Saving Our Skins

by Caro Feely

  'If you don't have a lunar calendar you can mark the position of the moon in chalk on the window at a specific time one evening then again at the same time the following evening. If the chalk mark is higher the second night it is ascending; if it is lower it is descending.'

  'Tiens!' said Monique, meaning 'How intriguing!' She seemed interested and comfortable with everything I was saying. Learning about the fundamentals and seeing the results had convinced my own sceptical city-dweller heart about biodynamics. But often, especially on hearing about biodynamics for the first time, it isn't easy to swallow. A few months before, I had been in Dublin for a marketing trip, staying with best friends Barry and Aideen O'Brien. They had been a lifeline for me when I moved from South Africa to Ireland at the start of the Celtic Tiger boom, and when we lived in Dublin they were like family to us. Aideen was my saviour when Sophia, our firstborn, arrived with her oesophagus attached to her lung pipe instead of her stomach; she coached me through the first tough weeks, helping me to breastfeed in the exceptional conditions, accelerating Sophia's recovery and my ability to cope. A business coach for a large tech multinational by day and a life coach by night, she still offered me regular wisdom on motherhood, relationships and business.

  That evening Barry's parents were over for dinner. Barry's mother Mary and her husband Seán had been subjected to warehousing ten cases of wine for us when the O'Briens, who usually held the samples, were renovating. That hadn't endeared me to them since moving cases of wine around wasn't an easy job, especially at age eighty-plus. As I explained biodynamics, Mary gave me a very sceptical look. With this new twist she would not want me and my strange ideas – or my wine – to darken their door ever again. As I ended my explanation, however, she had a revelation and her face changed completely.

  'You know, now I think of it, my granny used to do that and she was a very educated woman. The Farmers' Almanac, they called it. It had the lunar cycles and she used to work our vegetable garden by it. She went to one of the best schools in Dublin.'

  We all laughed. The memory would be with me forever; a reminder of how as city-dwellers we were now often four or five generations distant from people who could identify with this strange 'new' idea of biodynamics. Monique was only one generation older than me but refreshingly connected to the concept. In rural France, les paysans, the French word for peasants but without the pejorative aspects of our English word, are people who work the soil themselves and are usually still in tune with these cycles.

  In the last evening light, a field of wild flowers, a mass of colour that begged to be painted, punctuated the view of the village of Razac ahead of us.

  I ploughed ahead talking about the use of natural plant- and animal-based solutions, sometimes in homeopathic doses and preparations, to help the vines' immunity from disease. 'We use stinging nettles macerated as a soil fertiliser, or dried and made into tea, as a leaf spray to help the vine keep the mildew where it should be – on the ground rather than on her leaves.'

  'Tiens, that's what I do in my garden,' said Monique and we exchanged a smile of shared experience. Stinging nettle can provide a super tonic to us humans too. I often put gloved handfuls of it into soup in springtime. We walked and talked for a while longer, then Monique strode off to attend to her guide duties. From that day we greeted each other with warmth, as though we understood each other deeply in spite of not knowing many everyday details about each other. It was still early days for us with biodynamics and I was far from understanding it all, but I knew with a deep-down instinctive sense that it was the way forward, a way to help us farm naturally. Seán and I had turned to biodynamics as a way to combat mildew, a fungal disease, but had found it offered far more than that.

  We turned back towards Saussignac, the village floating enchantingly in the distance, lights twinkling. Soon moonlight and a few torches, brought by the well-prepared – not me – were all we had to see our way. As we turned onto the last section of the walk, a grass path surrounded by moonlit vineyards, a small, whitehaired man dressed in simple clothes and a beret stepped into the clearing just ahead. We slowed. He began to play a classic French bistro tune on the accordion slung over his shoulder, binding us together with the magic of music. When he broke, we burst into applause and he treated us to another. It was pure joy.

  For the last kilometre, buoyed by the impromptu outdoor concert, we floated down the track, walking on air that was velvety smooth and warm. At the Château de Saussignac, tea lights flickered on the steps, lighting the way into the enormous stone hall. Settled at a long table surrounded by new friends, I was served a glass of merlot. The folks around me said the wine was 'très bon' and I owned up that it was ours. For all the trauma of our first few years, we had produced something worthy of praise.

  Other winegrowers' wines were on the table and I liberally tasted my way through them – for professional purposes, of course – as we munched on onion soup sprinkled with grated cheese and croutons. At the stroke of midnight a large slice of apple tart with a glass of Saussignac dessert wine was served. The unctuous apricot compote flavours, similar to Sauternes but better – bien sûr – complemented the tart perfectly, a grand finale. Walking back alone in the dark I took in the quiet, the sky above me like a black velvet dome studded with diamonds, and felt deeply thankful for the enchanted evening. The house was fast asleep. I climbed the steps and fell into bed, exhausted but thoroughly rejuvenated by my soirée insolite.

