by Caro Feely
'What I wouldn't give for a photo with her!' whispered Thierry to me.
I asked the gal if she wouldn't mind making my French pal's day. She was delighted to oblige. She wasn't a real cowboy on the range, but she was Thierry's dream come true.
Chapter 15
Fire!
As we left cowboy country, back in Aquitaine Dave and Amanda were preparing a casual supper with their two daughters and our temporarily adopted two. Their semi-ruin had no central heating so to survive the winter they had installed two wood burners. Dave casually tossed a piece of cardboard into the living-room burner to rekindle it and they continued their evening preparations.
'What's that smell of smoke?' asked Amanda.
'The wood burner,' said Dave.
'It's much worse than usual,' said Amanda.
'You're right,' said Dave. 'I'll check outside.'
Seconds later he yelled, 'Get the kids outside; the house is on fire!'
There was smoke billowing round the chimney and flames licking the top. He sprinted inside for the phone.
'Who do we call? What's the emergency number?' Dave shouted as he ran back outside, phone in hand and adrenalin racing through his body. The fire looked more serious by the second.
'My God! 911? No, 112! That's the Europe-wide emergency number, dial 112!' yelled Amanda as she herded the kids outside.
In halting French, Dave explained the emergency to the operator and gave his address details. Amanda huddled with the kids in the courtyard, her mind racing about what this could mean for them. They were not the owners yet; they were renting the place until the transaction completed in a few days. They didn't have insurance as the policy on their house and effects would only come into effect when the transaction went through. Almost everything they owned was in that house and the fire was gaining strength.
Dave ran back and forth to extract critical items like car keys in case they needed to go elsewhere for the night, which was looking more and more likely as the minutes passed with no sign of a fire engine. 'Call them again, Dave!' shouted Amanda. 'Maybe they didn't realise the urgency.'
As Dave's finger's dialled, they heard the sound of a fire engine in the distance and in minutes flashing lights and sirens filled the courtyard. It was fifteen minutes since the first call but it felt like hours. Amanda, Sophia, Ellie, Martha and Florence huddled into the background while Dave fielded questions from the burly fire chief. The firefighters surrounded the house to hose from both sides. A half-hour later it was still blazing. The chief fireman left his men to continue the fight while he interrogated Dave further about the circumstances.
His staccato administrative style and serious demeanour, and the arrival of the police and the mayor, didn't help Dave's limited grasp of French. When he asked the chief to repeat the same question for the fifth time the fireman's frustration reached fever pitch.
'Maybe we could get Sophia to translate?' Dave said.
Seven-year-old Sophia was brought forward from the shadows at the back of the courtyard, where the kids were sheltering well out of the way, to translate between the fireman and the Moores. She transferred the questions to Dave with an authoritative French look similar to the fire chief's and returned his replies. With the question and answer session over, she translated the commentary that followed in the same imperious tone, following the chief's stance to a T, almost adding a wagging finger.
'He says you should have swept your chimney. He also says this chimney is not aux normes and will have to be condemned.'
She paused and looked at the fire chief, then translated the next volley of indignation.
'He says the house could have burned down. He says the house could still burn down.'
It had been over an hour and there were still flames licking up the side of the chimney. 'Why isn't the fire out yet? Can't they stop it?' asked Amanda, panicked.
'They are trying to control the fire without wrecking your house and furniture,' translated Sophia.
'But it's more important to put the fire out. Tell them to forget about the furniture, Sophia!' yelled Amanda.
'He says don't worry, it is almost under control.'
As Sophia said that, the flames died back and the whole team seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
'There, you see. He says it looks like it is out now but there is so much heat in the bricks and stones that it could reignite. Dave will have to watch the house for at least five hours to be sure it doesn't restart.'
Amanda bundled the girls into the back seat of her pick-up truck and took them to our house for the night. Lying in our double bed, her mind racing about what could be happening to her house or what was left of it, she didn't sleep much. Dave, in the meantime, signed all the official paperwork that was shoved in front of his nose despite having no idea what it was. When the firemen left, he had to stay up to keep watch, so he decided to get on with cleaning the living room, which was awash with water and soot. By 3 a.m. there was no sign of fire and the place was spotless.
'Cleaner than it's ever been,' said Amanda when she arrived home with the girls at around nine the following morning. The smell of the fire and the blackened chimney were still apparent, but otherwise it was hard to tell that the exciting events of the previous few hours had happened at all.
Blissfully unaware of the near-catastrophe unfolding in Aquitaine, we drove peacefully back to Los Angeles, taking the coastal route to see Santa Monica and other famous beach areas north of LA.
My sister Jacquie, nicknamed Foo, was joining us for a few days. She and I were close in spirit but lived thousands of miles apart. She had lived in North America for more than twenty years and I had lived in Europe for close to twenty years. She was beautiful, I was plain. I had children, she had a small terrier. She had several homes across the American continent; we had a small farm in France. What she spent on clothes in one shopping spree was more than I had spent on clothes for my entire family in ten years.
