by Caro Feely
I pictured them and my dad shaking their heads in disappointment over the corridor of crisis. It was only two months since Chandra left and I could see they were right. I had been flat out developing French Wine Adventures. Getting our heads above water was my priority, not a tidy house. Perhaps it was a character flaw: I could concentrate regardless of my surroundings.
Gillian and Glynis went through the toys, cleaned everything and reorganised the furniture into an arrangement that was welcoming and appropriate for the new exit onto the terrace. In retribution for their words that, despite being true, were hard to swallow, I forced them to sit through the first edition of my 'Introduction to French Wine'. The two-hour class covered the history of wine, the main wine regions and varietals of France, the basics of winegrowing and how to taste wine using five samples of our own wines. It was a bit rough being my first edition and the new tasting room was too cold but I enjoyed it and resolved to buy a heater for the room before my first 'real' guests arrived.
'Très bien, Madame Feely,' said Bruce, Glynis' husband.
'I learnt a lot,' said Glynis.
'It's good,' said Gillian. 'But you need to work on your presentation. I don't think you should use PowerPoint: just talk freely with the map. You know what you are talking about. Get rid of the slides and do a little booklet, a pocket guide that you only give to people at the end.'
'Great idea. I want to develop vineyard walks as well. We must do some family walks to research routes.'
'I think you should focus on one thing and do it well. I don't know if you should try to offer other things. You need to make sure the place is tidy if you are going to have guests visiting. People want to find the French vineyard dream. It needs to look like that and not like a place where you haven't got enough time to water the plants.' The corridor of crisis had left a lasting impression on Gillian. 'Washing needs to be folded and put away. It needs to look French chic even if it is shabby chic.'
I wanted to develop the whole range despite Gillian's misgivings. To me it would be hard to beat doing a wine tour on foot.
The next day, a quiet afternoon offered the ideal opportunity for Sean and me to investigate the walking route. There was a path that would connect us to the Bordeaux vineyards. Neal offered to provide point-to-point cover, staying in constant contact via mobile phone since we were heading off where no man had gone before. I thought it unnecessary as we were sticking to paths marked on the IGN walking map but he insisted.
We started our walk through Elysian fields. Rolling valleys, pastures and forests gave way to vineyards, golden in the winter sunlight. It was the perfect route to follow for a vineyard walking tour, not difficult and with magical views. It also went in exactly the direction we needed. I felt good, getting to know the contours of this land that we had come to love so much. We were becoming part of it, knowing every stream and valley. Two hours later we met Neal and agreed to contact him for the pickup once we had made it across the Bordeaux border from Razac-de-Saussignac. Trying to avoid roads, we followed a walking path that took us to the next valley. We reached the crest of the hill and found ourselves in a wood.
The dense forest was dark, eerie and deathly quiet. There were strange things hanging in the trees. A complex system of pulleys and tree houses ranged through it like a weird adventure park. We were in the middle of a shooting range set up specially for the release of live pheasants and other unwitting creatures. We realised we must have wandered off the path and backed up quickly. I was rattled. The ambience and terrain were so different to what we had been in an hour before.
'Here's the path,' said Sean. 'If we follow this we'll reach the road that goes from Sainte-Foy to Coutures.' I followed closely, not wanting to be alone in the deathly forest. We skirted round the wood and started down a hill alongside a large pasture. Gunshots rang out and I grabbed Sean's arm.
'Don't leave me,' I said.
'Don't worry, Carolinus. Talk loudly. Salut, il y a des randonneurs!' (Hello, there are walkers!)
'Hello,' I yelled.
'Ssshhh, don't talk English or they might be tempted to shoot you,' said Sean wryly.
My stomach tensed with fear as another shot rang out. Maybe Sean was right.
'Salut! Il y a des randonneurs!'
A man appeared at the edge of the forest in signature hunting gear: military-style combats and waistcoat. He was smoking a rolled cigarette and had yellow, uneven teeth and a large beard.
'N'inquiétez pas!' he called out.
A second later a hare shot out of the forest and sprinted across the field in our direction. A shot rang out and a stab of terror ran a cold trail through my insides. I felt hunted. The hare tore across the field and made it into the other forest. It had been fast enough to see another day. The hunters appeared at the edge of the forest and waved happily at us. I scowled back. My knees were weak. I called Neal and asked him to meet us at the next crossing with the road. His Land Rover appeared below and I felt a wave of relief.
While Sean gave Neal a quick summary of our exciting hike, I traced where we had been on my walking map. The area was called 'L'homme Mort', 'Dead Man'. I felt a shiver down my spine. I needed to mark it 'No Go' for my vineyard walks.
Chapter 18
La Source
After Christmas, Bruce, my brother-in-law, Neal, and Sean took on the jungle forest to the left of the house where Mr Battistella had indicated we would find an old well. Since his visit Sean and I had hacked a trail through the brush to see it. When we reached it we thought it was empty. Then the wind rippled the water and we realised it was full and clear. The stone well, cut deep into the limestone cliff in a vaulted shape and set in an enchanting dell, deserved to be made accessible.
