Grape Expectations Read online

'Mineral.'

  'OK, now you can taste.'

  I took a deep draught and swirled it around, feeling the warming sensation of alcohol on the back of my throat. The wine filled my mouth with plum and blackberry. The finish had a hint of spice and that attractive saline minerality.

  'Delicious.' I licked my lips. The wine filled me with joy. A picture of a vineyard drenched in sunlight formed in my mind. Sean drew me rudely back to the lounge of our semi-d.

  'Did you get the spice?'

  I nodded.

  'It's probably the oak, the wine was barrel-aged.'

  'How can they be in liquidation if they make wine this good?' I asked.

  'I got the impression they have bigger problems than their finances. Maybe their subsequent vintages weren't this good.'

  We found a Bergerac-based notaire who was described as a specialist in vineyards and liquidations. The combination sounded ominous but was exactly what we needed.

  A notaire is an all-powerful state lawyer who does not litigate but rather deals with property, commercial and inheritance law. He assured us that we would be protected from the current owner's debts if we bought the property, rather than their business. It was excellent news. Now we could seriously consider buying the property. Then he outlined the process for buying a property in liquidation.

  It was complicated. We would be buying the land and house from the owners, the equipment and stock from the liquidator and negotiating the possibility of all of this through the French government agency SAFER. SAFER and the liquidator would consider multiple offers before making a decision on who to sell to. There would be multiple decision makers. I still didn't fully understand the process but at least I knew we weren't putting ourselves at risk to the previous owner's debts.

  This wasn't just a purchase for us; it was a massive life decision. To buy the property we had to sell our house. There was no halfway.

  'What are we going to do, SF?' I asked as we debated the purchase that evening.

  Sean had been playing it cool. He didn't want me to feel influenced but I knew what he wanted. For me, the quality of the wine had sealed it. Now that we knew the liquidation was not a problem it was obvious we should make an offer.

  Patrick, the agent, called the next day before I had a chance to call him. Although I had only spoken to him a few times he felt like a confidante; he knew more about our dream than our closest family and friends.

  'A person who viewed the place after Sean has offered the full price,' he said. 'What do you want to do?'

  This put a new aspect of risk on the purchase. It was not as simple as our decision to go ahead or not. There was no certainty that it would be ours. Over the previous few days I had slowly been making this vineyard my new home.

  Patrick was convinced a slightly higher price would clinch the deal so we agreed. Minutes later he confirmed the seller had accepted our bid. I flew up onto cloud nine, revelling in my sun-drenched vineyard image. Sophia, rolling around on her Winnie the Pooh car, and Ellie, lying in the bouncy chair, both looked up at my yell of triumph. When Sean got home we toasted our new venture with butterflies of excitement and fear intertwined with the fine bubbles of the champagne. It seemed like it was really happening… I had already forgotten that the notaire had said it was not only the seller's decision.

  The following evening Patrick shattered our dream.

  'Caro, you won't believe this, but everything's off. In French law, once the asking price has been accepted on a place it's closed to other bids so they can't take your offer even though they want to. Gazumping isn't allowed.'

  I had spent a week setting my sights on this property as our new home, the place to settle for good, and now we couldn't even bid. My vineyard vision fizzled away like a sparkler doused in water. I felt aggressive.

  'The notaire said the liquidator would consider multiple offers,' I snapped.

  'Sorry, Caro, this is what the agent in France told me. This is a bit different to a standard sale. I'll query it and get back to you as soon as I can. In the meantime, consider everything on stop.'

  Sometimes Patrick's French came through in the English he used, like saying everything is on 'stop'. If he didn't know what was going on, what hope was there for us?

  'Don't worry, Carolinus,' soothed Sean in his frustratingly calm manner when I called him with the latest twist. 'There will be other places.'

  'But will they be as perfect? Walking distance to a school, views, the right grape varieties?' I could see our dream slipping away.

  We were in limbo. The combination of the anxiety about the vineyard and broken nights created by a newborn guaranteed insomnia. I called Jacky, our pharmacist, to ask for sleeping pills I could take while breastfeeding. She sent me a homeopathic lifesaver that arrived the morning Patrick called back.

  'Caro, you were right. You can make an offer. It's all on again.'

  I was beginning to understand that in France, nothing was a straight line, neither the walls of our potential new home nor the negotiations to get there.

  'So what do we need to do?'

  Patrick started with a long 'Well' in his signature Gallic style. 'You need to send in a signed promesse d'achat and a business plan laying out all the details: finance, experience, strategy and anything else you feel will make your proposition a viable one. It should be in French and they need it by Monday.'

  In my sleep-deprived state this sounded insurmountable; my French wasn't good enough to write a business document. I felt like crying.

  'Why do they need all of that? They should only be interested in whether we can pay.'

