by Caro Feely
To reach the bottom vineyard we had to pass through a row of another of our vineyards. 'If I drive it I have to pick it,' said the driver.
'That's OK. We're picking this vineyard after you have finished the lower one anyway,' I said.
It was my first time on the machine while it was harvesting. I was stunned at the speed and the vibration, perhaps thanks to the driver, not necessarily the norm. We arrived at the vineyard that was first up and I carefully explained the rows to pick, requested he go slowly and take care, then took off back up the hill at a trot, leaving him to adjust the machine to the row width.
Turning to check if he had started, I saw him empty the contents from the harvest-machine bins, filled with the row he had just picked, onto the ground. The drivers sometimes emptied the bins before starting the picking of the day to be sure that water left from washing or rain en route was not left to mix with the harvest about to be picked. Today it wasn't raining and we had just picked a row of our precious grapes. I sprinted back down the hill in a futile rage. He was picking in the opposite direction, heading away faster than I was running and already way beyond my range. I stopped. The horror of already low yields and the incompetent driver flooded through me. Perhaps he was drunk. Either he had totally forgotten that we had already harvested a row minutes before or he had hit a wrong button by mistake; either way, I felt panic rising about what the rest of the day could bring. The row was short so the volume wasn't enormous, but we couldn't afford to lose anything. I forced myself back up the hill.
Seán dropped the pipe he was attaching to a vat and prepared to commit an act of violence on hearing about the chucked row. Now it was my turn to calm him; if we became aggressive, the man could sabotage what little harvest we had. I called Serge and got his answering machine.
When the renegade returned, I explained that he was not to empty anything until I gave the thumbs-up. He gave me a surly look but it went smoothly. A few hours later the rest of the young merlot was safely in the vats, but we were determined not to accept that driver again no matter what.
The low volume on the whites was a trend across the vineyard. The core red clocked in at a little over half our normal yield. As I filled the details into my financial spreadsheet I felt like giving up. The vintage would cost more to produce than we would sell it for, since the fixed costs would not adjust to the frost-battered result. At least the machine-harvesting was over for the year. We felt a deep sense of relief. Machine-picking was fast but stressful, whereas hand-picking, while hard work, was human scale and more fun. The first of the handpicking, our shareholder harvest day, dawned misty with a promise of sun. I had butterflies. Although I had organised events in my previous life, I felt out of practice and this was our first official client event. By 9 a.m., nineteen well-booted pickers had arrived, plus one, Maj, a good-looking forty-something, who was kitted out in sky-rise platforms. I made a mental note to include more precise instructions on footwear in future communications.
We gathered around the short rows of merlot at the top of the hill near the house, and Seán took us through how to place the bucket or basket under the vine so that you didn't drop your bunch onto the ground; how to cut close to the bunch but still avoiding your fingers (the first-aid kit was in the tractor, just in case); and then how to sort carefully to ensure only the best grapes were kept.
Maj, meanwhile, was struggling to exchange her gorgeous platforms for more practical runners. Holding onto her buddy, Mary, she laughed contagiously and gave a running commentary, banter that loosened up the crowd of people that had just met; ideal glue to solder the group. Seán gave a final word about how to tell a good grape from a bad grape, 'When in doubt, taste', and as the sun chased the mist back down the hill, we followed. By the time we reached them, the merlot vines on the lower levels were dressed in dainty, lacy wafts of mist and golden rays. We split our pickers into pairs, one on each row. I ran up and down checking progress, giving advice and swapping full buckets for empty ones, while Seán and Ian ferried full grape bins to the winery with the tractor.
Ian 'Zen' Wilson, scriptwriter and entrepreneur, beautiful Brigit, and Chiara, their lovely daughter, the spitting image of her mum, were helping us organise the day. Like Ad and Lijda van Sorgen, our Dutch friends, Ian regularly helped us with harvest and bottling and knew the ropes of our eccentric winery. He was a medium-height fit fifty-something who looked like he was in his forties, his dark hair lightly peppered at the edges. Ian was one of those people who could make you talk about feelings without realising you were doing it. He had a cunning method of leaving gaps in the conversation that begged to be filled with deep thoughts. As we worked, Chiara, Sophia and Ellie picked and ate grapes, getting their own sense of harvest rhythm. Hand-picking offered a special energy, a unique moment of human interaction far superior to that of a machine. I wanted to share it. This day was a way to do that, but perhaps there could be others. I pictured a day with Saussignac primary school, imagining what fun it would be to share this part of the harvest with local children. The grapes were delectable, purple, ripe and delicious, and I was having a ball, like our guests, enjoying the banter and exertion in the autumn sun, my butterflies long gone. Maj and Mary picked like 'bejaysus', their non-stop quips keeping motivation levels high.
While motivation was high, though, energy was getting low. We needed sustenance: with a crunchy organic biscuit in one hand and a brick of organic orange juice in the other, we sat on the grass, chatting and feeling the bliss that comes from physical activity. To motivate the team, I promised wine rewards to the fastest pickers. An hour later we had finished the vineyard and the thought of a picnic drove our hungry stomachs back up the hill against the wishes of our groaning limbs.
