Saving Our Skins

by Caro Feely

  In the classroom we whizzed through a quick introduction then dived into tasting six international wines, setting the tone for the week. We voyaged across the planet: the Americas, Australia and New Zealand, South Africa and Europe; and into lesser-known winegrowing countries and grapes, from Austria's Grüner Veltliner with citrus notes and intriguing hints of pepper and tobacco to a white Spanish Rías Baixas from the Albariño grape with notes of apricot and peach, a luminescent colour that was almost green, and a high acidity. I was learning the definitions of the different wines, and the aspects of wine that helped to define them, two things indispensable to blind tasting. It was fascinating and the time flew: I loved the diversity, complexity and intrigue.

  But as the week progressed I became even more worried about my blind-tasting ability, mistaking a Médoc wine from an estate I had visited for an Italian red, and a New Zealand sauvignon blanc for a Spanish white. The stress of blind tasting made me forget to follow my instinct. The textbook knowledge became jumbled in my head. I felt like I was back in final-year exams.

  The group were A-type achievers, taking the course seriously; even those doing it for pleasure. The first two nights we ate together, taking our time tasting through the wines, relaxing and enjoying meeting other wine lovers. I offered tastes of our red La Source and our Saussignac dessert wine.

  'That's delicious!' said Lori as she tasted the Saussignac. She was my housemate, a tough thirty-something Canadian businesswoman who was filling in a few weeks between jobs by learning about her hobby.

  The group was impressed with the dessert wine but found the red too tannic and dry. Taking criticism about wines that were so much part of us was an aspect I found difficult. It was like taking criticism of your children: sometimes useful, but always hard to swallow. Like many reds from our region, it needed a few more years to mature.

  Matthew was a great teacher. He was the guru but he was humble and recognised the specific knowledge of individuals on the course, offering the floor to the tall New Zealander when we discussed New Zealand wines, and asking me for my perspective on organic and biodynamic farming. Seeing Matthew at work offered me insight on how to run our wine school. In the evenings I studied with Lori, the blonde Canadian, in the comfortable lounge area of our shared house. 'What is the Hungarian wine known as "bull's blood" made of?' she asked. 'Kadarka,' she answered before I could.

  She rattled through another volley of questions machine-gun style, leaving me ricocheting like a punch-drunk loser in a boxing ring. She seemed to know everything, using honed exam techniques from a recent MBA. It was so long since I'd studied for an exam I had forgotten how. I realised I needed to up my game and followed her suggestions on how to fix the info into my brain that felt like it had gone soggy from years of lonely farming and motherhood. I didn't stay late after dinner, and got up early to revise. On the last night we ate quickly then reviewed wine regions and styles deep into the night.

  I wasn't confident about the blind tasting, and failing it meant failing the course. To get the accreditation I had to pass the tasting as well as the theory. I phoned Seán and told him I was sure I was going to fail. He assured me I would not.

  Despite his assurances, when we gathered for the exam the following afternoon I was a bundle of nerves. Some nerves were OK but too many would cloud my judgement. I told myself to get a grip. The first part, the theory, flew by; though after writing almost exclusively with a keyboard for two decades, the freehand on the pages was unfamiliar and spidery. I wrote until my hand felt ready to fall off, revelling in all the detail that poured out instinctively, the years on a vineyard and the grinds with Lori paying off in spades.

  We left the room then returned to find a glass of dark red wine on the tasting mat in front of each place. The format was something we had practised during the week but my nerves still jangled. Getting closer to the glass I caught a familiar aroma. It was a wine we had tasted on the course. The options on the page left me in no doubt and a wave of relief flowed through me. I would have to wait a few weeks to be sure but I was confident I had the right wine.

  I felt sad as I said farewell and invited all my co-students to visit if they were in Bordeaux. We had experienced an intense week together, learning and tasting nearly a hundred wines. My journey back to Saussignac offered time to think about the wine school and what ideas we could use from Matthew's set-up. By the time I reached my sleeping household, a vague idea of what ours could be like had formed.

  It was good to be home. The Christmas card from the president of the Aquitaine region had a photo of a pristine mountain and lake, followed by a one-liner from Mahatma Gandhi: 'Live simply so others may simply live.'

  It was a reminder of what was important: love, health and simple joys; hugging a kid; fetching eggs; feeling good and tired after a hard day's work. We lived in a socialist country where social charges and taxes were high but ensured everyone received a minimum of care and education no matter how little they had. While there were times when I was driven nuts by aspects of our new country, it was helping me see life in a different way. Overall I was happy. Seán, on the other hand, was frustrated. While I enjoyed a relatively warm office and three-course lunches with paying clients some days, he was knee-deep in winter pruning.

