by Caro Feely
I felt sick to my core.
'How much would it cost to get a whole new unit?'
'They start at around twenty thousand.'
We had to do the repair. I called Sonia to book a sleepover for the girls. We needed to be up and working by four in the morning. There would be no room for little people amongst the heavy machinery of harvest time.
Benoit messaged that the part would arrive that afternoon. We were right down to the wire but we could not push the harvest out by another day. Ad and I paced up and down each row carefully, removing everything that had the slightest hint of rot. It was sunny and the vineyard was glowing with an early hint of autumnal orange on some of the leaves, but we hardly noticed. The grapes were clean; only three bunches had to be removed. On our return we found Benoit and Sean huddled over the Kreyer.
They were in the same position when I got back from fetching the girls. They ran to Sean yelling 'Papa, Papa!' and leapt into his arms. It was the first time I had seen him smile all day. He kissed them then sent them to me for their 'goûter', the afternoon snack of brioche and juice. Getting dinner ready, the stress was almost insupportable. As the sun set over the ancient stone barn I heard the hum of a healthy Kreyer rebound across the courtyard and ran outside, overjoyed.
'Ça marche,' said Benoit, giving me a relieved smile. Even the machine artisans working in the wine industry felt the pressure of the harvest. They went to extraordinary lengths to make sure equipment was fixed. I dressed the girls in their pyjamas, packed their overnight bag and walked them up to Sonia. It was their first night away from home.
'You must listen to Sonia and make sure you eat all your breakfast.' Ellie cried and Sophia comforted her with a big hug. They bravely said goodnight. I tried to control the tears welling up and gave them each a bisou.
Sean and Ad were finishing up. We were ready and it wasn't ten o'clock. How different it felt to the chaos of the previous year.
I slept well and woke at four the next morning to a clear sky filled with stars. After wolfing down some muesli and a cup of strong tea I stepped out into the night. Minutes later the harvest machine arrived with a fine-looking chauffeur named Jean-Louis. He was tall with dark curly hair and should have been on the cover of Men's Health, not driving a machine in the depths of the Dordogne at four in the morning. I got up onto the harvest machine with renewed vigour.
A short ride and we were in the first vineyard of sauvignon blanc. I indicated our markers to him and headed back up. The first load was perfect and pressing went smoothly. In an hour all the sauvignon blanc was safely up at the winery. The juice was exceptional and super-concentrated but the yields were extremely low. As long as this was unique to the sauvignon blanc, we'd be OK. We had done a yield estimate and were expecting a reduction of a third, not more than half.
That afternoon Ad disappeared over the horizon on his bike while I did a second pass through the vineyard. It was looking good. The sémillon would be our most intense harvest day. I took the girls over to Sonia again. Ellie cried even harder and Sophia tried to comfort her. She was still adjusting to school and now she was being shipped out for another night. I hugged her tight and promised it would be the last night away. We would have to find another solution for the harvest nights of the reds. I couldn't do this to Ellie again at two and a half.
A few hours later the winery was buzzing with activity and light in the cold night air. Jean-Louis hummed into the courtyard and I showed him our carefully marked sémillon. Soon the harvesting was complete and we had two trailers waiting to go into the second pressing.
We emptied the press in haste aiming the pressed grape skins carefully into our small trailer so we could carry them away to the property entrance where the government distillery would collect them. We wanted the waiting grapes to be in the press before sun filled the courtyard. Time was of the essence. With the pressings removed we started up the harvest trailer to refill the press. A third of the way through the load the trailer jammed.
'We'd better unhitch it and empty the other trailer,' said Sean.
'How will we get the grapes out?' I asked.
'We could empty it by hand,' suggested Ad.
'That could take hours. We can't have it sitting around that long.'
We moved the blocked trailer aside and covered the grapes with a layer of carbon dioxide gas followed by a large canvas sheet then emptied the other trailer.
There were about 2,500 litres of grapes left in the jammed trailer. By hand, that was the equivalent of about 250 10-litre bucketloads. A quick review of options made it clear that the manual solution was the only viable one. It was a race against the clock. Ad was like a machine, bucketing load after load across from one trailer to the other. Sean and I took turns bucketing, putting carbon dioxide into the tray and watching the press to pump the free-run juice into the vat.
In thirty minutes we had the harvest trailer emptied of its two and a half tons of grapes. As the sun crept into the courtyard we transferred them smoothly into the press. While I monitored the level of juice in the press tray, Ad and Sean carefully removed the back of the auger from the trailer. Stuck in the screw was a large metal hook, the kind we use to fix the vineyard trellising. I vowed we would stop using them.
All our whites were safely in the winery and Sean was delighted with the taste. I plugged the yields into our finance spreadsheet and discovered it was more depressing than I thought. If the yields of this harvest were the norm there was no way the farm would ever be able to pay us for our hard work. In fact, we had to pay in for the privilege of working long hours and getting no holidays. It was gutting. But if we didn't have the wine harvested and made, the situation would be worse. I closed the spreadsheet and promised I would not look at it again until the harvest period was over. I could not support the stress of the harvest and that spreadsheet at the same time.
