines and how they farmed. The story started when Jean-Michel's grandparents emigrated from Italy to grow vines here in the 1920s. Their conviction to work organically and biodynamically was solidified when Corinne became sick from pesticides used by farms neighbouring their house. They had not been welcomed by the locals for their strange ways of natural farming, were even victims of tyre-slashing on their car in the yard. They had considered giving up and leaving but decided to stay, not be chased away. Knowing how she loved those old vines from the way she touched them, I knew it was not a consideration lightly made. Her story made me thankful for the generosity and openness of our Saussignac winegrowing community. Only ten minutes' drive away from Terroir Feely, this was another world. We walked back to the farmhouse, their vineyards glowing with health on the hills around us.

  'During the harvest I have two months here on my own. My bedroom is above the winery. I listen to the wines talking to me in the night. If one is getting too hot, I hear it and I intervene. I don't like automated temperature control, I want to make the decision myself. In the evenings, during the harvest, I set my table in the barrel room, light the candles and have a quiet dinner there with my wines.'

  I pictured the scene, enchanted. She was like a wine sorceress – full of intuition and deep spiritual knowledge of her place and her wines. At the back of the winery was an egg-shaped concrete vat that I felt an intense urge to stroke. My hand lifted and I looked up for approval from the master winemaker, then did. It felt good, its solid smoothness and geometric perfection comforting and satisfying under my fingers.

  Talking through her winemaking, Corinne gave me ideas that would be useful for us, such as placing a little cup of sulphur dioxide to float in the vat and release its protective gas, rather than actually adding the liquid to the wine. We were preparing for our first vintage alone without a wine scientist giving advice. It was exciting but also frightening. Seán felt confident and ready for it. He often disagreed with our wine scientist, who followed a technological, modern winemaking approach.

  We were taking a different route, a natural, terroir-driven road that was filled with angst and risk, but also with character and joy. In modern winemaking many additives are used to decrease risk or increase volume. They mask the authenticity of the wine, creating factory wines that taste alike. At that time there were no European rules for organic winemaking. We were organic for the growing part in the vineyard, but once it was picked we could do what we liked.

  Although there was no official obligation to follow natural winemaking for our organic status, we were slowly moving to it. This meant letting the grapes do everything naturally, including not adding cultured yeast. Indigenous yeast was in the air and on the grapes in the vineyard; there was no need to add foreign cultured yeast developed in a factory. Wild yeast offered more individuality, but also more risk. The fermentation was slower and sometimes that allowed bacteria to develop that could create bad aromas, increase the volatile acidity or even turn the wine to vinegar. Another key part of natural winemaking was lower sulphur dioxide levels in the wine, and the floating cup of SO would help in that respect.

  We tasted from the barrels, first a merlot, deep and plummy, then a pure petit verdot. Bordeaux blends are usually merlot, cabernet sauvignon and cabernet franc. On the left bank, such as in Pauillac in the Médoc, cabernet sauvignon is usually the majority accompanied by a tiny part of petit verdot, sometimes called the salt and pepper of the blend. The petit verdot from the barrel was spicy, tannic and acidic. It was the first time I had tasted it on its own and I could see how it would add to a blend. On the right bank in places like Saint-Émilion and Pomerol and where we were that day, merlot was the majority. It was all down to terroir: gravels on the left bank, hotter and better for cabernet; limestone and clay on the right bank, cooler and perfect for deep merlot with backbone.

  Above us, impressed into the stucco of the stone walls of the small barrel room, were symbols for earth, water, air and fire, images to remind visitors of the importance of biodynamics. It was a magical place and I didn't want to leave but Corinne motioned to us to move into the house.

  Inside, the bottled wines were as persuasive. The white offered acacia honey and floral notes and a long bright finish of vibrant acidity from natural farming. The petit verdot had left its trace on the red blend, pepper highlighting red fruit, and the lovely freshness I had come to recognise as a signature of natural wine.

  As we said our farewells I felt I had made a connection with a wise woman of the south-west. After seeing their farm and tasting their wines I was even more excited about biodynamics. There was something here that offered more than just a healthy environment, something deeper. They were connected spiritually to their farm, their vines and their wines. I could feel it and it followed through in the taste. 'Wow, that was really interesting. I loved their wines,' said Chris as we took off.

  I was surprised. He was a single, thirty-something go-getter working in investment banking with a freshly minted MBA from the INSEAD business school. I didn't expect his reaction to be so spontaneous and positive. He had felt the same magic as I had. 'So what happened in Dublin?' said Chris, reminding me to get back to our story.

  'We settled. The one-or-two-year sojourn in Ireland turned into a permanent move. Our first holiday from there was to France: the Loire Valley. My sister Jacquie Somerville and her boyfriend Ritchie came over from Canada to join us. He was a plastic surgeon, comic and wine fanatic. We visited artisan winegrowers up and down the river, falling in love a little more each day. And the cuisine! Duck breast and cabernet franc from Bourgeuil, apricot tart and Quarts de Chaume sweet wine. Our favourite everyday tipple was a 'blanc d'Anjou' that cost less than an hour of parking in Dublin. It was
a coup de coeur.' 'It sounds like I should put a trip to the Loire on my wish list,' said Chris.

  'Beware! You could land up smitten like us. A few years and many trips to France later, I said to Seán, "We need to write our vision of where we want to be in five years." He said, "That's chick stuff, I'm not doing that." I explained what I had read in O magazine: if we aren't clear about where we want to go, how will we get there? Who can argue with Oprah?' I glanced across at Chris and he laughed.

  'Seán succumbed. Sitting in our enclosed balcony, looking at the drizzle out over the Irish Sea, we described our visions on a one-pager. When we exchanged, they were almost identical: winegrowing in France. The gauntlet was laid down. Almost exactly five years later we moved to France.'

  'You are so lucky to have a shared vision, a shared dream that you are following,' said Chris.

  He was envious, but he didn't know how tough it had been. Working together as a married couple brought new challenges. We almost split up as we began our second year of wine-farming, our relationship crushed by the pressure of changing country, language and job, and the precarious finances. Since then things had got better, but still not as rosy as it looked from the outside. Facing our third harvest I felt a familiar jab of anxiety. Harvest was crunch time, the culmination of the year's work. This was the first time that I would be juggling tour guests and harvest. Like a dose of petit verdot, it would add spice to the challenge.