Lijda and a friend made a German harvest speciality: Flammkuchen. With a delicious yeasty base, akin to pizza with a mix of onions and crème fraîche on top, they are traditionally served with boru, part-fermented white wine thought to be good for digestion and health. Our sémillon white, halfway through its ferment, was sparkly and zesty with a touch of residual sweetness, and a perfect match for the Flammkuchen. I took a deep draught, then sank my teeth into the luxurious yeasty crust and felt the cool wine relax my tired limbs. Dave and Amanda Moore, aka Mr Greedy and Mrs Picky, the couple with a vineyard dream, had arrived to help with our harvest weekend and to learn winemaking with Seán for a couple of weeks. Our horror stories of frost-damaged yields and renegade drivers had not put them off. The farm north of Saint-Émilion that they hoped to buy was progressing, but was held up by a classic French-property transaction hitch – multiple family members unable to come to agreement.
I stuck my head around the winery insulation curtain to see Seán, Dave and Ian hoist the last harvest fruit from bin to vat.
'Try this,' I said, passing them three slices of Flammkuchen. 'With a sip of fermenting sémillon, it will change your life.'
They laughed and wiped their hands on their trousers to remove the juice before taking the slices. 'We need it!' said Dave. 'Bring more. This won't touch the sides.'
He was wearing his Mr Greedy T-shirt. I laughed and wondered just how many of those shirts he had. We had discovered that he was known for lifting food from kids' plates if there was a hint they weren't going to finish it. It had become a joke that the kids preferred not to sit next to him, especially if the food was something they liked. 'But won't you take a break for lunch with us?' I asked.
'We'll be here a while,' said Seán. 'We've finished loading but now there's all the cleaning. We must do it now or the juice will dry and be a nightmare to clean.' 'I'll bring sandwiches. Courage les gars!' I said, closing the curtain behind me.
At tables and chairs set out under the trees in the garden, Brigit and Amanda served cups of hot soup and laid out a feast of quiche, salad, bread, cheeses and pâté while I served wine just as fast. Our first vine-shareholder harvest day was going off in style: wonderful people, great grapes and good food, with wine and conversation flowing.
'You forget about us, did you?' said Seán.
'Better late than never,' said Ian.
'I'll be sure to keep you some apricot tart,' I said, focusing on the positive and avoiding admitting that I had momentarily forgotten them in the frenzy of serving lunch… I consoled myself with the fact that I myself hadn't had time to eat and ran back to prepare coffee and tea for the guests.
As the stragglers left the picnic site, I felt shattered. The fellas finished in the winery and we gathered for a cup of tea and apricot tart to dissect the day. The combination was a delectable reward after the non-stop activity; made all the more satisfying by the people collected on the pine chairs around the old table. As I made notes about ideas for the following year I felt deep happiness and a sense that this was the start of something important for us.
Phase one of the harvest weekend was complete and phase two was soon to begin: our first official harvest dinner, to be held at Domaine de Rudel, a chambre d'hôte at walking distance from us.
After the toasts, awards – for the best shoes, of course – and thanks, I handed over to Nadine, our dark-haired hostess. She served the entrée, a courgette and chèvre (goat's cheese) terrine with a tomato coulis, which was matched with our Luminosité dry white, the aromas of elderflower, peach and grapefruit perfectly enhancing the delicate flavours of the terrine.
In south-west France the most famous meat is duck breast. Nadine had prepared it à point, medium rare, in a fig reduction sauce as our plat principal. It generated exclamations of delight. Next up were local cheeses, including a white, chalky, flavour-packed young chèvre and a walnut-infused cow cheese called Echourgnac, paired with the first release of our barrel-aged white Générosité, made from old sémillon vines and reminiscent of a Burgundy chardonnay. This course is necessary, because the cheese, crusty bread and green salad are guaranteed to aid digestion in preparation for dessert. Our French harvest feast reached its finale with almond and pear tart paired with a Saussignac dessert wine – sourced from a friend since ours was all sold. Like old friends, despite having met only that morning, we hugged each other goodnight then staggered home.
A few days later, sitting on the terrace of the Wine Cottage with the sun going down over the vineyards, we toasted harvest. Two tiny sections of red grapes were left, one planned for Naomi's filming the next day. Seán appeared with a cake flaming brightly to celebrate my birthday and Dave and Amanda burst out laughing. 'I don't believe it!' said Amanda. 'How did you know?' said Dave.
It was Dave's birthday. They hadn't said anything, not wanting to disturb us when everyone was working so flat out. We celebrated our double birthday with a glass of our first-release méthode traditionelle, a champagne-style sparkling wine, fresh and fruity with a little brioche note from the second fermentation in the bottle. 'Très bon, madame!' said Dave with a flourish. We clinked glasses, set to be great friends.
The next day I rose with a little birthday hangover. An hour later, after a restorative cup of tea, I greeted Naomi, who was immaculately turned out as usual and accompanied by her cameraman. She seemed even slimmer than before, her dark hair perfectly set against her pale skin and open, honest face. Over tea before the picking, she gave us an update.