  'Usually, yes, but this is an agricultural property in liquidation so the mandatory liquidator will look at all the angles. He will compare the price offered, financing and viability before choosing the buyer. It could take a few weeks. I'll check over the French for you.'

  Patrick had read my mind. Sean and I spent the weekend discussing the costs and potential revenues. We knew horrifyingly little of what we needed. The Internet was a great source of information but how realistic American state extension office vineyard costs and revenues were for France was anybody's guess. By the end of the weekend we knew that this venture was a massive risk. It would be hard to make ends meet. We should have stopped right there but our journey had already taken us beyond the bounds of logic.

  I contacted an accountant who specialised in vineyards for a sense check on our plan. He increased many of our costs but thought the revenue seemed reasonable. We submitted our plan and signed offer.

  The next week flew by in a blur as we prepared to sell our house. In two weeks the nebulous idea of changing our lives had become high-definition reality and homeopathic sleeping pills had become my best friend.

  Sean arranged to go to France for a two-week intensive French course. If this property came through he would need some language skills tout de suite. The day he left I went to the O'Briens', our closest friends, for lunch. This was the first time I'd been able to talk to them about our move. I was excited but nervous.

  'What? You're buying it without seeing it?' asked Aideen as she served up a portion of roast chicken, our regular Sunday treat and Sophia's favourite. Aideen was my best friend and had been a rock for me through Sophia's first year. A professional coach in a technology company by day and a breastfeeding consultant by night, Aideen had supported me with the difficult circumstances of breastfeeding a newborn recovering from life-critical surgery, which in itself helped me cope emotionally, offering me a concrete way to contribute to Sophia's recovery.

  'We had to make the decision. I couldn't go without Ellie and she didn't have a passport. It all happened so quickly. We still don't have a firm answer on the property but we've decided to sell the house anyway. If it doesn't come through we'll find another one. We've decided this is the right thing for us.'

  'I'm gobsmacked.'

  We hadn't told anyone about our plans. We worked in a tight-knit technology and finance community and had decided that our car
eers would be seriously impaired if there was any inkling of our move. Until we were sure that it was going ahead we wouldn't say a word to anyone, not even our closest friends and family.

  'The "for sale" sign goes up tomorrow so I have to talk to all our neighbours this afternoon.'

  The finality of what we were doing hit me.

  'It's so sudden,' she said.

  I couldn't have said it better myself. Though we had been thinking about this dream for more than a decade, now it was happening too fast. Tears welled up. I would miss Aideen.

  We spent hours talking over lunch then over a long walk through the park. By the time Aideen and Barry invited us to stay on for a light supper they were as excited about our move as I was. They had had an inkling of our 'back to the land' dream but just like ourselves had no idea how far we were willing to take it. Two weeks before if someone had asked me if we were really going to pursue this crazy dream I would have said 'unlikely'. Something had clicked.

  I felt torn; part of me was thrilled and wanted to go, the other part was terrified, and wanted to stay. We would be leaving our friends. We would be leaving successful careers and their associated income. I would be changing from a responsible job that had me networking with famous entrepreneurs and analysing leading-edge technology to looking after kids full-time in rural France.

  When I got home there was a message on the answering machine.

  'Hi Caro and Sean, it's Patrick. The sellers have decided to take your offer but they want to know how quickly you can proceed.'

  I felt elated, then went into a state of panic. My mind flooded with what we would have to do in the coming weeks and my adrenaline sky-rocketed. It was too late to call him back. Sean rang from Paris in time to stop me spinning completely out of control.

  'Calm down, Carolinus. You can call Patrick in the morning. It is Sunday, after all. Take a deep breath. It's good news but nothing is sure until we have a signed agreement. Take your sleeping pills and get some rest.'

  Between getting up to feed Ellie and thinking about what Patrick's message meant for us, I slept little in spite of the pills. In the morning our agent assured me we would have our house sold in two weeks. I called Patrick, expecting it to be the final call in this long negotiation process.

  'You won't believe this,' he said, 'the seller just called and they have accepted another offer. A third party offered three thousand more than you, they are taking the offer and they don't want a counter offer from you. They don't want a price war.'

  I felt like a jilted lover. After putting our hearts and souls into the business plan it was even more personal. We had shared our dream with the decision makers. 'What can we do?' I said eventually.

  'Nothing right now. I told them you would match the offer but they were adamant they didn't want to hear it. We're going to try to influence the decision through the mandatory liquidator and SAFER. The other party is a retired couple who want it for a holiday house and will sell off the vines.'

  I didn't need any more information, I hated them already. They were stealing our dream to turn it into a retirement house. I felt like vomiting.