By New Year, the well and pond were cleared and we could gaze into the crystal water. I drew a jugful and poured glasses of pure mineral water. We toasted the project. It tasted divine. Water from a limestone source is typically very pure as the rock filters the water – on analysis it is often cleaner than rainwater and superior to town water.
It seemed longer than a year since Sean sat with tears running down his cheeks listening to Christy Moore at the kitchen table. A few days before I helped on the school stand at the Saussignac Christmas market and found myself kissing half the hall. Having both girls at school offered a host of connections. We were becoming part of the community. We were integrating. Glynis and Gillian offered to look after the girls so Sean and I could go out to dinner, our first night out alone together in more than two years. I researched options in the pocket restaurant guide that the tourist office had given me on my visit a few weeks before and settled on one that looked like it offered great food and a view at a reasonable price. It was the moment to dust off a little black dress and sheer stockings I hadn't worn in years. When Sean walked into the kitchen, clean-shaven, in a sky-blue shirt that matched his eyes and ironed chinos I hardly recognised him. Sophia grilled me on where we were going and what we would eat, her fine sense of cuisine already well developed thanks to the French school system. Ellie clung to me not wanting to see us go but eventually agreed based on a bribe of bonbons – not great parenting but it worked.
We arrived at Au Fil de l'Eau in Sainte-Foy-la-Grande feeling unusual and a little nervous. It was so long since we had dined out together I wondered if we would have much to say. A delicious bottle of Bergerac sauvignon blanc alongside our amuse-bouche or 'amusement for the mouth', a delectable tiny asparagus soup, helped to loosen us up. I felt like I was on a first date. Our lives had been going in different directions for a while, despite working in close quarters. We needed to get to know each other again.
As we drank and ate, we talked about our future; where we wanted to take Garrigue and our organic farming. Sean was excited about the potential for biodynamic, I about wine tourism. We reconnected by voicing our dreams for a change, not what immediate action had to be taken to ensure our survival.
Seafood melted in our mouths, smoked salmon followed by trout with
almonds. Our bodies relaxed. I felt young and in love again. Our first dates more than a decade before had been less refined dinners in alternative restaurants in Johannesburg; we were serenaded by Rastafarians and were reckless with youth, drank copious amounts of wine and talked until dawn, but I felt the same: enthralled. Our minds were opening up to the possibilities of our new life.
The cheeseboard was a gastronomic voyage from the walnut liqueur cheese made by nuns in the Dordogne to a rich, yellow cheese from Burgundy. We moved from the sauvignon blanc to a half-bottle of Bordeaux red. Inspired by the journey on our plates, we talked about visiting famous biodynamic growers to learn and to explore our new profession and country, about taking a family holiday with Sophia and Ellie. Wine is a long journey but we had our whole lives ahead of us. I felt like we were just starting out, young and invigorated.
A fruit tart with a swirl of chocolate accompanied a glass of Saussignac dessert wine. Our conversation moved naturally with the flow of wine to Saussignac's high percentage of organic farms and how we could be ambassadors for the environment.
Perhaps it was the Saussignac wine, a legendary aphrodisiac, or perhaps it was the intimacy of the evening but my mind turned from dreams to sensual pleasures. I had a G-string on for the first time in years. My stockinged foot touched Sean's inner thigh surreptitiously under the table, his eyebrows lifted and he called for the bill. We left replete, refreshed and in love.
Thierry Daulhiac telephoned the evening the family left.
'I want you to join the management board of the Saussignac appellation.'
'Sorry, Thierry. I don't think I understood what you said. Can you repeat?' I pushed the lounge door closed the better to hear and sat down on the floor in the hallway.
'Yes, Caro. I want you to join the management board of the Saussignac appellation. You're full of ideas. I've spoken to the rest of the committee and they're in agreement. You'll be a breath of fresh air.'
'But I know almost nothing about making Saussignac wine.'
The group consisted of the likes of Richard Doughty and Gérard Cuisset, people who had initiated commune appellation status for the dessert wines of Saussignac. The wine had been famous for centuries but did not have appellation status until 1982.
'Don't worry. We want you for your marketing ideas.'
This would be a good opportunity to get to know the other vignerons and to gain an understanding of the inside of the complex appellation system.
'What do I have to do?'
'Enfin, it's not too much. You participate in the meetings, help us make decisions and then each person has a special portfolio.'
'What portfolio would you want me to take on?'
'I want you to be our representative on the Saussignac syndicat d'initiative. You'll be the liaison between the syndicat d'initiative and the winemakers. It's a difficult post because the syndicat d'initiative always want us to give more time than we can but I think you will be good for it. Reflect on it and let me know.'
The syndicat was responsible for events and promotion of the general commune but wine was often promoted through events, and the wine union and the syndicat ran a tourist office in the village in high season.