A friend, John, arrived for a holiday thinking he would be in time to help us with the reds. He texted his mum, who had farmed all her life.
'On my way to the wine farm in France. At last, some real farm work!'
'That's not real farming, it's farming for the rich,' came his mother's reply.
The perception was reaffirmed by the wine industry with photos of winemakers seated in idyllic locations, vines and peaceful oak barrels miraculously tending themselves in the background. It gave an image of history, tradition and calm, a vision of a peaceful existence well away from the rush and chaos of modern life, something timeless. We were in the midst of the period of the year where this delusional view was most at odds with the reality: a period of extremes, of pressurised physical work.
On arrival, John was invited on a bike ride by Ad. Since it looked like we would be waiting another couple of days for the reds he agreed. John was no slouch, he played football and was lean and fit. Two and a half hours later, Ad sped into the courtyard looking fresh as a daisy followed by our wilted friend.
'Phew, my arse hurts,' said John as he climbed delicately off the bike. 'He's a bionic man. We rode all the way to Bergerac then back the other way, all the way to Sainte-Foy-la-Grande. He didn't stop, not once.' John was almost weeping as he limped into the kitchen rubbing his rump. 'I need a glass of your restorative sauvignon blanc.'
I saw Ad whistling as he wandered down to the campervan full of the joys of late summer, looking like he had spent the afternoon in the hammock. The name 'bionic man' stuck. John recovered remarkably quickly but didn't make the mistake of going for another bike ride.
The red grapes were still not ready to be picked. John cursed his misfortune. He wasn't even going to experience real 'farming for the rich'. Instead we spent our days picking the fruit that was falling off the fig trees and made countless jars of jam. John had to leave soon after another friend, Bullet, arrived. Ad invited Bullet on a cycle ride, and Bullet agreed, having received no insider information from John.
'How was it?' I asked when he returned.
'Ah, not too bad, not too bad,' he said, di
sappearing indoors. A few moments later I heard loud snoring from his room. That evening he appeared with a cushion for his chair.
'I think Bullet needs to lose a little bit of weight then he would take on the hills no problem,' Ad confided. Each harvest visitor was given the once over by Ad, our resident personal trainer. Fortunately I had not been on the tour of torment: heaven knows what Ad would have said about me. I pictured the scene, Ad saying confidentially to Sean, 'You know, if Caro lost a few kilos she'd be able to cycle down the hill to Gardonne.'
With the red grapes still firmly on the vines we welcomed Kerry and Anne Guy, friends of friends from New Zealand, to Haut Garrigue. They had five acres of vines and a beautiful guest house, The Point Lodge, which nestled between their vines and the sea near the Bay of Plenty. Kerry was a mile a minute and a font of information. Early in the morning I'd see him walking the vineyards, then he would arrive back with succinct advice about something he had seen; later he would pick walnuts from our trees and a gift of half a walnut cake would appear. He was the chef at their lodge.
'He talks so much,' said Ad after Kerry had been giving us advice on labels and marketing of wine. 'How can someone know so much about so many things?'
The next morning Kerry wandered into the workshop to look at the custom-built plough Ad was creating for Sean. A few hours later Ad came in for lunch.
'Kerry came to see me today and I thought to myself: hmm – how much can he know about welding and farm machinery? But you know what? He knows so much. He told me to reinforce a section that I hadn't considered and he was correct. It was the point of the greatest pressure and the part that needed the most reinforcement on the whole plough.'
'You know Ad, at first I didn't know whether to trust him but he's the real McCoy. Someone who can make a walnut cake this good and give advice on making a farm plough is pretty unique.'
'He has got so much going on in his head it's hard to keep up. Sometimes I have to switch off to cope.'
That afternoon Kerry explained his plans for a wine tourism website to me. 'I think there is good potential in the wine tourism business. It could be something to complement your wine business. I know it's hard to make ends meet on a small farm like this.'
He had read my mind.
'I was vaguely considering offering wine classes. Most of the people who visit us have asked for an introduction to French wine. They want to get the basics and have some fun. Many are New World wine drinkers and they love sauvignon blanc but don't know Sancerre is sauvignon.'
'That's a good idea. You could also do wine tours and maybe food and wine tours.'
The next day Kerry appeared with a piece of paper.
'I have worked out a potential day tour and costing for you.'
On the page was a suggested itinerary and budget of a day tour. Kerry was a powerful force. He slept little, experimented a lot and read extensively.
I signed up for the wine course offered by our local wine organisation, the CIVRB. The training of four sessions ran over a month and was a bit technical and only about Bergerac wines. I could see how I would run a class. My background in workshops and teaching project management gave me a good base but I needed to increase my content knowledge; growing and making wine for two years was not enough. At night, I reread all Sean's Wine & Spirit Education Trust course books.
