Grape Expectations Read online

  I had not tied the over-pipe sufficiently tightly and the pressure of the pump had shot the pipe out of the vat. I hastily switched off. Relatively little had been lost and the incident gave Sean the opportunity to step back into the driver's seat. I could have waited for him but John and I had been doing this successfully the weeks he was out of commission and I wanted to get ahead with the work.

  He overreacted partly to reinstate his position as leader in the winery. Now he was able to do most of what was required as long as he protected his bandage from getting wet or dirty. I cut back my time in the winery realising that the less time we spent together the better. Working together was very different to being married. I wasn't sure if it was possible to achieve both successfully.

  Sean was ambivalent about harvesting the Saussignac. He was still running on morphine and finding the wines he had in the winery tough enough to control without another baby coming into the ward. I desperately wanted to have Saussignac in the range. There was something exceptional about the wine and the group of producers that made it. Sean's hand was sufficiently healed to drive a tractor. I decided to see if a few friends would help.

  After one positive response from a retired English couple in Saussignac, Sue and Ian Cameron, who had become friends, I got no more takers. Sue was a major force in the village; active on the syndicat d'initiative, the local tourist office and initiative committee, welcoming to newcomers and a gardening dynamo. One couple would not be enough to help us on our own. Most of our local friends and neighbours were vignerons and had enough on their plates already. The O'Briens and Rogers from Ireland were due to arrive in two weeks but they would be too late. We had to get at least one pick in before that and we couldn't afford to pay for a team of hand-pickers. Seeking consolation I tucked into a row of touche de sérénité dark cherry chocolate as the phone rang.

  'I just heard about Sean's finger. Fiona and I can come and help harvest. Do you want us to make an open invitation to our friends?' said Bruce Kingwill.

  Bruce and Fiona, his wife, were South Africans who lived a few kilometres away. A stylish couple in their fifties and dedicated Francophiles, they had moved to France to follow their passion to make wine and restore houses. For a few years they made small quantities of wine, buying grapes in from other growers. They soon realised that winegrowing was a tough business – just as we were discovering – hard work, masses of red tape and difficult to make financially viable. Their renovations were magical: they had transformed several semi-ruins into ultra-charming French country houses. They had already hand-harvested many times so I wasn't expecting a positive response from them. Sympathy for Sean's plight must have played a part.

  Relief and cherry chocolate filled me with well-being. 'That would be fantastic. If we get enough people we'll start at nine on Tuesday morning.'

  'I can't promise anything,' he said.

  But on Sunday Bruce confirmed ten more participants, making our team sixteen – enough to do the vineyard in a morning. Our crew of pickers was a cosmopolitan melange of nationalities and ages ranging from ten to seventy years old. I gave a demonstration based on my hour with Thierry then set them loose. Soon I was running up and down the rows checking the contents of buckets, making adjustments and fielding questions. Some were fast, others were fastidious.

  At the end of the morning, we had enough grapes to go ahead with our electric press straw free. While Sean pressed the grapes I served lunch: great bowls of steaming soup, baguettes, cheese and quiche followed by luscious tarts from our local boulangerie. The pressed juice yielded a potential alcohol level of 24, significantly more than our target of 18 to 20. It was rich and luscious, oozing with apricot and almond flavours. With the next pick we would have to seek a less sweet – or in Thierry's terms, 'serré' – result, which would mean picking some of the golden grapes, not just the brown.

  Over the following days Sean threw himself ever deeper into winery work while I zoned into renovations, housework and children. Our friends from Ireland arrived, the constant presence of visitors helping to cover over the cracks in our relationship. With our large crew of friends staying we were once again busier than ever. We got them working on our second and third picks – the O'Briens true experts now in their second year of picking Saussignac. The week flew by and soon the Rogers were gone.

  On the last night of the O'Briens' holiday, Thierry Daulhiac came around to discuss our application to be included on the Route des Vins. We had applied as soon as we had arrived to be featured on this tourist map with contact details and locations of vineyards that sold direct to the public. It had taken us a year to get this far. To say I was frustrated with the speed of our integration into this tourism initiative would be underplaying it. In retrospect, as with many frustrations in France, I had come to appreciate it as we had needed the time to finish the tasting room renovations. The ruined outbuilding that was closest to the entrance, and that had been the seasonal Portuguese workers' house in the old days, had been transformed. An engineering friend, Tim, had helped Sean renovate the caved-in roof, install a new window and door and tile the floor while I had repainted the room and the wood ceilings.

  Thierry was on the committee and a key decision maker. I showed him the newly completed tasting room. There was still a way to go, but the transformation was impressive. Our renovation skills had come a long way since our arrival.

  I gave him a brief summary of our quest for a vineyard of our own and our plans for the property.

  'C'est bon. I don't think you will have a problem with getting onto the Route des Vins but they will want to taste your wines. They will ask for a sample from this harvest.'