All the fancier hotels were fully booked, so Foo was obliged to book into the basic Holiday Inn with us. I was delighted, since this meant that we were in rooms right next to each other and could spend hours talking like we used to. I had missed her. Every day we ran together then chatted non-stop while we got ready to go out. My sister was in the process of extracting herself from a ten-year relationship with a bizillionaire. There was a load to talk about.
Naomi, now CEO of Reserveage, had come a long way since her first visit to our farmhouse kitchen two years before. Not only was she buying our grape skins and covering this trip, she also treated us to team-building dinners and extended the invitation to my sister when she heard she was in town. Stepping into a stretch limo Hummer the first night, Thierry, Isabelle, Seán and I felt like ploucs surrounded by the glamour of Los Angeles. The inside of the limo was cavernous and low, mirrors reflecting images back at me from every angle. Seeing Foo's feet stretched in front of me, I complimented her on her stunning platforms. 'Thank you. They're wirecell,' she said. Isabelle and I exchanged a look; neither of us had heard of this new designer. 'Wirecell?' I asked. 'Yes, you know, Wirecell,' said Foo.
'I've never heard of them,' I said, not surprised since I didn't read Vogue. I read La Vigne.
'You know Wirecell,' said Foo, now really frustrated. 'Wirecell, as in Yves Saint Laurent.'
'Oh! You mean Yves Saint Laurent. YSL,' I said.
'Exactly. That's what I said,' said Foo.
We laughed like dingos; a North American accent and two decades separated by an ocean gaped between us. Despite the yawning gap, we were sisters, closer in spirit than our current circumstances told.
At a lush Italian restaurant on the coast about fifteen minutes' drive from Anaheim, Naomi feted us and a group of twenty employees, clients and partners. Thierry ordered the wine. Once it was poured, I took the table through how to blind taste; what to look for, how to find clues from the look, the smell and the taste to work out what the wine was.
By deduction and a bit of luck I gue
ssed the appellation on the white, a Pouilly-Fuissé, and the appellation and vintage on the red, a 2005 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Chins dropped onto the table. Seán was impressed. Even Thierry was impressed. The wine-tasting boot camp with Matthew was paying off. Everyone wanted to know how to do it and I promised to help start a Reserveage wine club.
The Natural Products Fair was the largest organic and natural products fair on the west coast of America. At the main door, a small crowd was picketing against a brand called 'x organics' that was using 'organics' in their brand name and marketing, although there was nothing organic about most of their products. In Europe, the company leaders would have been in jail, not presenting at a show.
Inside, the Reserveage stand was tastefully constructed with large photos of vineyards, wooden furniture printed with French words like soleil and terroir and lovely wrought-iron display shelves and tables and chairs. On a screen, the harvest video taken at our vineyard the previous year looped, showing the autumn vineyards in all their magnificence. It was inviting and the products looked fantastic. Naomi's range had grown from her first resveratrol capsule – an antioxidant proprietary blend including resveratrol and our grape skins – to include other products like a collagen booster with resveratrol that I found helped keep wrinkles at bay. We met her New York distributor, who said they were number one in the New York market for organic resveratrol food supplements. He was bubbling with enthusiasm for Naomi and the company.
From her visit almost two years before, when she had an idea but no company and not even a brand name, to this show, Naomi had created a national brand. We wondered if the same was possible in France and were sure that it was not. Getting approval from A, B and C would have held up the creation for years, if not decades. This ability to proceed with speed for those who had talent and ideas was a contributor to the dynamism of the US economy, although it also left loopholes like the one the people outside were protesting about.
Saying a tearful goodbye to my sister, I wondered how long it would be before we would see each other again. She had some challenges to face that meant she wouldn't be visiting us for a while, and we wouldn't be doing an international trip for a long time unless another fairy godmother like Naomi flashed her wand.
Still unaware of the fire scare that nearly razed Chateau Bonté, we returned home late evening, having caught our connection in Paris thanks to Isabelle's stubborn desperation to see her children. At the flight-connection security point, she pushed aside a few able bodies, shouting 'I have to get home to see my sons'. As she prepared to do the same to a team of handicapped basketball players, Thierry restrained her. We still just made it. We had missed Sophia and Ellie so much we went to fetch them from Dave and Amanda despite the late hour. They had missed us a little too. According to Amanda, about halfway through our trip Ellie had said, 'I am so pleased Mum and Dad are coming home tomorrow.' Amanda had had to break the news gently that it was a few more days than that. I felt my heart break as she told the story.
Amanda gave a quick synopsis of the fire and I realised what the strange sooty smell was. As she recounted the events I felt a jab of fear, despite the fact that our girls were safely sound asleep in the next room. I tried to stop my mind from running down the road of what might have happened.