Then my night-reading was stopped by something pressing: harvesting the reds. I could not face sending the girls away
for the night again so we taught Sophia to use a walkie-talkie to call us when she woke up on harvest mornings, with strict instructions to remain at the top of the steps until someone came inside. We were terrified they would walk out into the courtyard where the enormous harvest machine and the tractors were working. We explained the process and the top step rule several times and did a few test runs. Sophia and Ellie were excited about their new walkie-talkie responsibility.
The next morning the weather was fine and the first load of merlot came in and was transferred into the vat without a hitch. It was so smooth we were standing around with nothing to do. I went inside to get a cup of tea and a snack for everyone. Since the finger incident, we had installed a rule of taking a break at least every two hours.
An hour later the walkie-talkie in my pocket rang. Sophia was sitting on the top step, delighted to have successfully accomplished her mission. I made her a cup of tea and a brioche and turned on the television. Soon the buzzer went again. It was Sophia calling us because Ellie had woken up. I gave her some breakfast and they settled down to watch the French kids' television shows.
Two hours later I took a break from the merlot to take the girls and Inés-Melodie, Sonia's daughter, up to school. The day was working like clockwork. By nine o'clock all the merlot was in the winery, leaving just the cabernet sauvignon to pick. For that we'd probably be waiting at least another two weeks. It was a different world to our previous harvest.
Chandra, the tall, dark and practical daughter of Canadian friends, arrived. At first she seemed rather bristly, like a hedgehog under threat, but she was organised and our house after six weeks of intensive harvest time was extremely disorganised. Nothing except the absolute essentials were taken care of in that period. It was a true corridor of crisis. My dad would have had a heart attack on the spot. Chandra kept opening cupboards and looking at disorganised shelves and saying, 'I couldn't live like this.'
I wondered how long I could live with her given the constant commentary about my corridor of crisis. But there was a lot more to Chandra than met the eye. She was a qualified lumberjack or tree surgeon and a horticulturalist with a good knowledge of medicinal and edible herbs. For the previous two years she had worked as a fire-watcher on a tower in a remote part of Canada, accessible only by helicopter. For four months a year the only human she saw was the pilot of her monthly food drop. She had learnt to be tough and resourceful; but wolves and bears hadn't prepared her for one-on-one combat with Ellie Feely.
At two and a half Ellie was a forceful character. She would get home from school, fix me with a powerful stare and say, 'Donne moi des bonbons!' (Give me sweets!) On getting no satisfaction she would deepen her mafia-style glare and repeat, 'Donne moi des bonbons!' I learnt to offer up something in response like juice and a chocolate brioche, and Ellie, while not completely satisfied with the state of affairs, would deign to eat that. She was a tough act.
A fonctionnaire from our social services organisation came around at my request. I explained that now that Ellie had started school I wanted to work for our vineyard and wine business a couple of days a week. Up until then I had officially been a full-time mother since Ellie was at home. Now that she was at school I would be officially working for the business part-time. He explained that if I worked for our agricultural enterprise – the vineyard and wine business – even for as little as one day a month I would have to pay the social charges of a full-time worker as I would be a working shareholder. It didn't make sense to me and Ellie, who was sitting on my lap, clearly found it hard to stomach. She held her little hand up and said 'Stop!' Monsieur Bellio ignored her. Ellie held her hand up again and said more forcefully 'Stop!' Perhaps she realised that her future bonbon budget was at risk.
Taking advantage of his silence I thanked him for his time and wished him farewell. I was sure I had misunderstood or he had misunderstood what I wanted. There was no way that a shareholder who participated in the company, working a day a week for no pay, should have to pay the social charges of a full-time employee earning a salary. I would have to do some research.
Chandra meanwhile took a strict line with Ellie and it was naked combat. She tried some of the tactics she had used with her half-wolf dog, giving strict instructions and expecting them to be followed instantly. She found that didn't work so well.
'Give the bag of seeds back to me' meant to Ellie 'Take your time, check out the bag, have a little think and then give it back.' Chandra took a hard line and was treated with extreme suspicion and given the evil
eye. Ellie was a kid who needed to be given time to respond; time to show that she was the one who had decided to do what was asked. At one point Ellie would not be left in the same room as her. Then slowly the wind changed.
Each afternoon when Sophia returned from school the girls would join Chandra in the garden. They spent hours helping her arrange the potager, pottering about with their trowels, digging weeds and planting bulbs. She caught a tiny bright green tree frog and put it on their hands so they could feel the suction pads on its feet, showed them a bird's nest tucked into the crook of a vine trunk and found a bat hanging behind a shutter on the wall of the house. They were fascinated.
Chandra's lore of nature didn't pass me by. Until her arrival I had been religiously weeding some of the tastiest morsels out of the beds. After a few educational tours I was able to identify four wild salads that would become a staple for us in the summer and autumn months.
This was particularly good since I found that conventional cultivated salads like lettuce were too delicate for me. I forgot to water them or they were carried away by snails. Rocket, a hardy salad with attitude, was the only leaf that I could cultivate. Now nature provided a range of flavours and colours to paint our salads with. My favourite was purslane, which in its native form was crunchy with red stems and succulent green leaves creating a superb colour contrast on a plate.