  Isabelle, Thierry's wife, and his sons, were away in Normandy so I invited him for dinner and he readily agreed. Over a simple supper we discussed the finer points of vineyard management. Sean and he talked of tractors, mechanical hoes, mowers and vine trimmers – and tricks about combining the machinery to get the work done faster. Barry and Aideen put in the odd word as the conversation flashed back and forth, sometimes in English, sometimes in French. Thierry, who had started his conversion to organic in 2005, warned of administrative pitfalls and promised to send us relevant contacts. In the flickering candlelight we exchanged views about wine, people, marketing and life.

  'You've arrived!' said Aideen as Thierry left. 'I can't believe it. This time last year you didn't have a clue, now you're chatting with other winemakers like you were born to it.'

  It was a good finale to Aideen and Barry's stay, an evening with a local vigneron to feel the flavour of 'la France profonde' that we had grown to love – and an opportunity for Aideen to buoy us up.

  'You must make sure that you get time alone together,' said Aideen as we cleaned up. 'Do you ever go out for a night together?'

  'No,' I said guiltily. 'Maybe we should go for lunch sometime.'

  'That's not enough. You need a night out together every week or two. It's essential.'

  Aideen had divined our marital rift. I said we would, then did nothing. We had two days between the O'Briens' departure and the arrival of five young Americans, some of whom were children of friends, visiting us to experience life in France in exchange for helping paint the outbuildings and remaining shutters. Managing and feeding a gang of five youngsters ranging from eighteen to twenty was demanding. Between looking after our own small children and our newly acquired teenage crew, Sean and I barely exchanged a word for three weeks. Sean, meanwhile, spent the nights partying with the college kids, subtracting points from his already low stack. We had more wine on the property than they had seen in their lives. He stumbled into the kitchen late one Saturday morning after yet another party night.

  'Feck me,' he said. 'You won't believe what's happening. Diana is gay and she's hitting on Erin who is going steady with Tommy. I couldn't believe my eyes last night.'

  He was more interested in gossiping about their exotic relationships than in thinking about our future or our own relationship. As the love trian
gle between Tommy, Erin and Diana progressed, he moved from ignoring me to being rude. The rift between us widened and was impacting our daughters. Ellie no longer played happily on her own and Sophia didn't want to catch the bus to school. They were insecure and no wonder. Things were not working out. This dream was costing us our relationship and our financial security.

  My life was an endless round of washing, feeding and cleaning. As much as I loved France and Château Haut Garrigue I was not happy. We had no money and didn't have a clear notion when we would have. I had to get out.

  I would go back to the city, find a job and a place to live, then get the girls. I made my plans and booked a flight.

  Erin told Diana to get lost, she was sticking with Tommy, and they all left. That night after cleaning up and making sure the girls were asleep I told Sean I had to talk to him. He turned off the television.

  I told him my plan. He was shocked – he had no idea it had come to this. I wondered how he could not.

  'You can't go, Carolinus,' he said, tears welling in his eyes. 'I need you. We're going to make this work. We had a rough time with our first harvest and then all those young kids. That was a mistake.'

  'I won't live like this, SF. The only time you have two words to say to me is when you want me to phone someone in French for you, otherwise I'm no more than a house slave. I have to go.' Tears started to stream out of me. I was leaving and the pain was killing me.

  Sean went white with shock as he realised I was serious.

  'I've been a bear with a sore head. I don't like being swamped by people. I'm a loner. I like my space and I haven't had any in four months. Add all the visitors to the vendanges and the chopped finger and you've got a caged lion.'

  Sean was like most men – he needed to retreat into his cave sometimes. I had forced his agreement to take the team of youngsters so we could be sure that we would finish the painting before the next tourist season started. He hadn't wanted them. Add to that living in close quarters with his parents for two months with non-stop harvest and the situation was a pressure cooker for both of us.

  'I'm so sorry, Carolinus. I love you.'

  He looked so vulnerable, not like the monster I had been living with for the last few months; he looked like the Sean I had fallen in love with. The stress that had been building for almost six months boiled over. I took his good hand and we sat on the sofa, tears pouring down our faces.

  Once we had control of ourselves we discussed how we could repair our relationship and make sure the same breakdown didn't happen again. I looked back on the incidents of the past months and understood what had happened but I didn't cancel the flight. I wanted to be sure that the Sean I knew was really back.

  Chapter 12

  Vineyard Rights

  With our relationship stabilising, my thoughts turned to our financial future. The wine business could not follow our original plan of selling three quarters of our first year's production to a négociant while we built up our customer base. The costs in France were significantly higher than the American extension office figures used in the business plan. To make matters much, much worse, the yield we got was half of what we had estimated. We had to make some dramatic changes for this property to be viable.