  He didn't want to do the trip I had planned back in the glow of summer, a five-day December break at my new friends Clément and Francine Klur in Alsace, followed by two nights in Burgundy. He wanted to be gloomy in his vineyard and winery all on his own. It was a classic case of the man and the cave; ironically the French word for cellar being cave. One vat was still fermenting and he was worried about the vat with the high volatile acidity and about finishing the malolactic fermentations on the other reds that hadn't completed this step. We were ultra-anxious to ensure that the vinegar bacteria didn't get a chance to start on any of the other vats. But the trip was long booked and I was keen to visit these two key wine regions. Alsace was the most advanced of all the French wine regions in terms of biodynamics and promised to be a good learning-ground for us. We needed to research equipment and my taste for wine touring had been given momentum by the WSET course. News that I had passed both the theory and the blind-tasting exams with distinction brought ecstasy – but Seán's grumpiness quickly deflated it. He harrumphed around the house, never speaking directly to me or using my name. Something was going badly wrong. We spent more time together than ever before and yet I felt further from Seán than I had when we first moved in together. It was like we were going in different directions. I lost myself in work from before dawn to late at night, creating vine-share photos, certificates and letters to keep up with the orders that were still flowing in. On the back of the television show I had secured a few good mentions in print media coming up to Christmas that helped keep the sales rolling. Now in the thick of that marketing windfall I didn't like to leave, but Seán and I needed some time away from the business.

  Chapter 12

  Snowed-in in Alsace and Burgundy

  We took off in pre-dawn darkness, hoping to reach Alsace for a late lunch. The envelopes of the share orders that had come in before nightfall the previous day, a wedge of about twenty, were in my bag ready to post in Alsace. New orders would have to wait for our return; there was Internet at the Klurs and in Burgundy so I could acknowledge receipt.

  At Brive-la-Gaillarde, about two hours from Saussignac on the autoroute, snow began to fall. Soon we could only see about ten feet in front of us and slowed to a walking pace. There was no one on the road. The old Renault bought second-hand when we arrived wasn't in prime condition and the tyres were at the limit of acceptable. We had two small children, it was well below freezing and we hadn't seen a person for what seemed like hours.

  'What if we stall?' I said.

  'Don't be stupid!' snapped Seán. 'Of course we won't stall. Just keep your eyes on the road and help me navigate.'

  I was shocked. His harsh outburst chilled the atmosphere in the car more than the weather outside. The
next few hours we crept forward in silence, the fresh snow making a strange mumbled crunching under the tyres and the flakes swirling into the windscreen. We reached the gateway to Burgundy after seven hours, a journey that should have taken four, filled the car with fuel, and bought –30 ºC antifreeze for the windscreen wipers and a bite of lunch.

  Neither of us had experience driving in snow. Every few kilometres we passed yet another accident caused by the horrific conditions. The road news was 'crash central'. Sophia and Ellie were mute for the first time ever on a long journey, frozen by fear and the rapidly falling temperatures. We would be lucky to arrive in Alsace by nightfall. Our lovely holiday – the first in more than three years – had started on the wrong foot and Alsace felt far, far away.

  We crawled onward, hoping the conditions would improve, then picked up speed as the sun dropped towards the horizon and we saw the Vosges mountain range and classic Alsace A-frame houses for the first time. The car's atmosphere warmed with the clearing sky. We were on holiday; it felt great to be away, to be in such a different place.

  Alsace is a long valley running up the top right side of France, bordered by Germany and a small part of Switzerland. After a turbulent history of ping-ponging between France and Germany for a few hundred years, it is now a magical cross between the two, and totally unlike our province of Aquitaine. Katzenthal, home to the Klurs since time immemorial, turned out to be a charming village a little larger than Saussignac. As Seán parked outside a building with a copper sign that held the familiar spiral Klur logo, a fresh flurry of snow fell. The Klur winery reception was a masterpiece; glass double doors were nested in a wood-clad arrow-shaped entrance, with the arrow in turn set into a section built of natural stone. The tasting room and reception area looked like it had grown out of the original wood building behind like a living thing.

  We announced ourselves to Régine, Francine's right-hand woman, and she showed us to our apartment in the old traditional building next door, where six of their nine self-catering units were housed. It was so beautiful – magical – I felt I needed to whisper so we wouldn't break the spell. Carved wooden stairs adorned with regional Christmas decorations led to a landing sparkling with star-lights, furnished with a comfortable reading chair, an enormous mirror and the door to our apartment. It was an Alsace fairy kingdom.

  Inside, the living room was toasty with natural colours, wood panelling, an inviting sofa, a four-poster bed and a thermal mass wood-burning stove sculpted in rounded shapes and earthy tones. The small galley kitchen led to a dining room, shower room and two bedrooms. I put our small box of shopping, bought at the Biocoop en route, onto the kitchen counter. Sophia and Ellie were exhausted, fear having kept them wide-eyed throughout our eleven-hour journey. Spotting curly kale in the box, I grabbed one and put it on Ellie's head. She caught a vision of herself in the mirror on the wall and giggled for the first time that day. I snapped a photo. 'Me too, me too!' said Sophia.

  Seeing herself, she giggled like Ellie and I snapped a few more shots of them modelling the stunning green hats.

  We descended the enchanting staircase to fetch more bags and Clément appeared. He gave me a hug and kisses on both cheeks.

  'Oh my God,' he said in his teasing proper English accent. 'All this snow! You are not in the Dordogne anymore.'