  'Patrick, we can't go much higher. The place needs a lot of work. You saw the architect's estimate: €50,000 to make the house liveable. There's serious investment required in the vineyard and winery. One minute we have the property, the next minute we don't. One day it's the mandatory liquidator making the decision, the next it's the owners; one day they can't take a gazumping offer, the next they can. The uncertainty is killing me. I am not sure how much more of this I can take.'

  'I know, Caro. This is a very difficult transaction but the property is a great buy. If this doesn't work then I think it will be time to walk away.'

  I hung up feeling nauseous and texted Sean. For the sellers to refuse more money when they were in financial trouble didn't make sense. Ellie gave me a huge smile and latched onto my breast, blissfully oblivious to the turmoil in our lives.

  Chapter 2

  Goodbye Pay Cheques,

  Hello Château

  'Good morning, Caro. How are you today?' said Patrick chirpily. 'The other offer has gone away and the seller wants to accept your initial offer.'

  'What happened?' I asked, feeling a cautious prickle of elation.

  'Well, the offer was never formalised. Perhaps there was persuasion by Sa Furr. Our agent will get a promesse de vente signed by the seller this afternoon so that they can't change their minds again.'

  I texted Sean then tried to contact the notaire. After calling seven times I spoke to him. He assured me our verbal offer was accepted and he would call me back later in the day to arrange a formal signing. It looked like it was really going to happen.

  I caught Sean on a break from his French class and filled him in on the final episode of our limbo nightmare, ending with the notaire who still had not called me back to arrange the formal signing.

  'I am sure this notaire is doing something funny. Maybe his brother is trying to buy the vineyard.'

  Sean laughed and told me I was paranoid then went back to the calm of his class. By the evening, the import of the acceptance had sunk in and I felt like I had jumped out of a plane without a parachute.

  Fortunately a safety net was developing: the bidding on the house we were selling went beyond our agent's estimate. We closed the sale with a critical boost to our budget. We knew from reading about moves to France that the rule of thumb was to double your renovation estimate. We would learn that even this was not enough.

  At last we could talk about our move. In jubilance, I called an old friend in Oxford.

  'Saucy Jack?' said Mike.

  'Not Saucy Jack. Saussignac. It's famous for its wines. Haven't you heard of it?'

  'No. We'll have to come and try it.'

  No one had heard of the wine appellations Saussignac and Bergerac but it was too late to change our minds. A signed copy of the contract to purchase arrived. It was accompanied by a letter stating that a previous owner, Monsieur Battistella, was due 200 litres of our wine every year. There were two sales of the property separating us and him. We debated contesting it but decided Monsieur Battistella might prove a useful ally. We didn't want to land up like Jean in Jean de Florette; thwarted at every step by the locals. We were foreigners planning to settle in rural France and take on a métier that was an icon of France. It could spell trouble.

  I felt like I was in a dream and would wake up at any moment. This was not what a normal person like me did. It was far too risky, it was not rational, but it was also intoxicatingly exciting.

  We moved out of our home. The sale had proceeded even faster than the agent forecast. Ellie slept and Sophia watched packing operations while Sean and I cleaned cupboards.

  'Don't take my chair!' yelled Sophia as her high chair disappeared into the back of the van.

  Before I could explain, she spied her polar bear going the same way and shouted: 'They're putting Floppy on the truck!' I promised we would see the chair and Floppy at our new house in France in a few weeks.

  Sophia was a very composed young lady. I explained what we were doing again and she nodded sagely. We had already talked about the move but she had no frame of reference for it. She was only two and had never known anything but that house. It was our first real home, where both our daughters were born, the place where we felt truly settled for the first time in our married lives. She knew something big was up.

  Sean and I tried not to look too far ahead, focusing on moving to our rental house that would be our home for four weeks while we worked out our notice at our respective jobs, participated in numerous planned farewells with work and friends and held Ellie's christening. Although everything was official with the vineyard purchase, we had read that nothing was certain until the final transaction went through, at which point we would be installed in France with no turning back. A few hours later the moving truck, jam-packed with our belongings, pulled away from the driveway and we locked our house for the last time. We were le
aving our friends and familiar comforts. We drove to our furnished weekly rental armed with survival rations of clothes, baby equipment and paperwork. I choked back my sobs. I didn't want to upset the girls but a river of sadness flowed over me. I swallowed hard.

  That evening Sophia looked worried.

  'We forgot my sandpit,' she said, large tears forming in her eyes.

  I assured her it would be delivered to us in France. She looked doubtful. Thinking it would give her something concrete about where we were going, I showed her an ancient map that included our vineyard, Château Haut Garrigue. Then we looked up the meaning of 'garrigue': herbal scrubland populated with lavender, thyme, rosemary and scrub oak; commonly found in Provence. In old French it also meant chalky hill which must have been the origin of the name since our new home was five hours' drive from Provence.