'I don't need time to think about it, I'd love to join the group.'
I hung up and ran through to the lounge to share the news with Sean.
'That's a feather in your cap, Carolinus. Now you can agitate from the inside... and leave me in peace.' He laughed and turned back to watching his television show. We only had French channels and they were doing wonders for his language skills.
A few weeks later I joined a group of vignerons who were gathered outside the mayor's office in Razac-de-Saussignac waiting for the appellation committee meeting. The topic of conversation was the Asterix-and-Obelix-style village politics in Saussignac; a major fight was brewing between the incumbent and the previous mayor. Blistering letters copied to all the members of the commune flew back and forth. Not a day went by without another instalment in the village scuffle for power. Joel, the wild vigneron, was particularly amused; he had been in low-level combat with one of the parties for many years.
The meeting started with a review of the appellation union's finances then moved on to the new decrees for the appellation. Significant reforms were under way across France. Debates on minutiae ensued. Most consumers would never have heard of these points. I felt like standing up and calling a halt. We were wasting time discussing things that wouldn't make any difference to sales and would create administrative headaches for already stretched growers. The final item on the agenda said it all: the INAO had reviewed the appellation boundaries based on a high-level soil analysis. Four components make up terroir but they had looked only at the soil. As important for botrytis is the microclimate. For Saussignac, the grapes are best if located on north-facing land south of the Dordogne river. The INAO had thrown out the old boundaries and made the new boundary the Route des Coteaux (the D14). Bernard Barse's excellent Saussignac was now outside the appellation. None of Bernard's customers cared if he was north of the D14, a man-made barrier which had nothing to do with the appellation; they cared that he produced exceptional Saussignac wine, which they could assess for themselves. Part way through a leading vigneron stormed out of the meeting slamming the door behind him in frustration. I was not the only one who found all this bureaucracy counterproductive.
My first wine tour customers found my website via an Internet search and Kerry's website. Sean was impressed. Sheila and Jeff were winemakers from Washington state who had followed their passion and started a small winery operation. This was their first trip to Bordeaux but they had a good knowledge of French wine from years of study. They would also be our first paying guests in our new gîte, the half of our house that had become 'The Wine Cottage', helping to prove the wisdom and synergy of this new tourism initiative to Sean.
Between their initial booking and their arrival, I spent hours researching and plotting their itinerary, planning visits, restaurants and vineyards. Wine is an endless subject. I devoured our wine books and ordered more. I wanted my tours to be different, to be deeper than your average tour, and most important, to be authentic. It was challenging and thrilling.
Our first day took us to St Émilion via a visit to a barrel-maker. The factory was rustic; an old breeze-block and corrugated-iron warehouse filled with rows of beautiful barrels. The gleaming oak, packed to perfection in plastic wrapping, was backed onto medieval-looking equipment. We were welcomed by the manager of the factory, David. I asked if we could use the toilets before starting the tour.
'With three men working here, the toilets aren't in good shape,' said David. 'Perhaps we should go to the shopping centre – it's about ten minutes away.'
'I don't want to lose that much time. I'll go first and clean the place up a bit before Sheila and Jeff come in,' I said.
'As you want,' said David, leading me to a lean-to.
It was filthy and there was no toilet. I looked around, confused. David motioned into the doorless cabine, or cubicle, and I spied in the gloom the ancient remains of a toilet 'à la turque'. With à la turque, instead of a toilet above ground, you get a tray, like a square shower tray, in the ground. In normal circumstances, it is extremely unpleasant but it is possible to use a facility like this by squatting if it is immaculately clean. In this case there was so much dirt built up that there was no sign of the original ceramic tray. What gave it away were pipes coming out of the dirt connected to a rusted cistern hanging ominously overhead and a hole in the floor. I stepped back in horror.
'We'll have to go to the shopping centre,' I said, leading Sheila and Jeff away as fast as I could.
I kicked myself for not making a prior visit. David drove us to the shopping centre where we found normal toilets that functioned perfectly in a small cafe. Now we could begin the visit.
David explained the process of making the barrels from the drying of the wood to the final toasting of the barrel, demonstrating at each
point what the coopers – the barrel-makers – were doing. Barrel-making is an ancient art still largely manual despite technical advances and coopers must do two years of training to qualify. Tacked onto the wall behind the traditional equipment was a girlie calendar that would make anyone blush.
The first step was to assemble the carefully selected and pre-cut oak staves inside metal hoops. Then the cooper wet the staves and placed the partially constructed barrel over a small wood fire. This was critical: the amount of 'toasting' over the open fire has an important effect on the wine that will be aged in the barrel, so the vigneron chooses how much 'toast' depending on the style of wine they want.
Barrel selection is a fine art. Two identical barrels from the same forest and the same barrel-maker can taste quite different. Some winegrowers even go so far as to specially select their oak tree in a specific forest. French oak from the central forests is highly sought after and expensive as it grows slowly and thus has a finer grain, offering a more refined flavour than a faster growing oak.