  Feeling instantly at ease in Clément's familiar, positive presence, with his relaxed attitude to the scary white stuff, I introduced him to Seán. His invitation to taste in the winery was manna from heaven, just what we needed to disperse the stress from a day of snowflake hell.

  We dropped our bags and followed him through the tasting room into Klur's ecological winery. It was built in a spiral design using the principles of biodynamics and felt like a womb; safe, peaceful and cosy. The central circular room was surrounded by oval oak vats, the signature of Alsace. Some were simple; others had Bacchusstyle figurines carved into them and around their taps. In the middle of the winery was a wood-burning stove for natural heating.

  Clément drew samples and we enjoyed a voyage of Alsace aromatics. The Klur Riesling was mineral and lime; the pinot gris was tropical and fruity with a lovely richness on the palate; the Gewürztraminer had wonderful lychee and rose notes; and the pinot noir was a cherry bomb. Clément was a tonic with his light touch, sense of humour and a dash of humility despite his heritage and reputation.

  We could have stayed tasting his beautiful wines deep into the night but our small girls needed bed. Ellie, usually such an upbeat little character, hadn't smiled since the curly kale. Seán and I went to tuck them into bed, then settled down to chat.

  'It is so good to be on holiday!' I said, clinking glasses with him.

  'But what are we going to do this week?' asked Seán.

  'We have the visits with three biodynamic winegrowers booked,' I said. I had asked Matthew Stubbs, the Master of Wine that took my WSET course, for his suggestions and researched online to come up with these visits.

  'But we need to do activities with the girls, this is their holiday too. I think three wine visits is too much,' said Seán.

  'We need to see practical biodynamic farms, though, and I need to become familiar with regions like Alsace to run a credible wine school,' I countered, feeling mildly irritated that he didn't show any appreciation for the research and organisation I had put into the planning of the trip.

  The next morning I disappeared to catch up on emails at the guest computer. When I returned, Seán was furious; I had been away too long. I was shocked and hurt. I hadn't done anything but respond to the orders that had poured in over the previous thirty-six hours. Clients needed a response. They needed to know their gift vine shares would be with them in time for Christmas. Seán was spitting mad and so was I. Neither of us could see the other's point of view.

  I had to get out. Sophia, Ellie and I walked down to Katzenthal's commercial centre hoping to find a post office to post the vine shares and a bakery to buy treats. We left Seán fuming and researching things to do as a family.

  Katzenthal was a winter wonderland. The snow covered the contours of the houses like icing sugar and outdoor Christmas trees were decorated with little bread men like something in a Christmas fairy tale. In the bakery, the language spoken by the people coming and going was a fascinating mix of German and French. Loaded up with traditional pastries for a late breakfast, we returned to find Seán simmering.

  It was not that I wanted to work on our holidays; it was the reality of owning a small business, the choice we had made. I wondered how much more of Seán's bad temper I could take.

  Alsace in December was heaven for kids: Christmas markets, twinkling lights, ice rinks and enchanting merrygo-rounds, where life-sized horses rose up and down serenely to funfair music before a puff of snow was blown into the rider's face as they cantered into the final section. Sophia was ecstatic; she was desperately keen to take up real horse-riding.

  With Sophia and Ellie filled with chips and magical rides, we wound our way along the Alsace wine route to Domaine Deiss in Bergheim. The entrance and the tasting room were strangely modern, and I felt ill at ease. The dark-suited man on the tasting room floor was more sommelier than winemaker. He switched on a metre-wide screen and pointed to an interactive map of the different terroirs of the domaine. I preferred walking the terroir to looking at a screen, but the tasting room and winery were on the main Alsace Route des Vins in the town of Bergheim, not on the edge of their vineyards, and this offered a high-tech way to see them.

  Mathieu Deiss, newly appointed chief winemaker and son of Jean-Michel, the owner at the time, arrived. I immediately felt better seeing him dressed in wine-stained jeans and sweatshirt, a hard-working farmer rather than a sales person. He was fit, with dark hair and a charming smile and spoke in a quiet, considered manner. Sophia and Ellie settled at a tasting table to watch a DVD, the office secretary promised to call if there was an emergency, and we disappeared into the labyrinthine Deiss winery.

  The main pressing room an
d reception part of the winery was a modern block that felt impersonal rather than the birthplace of great wines. As the visit progressed, though, I realised there was more to them and the winery. Mathieu spoke of their terroir and winemaking with depth and inspiration. We descended into an old section constructed of stone, more sensual than the concrete, where oval wood vats aged their white aromatics. Further down, brick vaults that housed barriques, small Bordeaux barrels of red wine, felt even better.

  'We don't rack the reds, we prefer to leave them undisturbed, in peace to decant naturally and make their maturation journey,' said Mathieu.

  Leaving him and Seán to discuss the finer points of red maturation and racking, I dashed back to check on Sophia and Ellie. They were still happily watching a Kirikou animation film.

  I found Mathieu and Seán again by following the echoes of their voices. Mathieu explained some of their machinery innovations as we climbed back up the steps.