  Like the Randonnée Nocturne, the Festival des Ploucs was an unmissable event on the social whirl of Saussignac's summer calendar. The annual rock concert, held on the first Saturday of July and literally translated as 'The Country-bumpkins' Festival', promised kids' activities followed by live rock music, casual food and fun. In a corner of the festival field we found Ian and Brigit Wilson and their daughter Chiara watching kids' theatre in the scorching sun. Ian, a scriptwriter and entrepreneur, regularly helped me see things through a different lens with his wise views on life. He was Zen, while Brigit was beautiful, blonde and vivacious. Before moving to Pécharmant, the 'charming hill' north-east of Bergerac known for its red wines, they lived in our village for six months and Brigit had become one of my running partners. They had proved many times for us Plutarch's wise words: 'prosperity is no just scale; adversity is the only balance to weigh friends.' The makeshift stage for the children's show was surrounded by hay-bale benches filled with an eager audience. It was six in the evening but still roasting. I reached for the sunscreen in my bag and slathered more onto Sophia and Ellie as the clown started his act.

  'He's coming, he's coming!' whispered Ellie, popping with excitement as she spied the clown's head bobbing up and down behind the stage screen. The anticipation generated by the crazy clown's simple motion was electric. He bounced onto the stage, gave a fart, looked totally surprised and pointed to individuals in the crowd… To shaking heads and great guffaws the show took off.

  I tore myself away to hump a twelve-pack of our wine to the tent where participating winegrowers were selling local wines. En route I stopped every few steps to chat with someone I knew; it was a good feeling. When we first arrived in the area we knew no one; now we knew most of the local farming community. When I returned to the stage a half-hour later, the clown's show was over and the kids were roaring around the field freestyle while Seán kept watch and chatted with the knot of winegrowers nearby. Joel Evandre, sporting brightcoloured pants and waist-length dreadlocks, was an eccentric with a fabulous sense of humour. He was starting organic agriculture himself; one of the latest wave of organic conversions that helped keep our small appellation one of the highest concentrations of organic producers in France. A true joker, he was known to hide rotting steak under the mayor's car seat for a laugh and keep a loaded water gun in his fourgon, utility vehicle, at all times.

  With him was Thierry Daulhiac, wiry, innovative and who, with his wife Isabelle, had become our best friends in the winegrower community. Thierry, a seventh-generation winegrower in the
commune of Razac de Saussignac, had provided invaluable help and advice over the years. The animated discussion revolved around the current growing season that was proving difficult due to rain and consequent disease, like mildew. It was hard to believe at that moment, sweat-drenched under the blazing sun.

  I took over watching the girls, eyes on them and ears on the discussion which turned to which tractor to buy. Thierry, like Seán, was looking at options for replacing his. He was well positioned to give advice on machinery as unofficial inventor and tester for a leading German manufacturer of vineyard equipment. Thierry had the heart of a mechanical engineer and spent hours working on his tractor and its associated tools. He was a true specialist.

  'Seán, pour moi, for me, it has to have power. You know how many things I like to do at once,' said Thierry acting out working on the tractor with several different attachments doing different jobs at the same time. It was a complicated affair and had Thierry doing acrobatics in the vineyard that regularly drew chuckles from neighbours. We all laughed at Thierry's rendition. There was more theatre at this festival than the children's one advertised.

  'But more power means a higher price, especially if you want the tractor to be small and relatively light,' he continued, then gave the price range for the kind of tractor and attachments we needed.

  Now I wasn't laughing; I was trying not to hyperventilate. Even at a rock concert we were talking and thinking about our business. Our life was our work and our work was our life. We loved it but we could never get away.

  Spotting Pierre de St Viance, a close friend and solid Gaulois who seemed to have stepped off the pages of an Asterix comic, zooming past, I took the opportunity to escape from the tractor conversation before it gave me heart palpitations. Pierre, a professional bottler who had bottled all our vintages, kissed me gallantly on both cheeks. With his wife Laurence, a close friend through running as Brigit had been, he owned part of the magnificent Château de Saussignac, where my night walk had begun a few days before. As a key organiser of the festival he didn't have much time to stand still, so leaving Seán tracking the small individuals, I walked down towards the winegrower stand with him to causer, chat, en route. It was almost time to take my 'turn' as barmaid. Barrels were set up as makeshift counters around the outside of an old army tent. Inside, winegrowers were opening bottles at a ferocious pace. After a few minutes' observation of how the system worked – serve wine, take money – I was frantically serving eager concert-goers too, elbowing colleagues that had helped us settle in, over access to the fridge and cash box.