'It was destiny that I called you and you introduced me to Thierry. I had contacted many other organic growers and no one was interested in engaging with us in the production. Thierry has been incredible with his innovations and reactivity. Just days ago I discovered that one of the principal processing plants for extraction of resveratrol and other grape extracts is in Gardonne. Destiny. What more can I say?'
The factory where they would process most of the samples Thierry had prepared was 4 kilometres from our vineyard. Naomi gave me a wide smile with perfect red lips.
'We're doing an organic show in Los Angeles next March. Would you like to come over for it?'
I almost swallowed my cup. 'Who?' 'You and Seán and Thierry and Isabelle.'
'Wow. That sounds wonderful, Naomi, but the girls are too young to leave and they couldn't come with us.' 'Well, think about it anyway,' she said. 'We'd love to have you there.'
For the previous few years and the foreseeable future we couldn't afford to travel to the next region, let alone another continent. Naomi's offer sounded so good, a chance to see Los Angeles, to explore the wines of California and to see my sister, who lived in North America. But it seemed a step too far for us right then. The pick that morning was a few rows of merlot for a new red cuvée based on our best berries: hand-picked, hand de-stemmed, and fermented with wild yeasts in oak barrels. Once in the barrels, to extract the colour and the tannin, we foot-stomped instead of pumping over, and codenamed it 'La Feet'. Foot-stomping, or 'punching down', pushed the cap of skins floating on the top down into the juice, and was a more gentle way to extract colour and tannin than pumping the juice over the top. Perhaps the real Lafite wouldn't be happy if we actually used that name on the bottle, but that would be a decision for a later date.
The next day we added a tiny yield of cabernet franc and cabernet sauvignon to the merlot in the oak barrels. 'Have no mercy!' I yelled. 'If there is the slightest hint of rot, throw it away!'
I was ruthless: waiting the extra days for the additional ripeness on the cabernets meant there was rot developing on some of the bunches. Ad and I carefully combed each bunch, rigorously removing anything faintly blemished. Now instead of half the usual yield we had about a third, but the quality was good. It had a wonderful, juicy, almost sherbet-like taste that characterised the vintage for me in any blind tasting in the years that followed.
Given that our old wine press had breathed its last in the thick of pressing the whites, we had to purchase a new one in time for pressing the reds. After some research we decided to purchase a second-hand basket press, one that would allow us to work with parcel-specific small lots in the artisanal manner we wanted. Although second-hand, it was a frightening expense that came with a lead-weight five-year loan.
Dave and Amanda threw themselves into winery work with gusto. They personally foot-crushed 'La Feet' twice a day and took on the larger-scale pump-overs, cramming as much experience as they could into their short time with us. They hoped they would be making their own wine the following year, but by the time they left, their offer on the vineyard north of Saint-Émilion hadn't progressed.
Our third frosted vintage, while small, was safely in the chai. With a kernel of friends around us, our roots were finding their way into our community. There was hope in the new opportunity with Naomi and we had made it through the first tightrope walk, balancing harvest and guests, intact. Each day we learnt more about nature and how to work with her. Biodynamics was doing more than changing our farming; it was changing how we viewed the world. But day to day our business was living life on the edge. Much as I loved what we were doing, I knew we could not continue this way forever. Between the vagaries of the weather and the trade buyers, our current situation was too uncertain.
A few years before, my sister had said to me that feeling your life was on the edge didn't mean you were going to fall; it meant you had to find the strength to keep on going. She said if you did you would grow wings, and then you wouldn't fear falling. Deep inside I knew we had to keep going and grow those wings.
Chapter 7
Animal Activists and Amoureuses
Our laying hens had become part of the family at Château Feely, providing a protein anchor for our homegrown diet. They laid eggs with yolks like the setting sun and a heavenly flavour, so far from supermarket eggs, even the organic ones, that they were like a totally different foodstuff. The band of eight portly cream-and-red-feathered ladies usually stuck together in a tight-knit group.
One day during the previous winter, a dog the size of a Shetland pony had come loping through the farm,
sowing chaos and panic. Seán, pruning in the vineyards below, heard a commotion and sprinted up. He saw the dog with a chicken in its mouth disappear below the winery heading for Saussignac village. With heavy pruning gear harnessed around him, Seán was no match for the monster long gone.
We looked everywhere for a sign of the chicken but she was lost.
and Ellie cried bitterly. I felt intense rage at the dog and told Seán that I wanted to take shooting lessons so I could buy a gun to protect our livestock. I was stunned at the power and aggression of my reaction. Now I understood how a farmer could shoot a dog in his field of animals. Protecting the hens was a strong instinct: they were a part of our livelihood, but much more than that, they had become part of our family.
That night as Seán did the final check and lock-up, Blackie the hen – so named for the touch of black on her tail feathers – came limping round the back of the tasting room, near the old ruin that we hoped one day to renovate into a second self-catering house. Seán rubbed his eyes; he couldn't believe she was alive.