  'What are we going to do?' I asked Sean, as we scrolled through the spreadsheet.

  'We have to sell our wine direct earlier. We can't afford to take the easy option of selling to the négociant. I couldn't do it anyway, not after the blood, sweat and tears we've put into it. I never understood that cliché as well as I do now. It's high quality wine. We're not giving it away.'

  'But even if we sell direct in bottles will we make a living?'

  We crunched the numbers. If we were successful at selling direct at the optimistic prices we envisaged, we would still be struggling.

  'We have to increase the production. The amount we're producing isn't sustainable. We have to get closer to three hundred hectos.' A year before I didn't know what a 'hecto' or hectolitre, the equivalent of 100 litres, was. Now I knew the numbers for production and costs in a vineyard and winery operation like the back of my hand.

  'You're right, Carolinus. We have to get more planting rights so we can plant the peach field.'

  'But more vineyard will take a long time. We needed something that can offer more immediate cash flow. What about a cottage to rent out?'

  'But where will we get the money to build one? We'd have to start from scratch. We don't have any spare buildings.'

  I didn't know either. Still, we had to move forward. 'If we're successful selling all our wine direct, planting more vineyard and developing a cottage, we'll have a going concern.'

  We didn't have all the answers but I felt better for having an idea of what we needed for our dream to become sustainable. The following day a brochure for a course on commercialising wine appeared. I signed up.

  Increasing our production seemed nonsensical since we didn't have a shortage but planning vineyard production is long-term, particularly in France. To plant a single row of vines we had to own or acquire the rights to plant. This could take two years. Once the vineyard planting rights were in order we could plant the vines but it would be three years before they produced some grapes and five years to produce a yield worth counting. The vines needed ten years to produce wines of complexity. In France winegrowers are not allowed to buy in wine to make up a shortfall. They are only allowed to sell wine they have grown. To buy in wine you had to be a négociant, a different business structure to being a winegrower.

  Mystified by the complexities of vineyard rights, I called Cécile. She arrived, preferring to discuss it face to face.

  'I'm lost,' I said.

  'Oui. En fait, it is complicated in France. You need to talk to the INAO and Onivins. Onivins have changed their name and I don't remember what the new name is.'

  'Vinifhlor,' I said. For once, I knew more than Cécile.

  'Oui, exact. The INAO can give you free rights if you are jeunes agriculteurs, up to half a hectare a year. If not, you have to go to Vinifhlor and buy the rights.'

  'Fantastic.' I was getting excited.

  'I think you will have trouble getting the rights for jeunes agriculteurs because you didn't get onto the programme at the start. Sometimes it's confusing in France. If you get in at one level you go all the way, otherwise you are excluded from everything.'

  It didn't sound fair. We should be able to plant what we wanted, where we wanted. This quota system was archaic.

  We moved onto the agricultural aspects of planting vines on the old peach field.

  'Is the soil prepared?' asked Cécile.

  Sean and I exchanged a look. 'Have you worked the soil?' said Cécile having reworked the question so we could understand it.

  'Yes,' we both replied.

  'But I think with all the roots from the peaches you must make sure it is well prepared. You need to plough it with a charrue. But make sure you don't go too deep or you could destroy the soil structure and do more damage than good.'

  I turned to Sean. 'Do you know what that is?'

  'Yes.'

  'Do we have one?'

  'No.'

  'It would also be better to plant a cover crop of barley,' said Cécile, surging on regardless of my confusion. 'But to do that you need a semi.'

  Again I turned to Sean. 'Do you know what that is?'

  'Yes.'

  'Do we have one?'

  'No.'

  We all laughed like lunatics – it was déjà vu to our first meeting when Cécile had cracked up after realising how little we knew.

  'Tant pis,' said Cécile. 'It's not critical. If you leave it for another year and work it again in the spring it will be as good, maybe better. We don't want to agitate more limestone into the soil.'

  Given the difficulties we were having getting planting rights I didn't think waiting another year would be a problem. I called the INAO and explained what we were looking for.

  'If you aren't registered as a jeu
ne agriculteur, we can't help you,' said Madame.

  'But we are under forty and we are farmers.'

  'I know, but if you don't have the jeune agriculteur registration there is nothing we can do.'

  'So how do I get rights without the registration? Can I buy the rights?'

  'You can't. As of this year there are no rights outside of the jeune agriculteur rights. You have to buy vineyards that are already planted or hire a vineyard that is already planted.'

  This was French wine bureaucracy at its zenith. We had a field of ideal vineyard land 100 metres from our house and winery, right outside our tasting room, and we could not plant it. The only option was to find vineyards elsewhere, which was impractical as our farming equipment was not licensed for public roads, plus it went against our ecological ethos. It was crazy to go and buy land elsewhere when we had the perfect site that would bring us closer to operational equilibrium. My frustration reached fever pitch but I tried to remain calm.