  My hour of duty done, we sat down on the grass with great plates of barbecued sausages and chips. The sun was setting over the vineyards to the north-west, a dazzling show of red and orange. The wine in our plastic cups tasted like nectar, the simple food like a banquet, and the music, a New Age rock band, was energised and bright. Chatting with Ian and Brigit and looking out over the crowds, I was filled with gratitude for our adopted community.

  The music warmed up as darkness fell, but Ellie and Sophia were reaching the end of their tether. We packed up and said goodbye to our friends, feeling a little jealous of them being able to stay later with their daughter

  being a little older.

  Seeing so many friends and acquaintances at the Festival des Ploucs reminded me of how much we had settled. And the festival itself was a revelation: a rock concert that attracted teenagers from miles around but also offered a safe and fun environment for young families and grandparents, so different to the feeling of rock concerts I had attended in cities, where the old and the very young are rarely seen. We'd be back next year for sure.

  Along with heat and a packed social diary, the summer brought more visitors. Derek, Diane and their beautiful green Jaguar were looking for a few cases of red for a party. I took them through the wines on a rickety table in the shade alongside the winery.

  'You don't happen to have a rent-a-row scheme, do you?' said Diane. 'We like your wines and Derek has been wanting one for a while.'

  'We don't but I would be happy to start one for you,' I said, never one to turn a sales opportunity down.

  We had seen rent-a-row in Canada's Okanagan Valley years before and it was on my ideas list when we arrived, but disappeared in the chaos of the first years. 'How much would it be?' she asked as I packed cases of wine into their trunk.

  'I don't know. Let me think about it and I'll let you know in a couple of days,' I said and took down her email.

  Starting a new product with a real customer was ideal and this looked like a great way to sell direct. Along with wine and special events like a harvest weekend, each 'owner' would have their name on an oak plaque on their row. I sent Di the weblink and she hit 'Buy'.

  Perhaps it wouldn't come to much, or perhaps it would help our direct business. We had to grow that part of our operation to be able to make mission-critical investments like a new press. For the previous two harvests the old press had cost more to fix than we made in a month. It was on its last legs and the repair money was throwing euros in the bin; we would never get it back on the resale. It was another long-term investment to add to the list. Selling wine to buyers like Jon was necessary but, at the prices we could demand in our appellation, and we were already at the top end, they didn't offer the margin required for ongoing winery investments. We had to generate more direct sales.

  Chapter 4

  Grape Skin Magic

  We added the label with the Surgeon-General's notice about the dangers of alcohol, a requirement for all wines sold in the USA, and repacked the pallet of wine for our first American sale to Jon. That same day another American telephoned. Naomi Whittel introduced herself, then explained: 'I found you through your vineyard tours, where you say there are many organic growers in your area. I'm looking for organic grape skins for a new line of antioxidant products. We plan to extract resveratrol from the skins for my new anti-ageing supplement.' We had taken our wine tourism site, French Wine Adventures, live a few months before and our first paying guests had visited around the time of the devastating spring frost. The site was bringing more than tourists, it seemed.

  'I've had calls from academics looking for organic grape skins,' I said. 'Resveratrol is why a glass of red wine a day is good for you, isn't it?'

  'Exactly,' said Naomi. 'My research team has been working in this area for years but recent press has put focus on it. The difference with us is that we are exclusively interested in developing products that are certified organic and biodynamic, in the tradition of great vineyards, such as yours, where nothing extraneous is added to the wine. We take great care to provide our customers with a natural product that is a reflection of nature's abundance.'

  Naomi had a turn of phrase that made me feel like a marketing dunce. The academics had been the little league. I listened carefully.

  'I like the pioneer spirit that I felt from your website. I have a long-standing regard for biodynamics. My grandfather was one of the first farmers to bring biodynamics to the USA and I was raised on a biodynamic farm. We are looking to establish an exclusive partnership with a vineyard such as yours, with outstanding quality and a vision that matches our principles.'

  After the flattery, I was even more attentive. The only problem was that our own grape skins wouldn't be certified that year, as we were still a few months off full certification. Organic conversion took three years. I explained the situation then offered a solution, as I had learned to do back in consulting school with IBM almost two decades before.

  'For this year, I can introduce you to a good friend who is certified organic,' I said, sure that Thierry 'Tractor' Daulhiac would be able to supply.

  'Great,' said Naomi. 'I'll be over in six weeks for an investigative trip. Perhaps I can meet your friend as well. I want to start with a small sampling amount this year. For next year we'll need larger volumes.'

  She was focused and precise. I felt a force and strength behind her words that encouraged me to visit Thierry that very aftern
oon. Château Le Payral's nineteenth-century farmhouse was resplendent, the climbing rose that covered part of its limestone facade like apricot jam and mint dotted on clotted cream scones. I found Thierry in his shed working on a tractor attachment for weeding under the vines, and described my conversation with Naomi. Thierry was intrigued. Adding value to a winery 'waste product' was a notion we could all do with developing in the tough wine market.