We woke the girls from their slumber and embraced like koalas. A half-hour later, sitting on the couch back home, we chatted about our ten days apart. I was worried that the fire would have left an impact, perhaps generated nightmares, but they were totally relaxed about it and more interested in the gifts we had for them and in telling us what fun they had had with Martha and Florence. We finally got to bed in the early hours; everyone, including Dora, happy to be in their own beds.
Getting away from the farm had done wonders for Seán and me, easing the tension left in the wake of our fight before Christmas. We were inspired and invigorated from our trip, filled with motivation for our business and the burgeoning notion of the tasting room and lodge. Travel had broadened our horizons and brought new ideas. As Vince Lignac, a friend in Saint-Émilion often said, travel was that and more; it helped you get to know yourself. We were poised for our next big step. My head said 'No, it's too risky', but my instinct said 'It's the only choice to make'.
Part Three
Flower
In biodynamics we talk of a flower day when the air forces are powerful. It is a good time to plant a flowering plant like calendula or to pick grapes for wines that we want to express floral aromatics. Being Libran, an air sign, I always feel energised, light, ready to take on the world on a flower day.
Flower days occur when the moon is in the air constellations: Gemini, Libra and Aquarius.
In wine-tasting we find that floral elements – elderflower on sauvignon blanc, acacia on botrytis sémillon, or violets on red wines – are reinforced on flower days.
The value of doing something does not lie in the ease or difficulty, the probability or improbability of its achievement, but in the vision, the plan, the determination and the perseverance, the effort and the struggle which go into the project.
Helen and Scott Nearing
Living the Good Life: Being a Plain Practical Account of a Twenty Year Project in a Self-Subsistent Homestead in Vermont (Social Science Institute, Harborside, Maine, 1954) (courtesy of the Goodlife Center)
Chapter 16
The Gestation
The local tourist office representative, a young woman who had become supportive of what we were doing after an initial bout of scepticism, visited to collect brochures and leave us with the new version of the Route des Vins map. I casually mentioned our idea for a new tasting room and lodge.
'That sounds like something that would be supported by the EU programme for rural diversification,' she said. 'The aid programme can contribute up to a third of the project costs. It's an EU initiative to develop non-agricultural revenue on farms in rural areas. But be careful,' she added, seeing the excitement on my face. 'It's a minefield of bureaucracy and red tape. Many people have said to me it's more trouble than it's worth. You can end up doing so much more to be aux normes and to meet their requirements that you can spend more than you originally budgeted, even with the payment of the aid.'
Warned but not daunted, we attacked the plans with renewed energy. The aid could provide a financial lynchpin for the audacious project, as much as the trips to California and Alsace had provided inspiration. Sébastian Bouché, a local builder specialising in traditional methods and deeply ecological, was recommended by a few people. Two of his five kids were at school with ours, the indomitable Judicaël in Ellie's class and Silouane in Sophia's.
When he arrived to meet us for the first time, Sébastian looked like a twenty-something Adonis with a hip blonde ponytail; he did not look like a harassed father of five. Sitting in the garden in the shade of the cherry trees, we discussed the project and I gave him my rough pencil drawings of how we wanted the buildings to look. After touring the site he had more of an idea of what was required. To continue the process he invited us to visit their family home, which he had constructed solo. I wanted Seán to accompany me but he was too busy already in the frenzy of early spring in the vineyard.
The Bouché house was a large and beautifully proportioned wood structure in a roughly A-frame style. Inside, natural light was pervasive, with two banks of windows meeting at a right angle in the corner of the kitchen. Sébastian introduced me to Véronique, his wife, whom I had met in passing through school. She was an imposing woman with a mass of red hair and a 'don't mess with me' look. With five kids, she needed to be tough. Véronique was the research, administration, purchasing and organisation behind the partnership, Sébastian the artist and builder.
We talked through what we were looking for, the budget, timeline and materials. Véronique offered me a hot drink and we sat down at the dining table in the large open-plan living space, the whole family including five kids and myself, for green tea and home-made cake. They were eco-warriors: the house ha
d a composting toilet, no flushing loo, and they ate organic. They lived gently on the earth.
Between telling the kids off for one misdemeanour and another, Véronique questioned me on different aspects of the project, while Sébastian flicked through one of his eco-building books, showing me photos to see my reaction to different building styles and methods. I had spoken to many artisans and had numerous quotes on file, but as I looked around their stunning, original house and experienced their sensitive approach, I knew I had found my team.
They agreed to do the plans for a reasonable fee and Sébastian said he would introduce us to a stonemason, Thomas, who he worked with regularly for the stonework, and to another contact for the internal walls. Closing the solid handmade wooden gate from their garden, my project notebook and a building-design book lent by Sébastian gripped tightly in my hand, I felt excitement mounting. The project was taking form. It was a significant step for us and a significant risk. I was thrilled and scared.