Grape Expectations

by Caro Feely

  'And I'm still waiting,' said Laurence drily, her hand waving over the half-installed cupboards and the oven still sitting in a box in the corner. She had been making do for three years. Pierre studiously ignored the comment.

  'Removing the mortar covering the stones was the hardest job, especially where the mix was more concrete than chalk. Come, let's go upstairs.'

  Pierre motioned upwards and led us up another level. Pierre and Laurence's piece of the castle was about one fifth of the total but they had enough space for a family of ten. The staircase, made of stone slabs about 2 metres wide, wound around storage rooms that formed what would have been a giant-size stairwell.

  The upper section, their living area, was still in progress with skirting boards and some doors and electrical points unfinished. Pierre had split the equivalent space of their grand room, just one level up, into three comfortable bedrooms, a bathroom and a study. The stone walls, high ceilings and windows – offering spring blossom views towards our farm and the Dordogne valley beyond – provided instant grandeur.

  'Now I show you the dungeon, where the real history lies,' said Pierre. We descended to the gloomy basement.

  'This seventeenth-century castle is built on the site of a monastery from Celtic times.'

  We followed, obediently picking our way carefully through the murk. Pierre showed us his well, which dated back at least a thousand years.

  'There are no prison cells here but we do have a secret tunnel.'

  He led us further into the obscurity along a wooden plank that balanced precariously over a very uneven stone floor.

  'Et voilà!' In the castle wall was a vaulted doorway leading into a tunnel completely filled in with loose stone. 'We don't know why it is filled in. Perhaps it was a rock fall. Perhaps it was to keep some treasure secret from the Germans in the war. Folklore says that a tunnel from the castle leads to Garrigue. Maybe we'll explore it one day.' Pierre smiled conspiratorially and turned to lead us out of the basement.

  Laurence was putting on running shoes as we said goodbye.

  'Do you run?' I asked. Laurence looked the quintessential French lady, not one who beat the pavements.

  'A leetoll.'

  'We must run together. How about this Sunday?'

  'Why not?'

  And so, that Sunday we started our regular runs, which offered me a stress-buster, an opportunity to talk French on subjects beyond wine and a closer look at French psychology and history. Laurence was a teacher's assistant and starting preparations for a full teacher's certificate. She was a delicious fountain of French culture and was into organic food and natural remedies. We struck a chord.

  On our runs we sometimes met deer and other four-legged creatures. One morning, as we were running up the road to Gageac, the sun highlighting clouds of our breath, a volley of gunshots shattered the peace. We both yelled. A hunter swaggered out of the trees swinging his gun nonchalantly on his shoulder.

  'People get killed every year in hunting accidents,' said Laurence, not very reassuringly. We ran the rest of the hill at astonishing speed.

  Sean and I had our first wine bottled and were beginning to realise how long a game wine was. Each of our wines took a minimum of eighteen months and sometimes, for the reds, up to six years to get from pruning to bottling. Add to that new vineyards, which need five years to reach reasonable levels of production, and a winegrower can be looking at more than ten years of patience and investment from planting to bottle. Our financial plan had not taken a sufficiently long view. We were out of money.

  We glared at each other over the candle. Financial stress was not helping the recovery of our relationship. Sean was working crazy hours and getting no compensation. At times we resented each other for the position we were in. Since it was a joint decision at least we felt solidarity in our resentment.

  'Perhaps we could get a short-term loan from the bank,' said Sean.

  I shook my head. 'We have no track record of selling bottled wine in any volume. Anyway, one of our core tenets from the start was that we would not risk this so far that we would become indebted for it. For our sanity and the kids' future we have to stick to that. The day we have to take out a loan for the day-to-day running of the business, it's over.'

  That was a fairly solid line in the sand. The candle flickered ominously and went out.

  'Feck it,' said Sean. 'What are we going to do?'

  'Light it again.'

  'No, I mean about the bottling costs.'

  'We'll have to get some wine sales fast. Our creditors will have to wait.'

  We knew what we wanted to do and where we wanted to go with our business. We wanted to produce high-quality, natural wines. We knew a growing part of the wine market wanted a real taste of terroir and not a trick of additives but we were running out of time and we had no idea how long it would take us to break even, if ever.

  Meanwhile, Lucille had invited me to a presentation on cultured yeasts and natural additives like tannins for winemaking. In the European Union, unnatural wine additives are illegal but in some other jurisdictions winemakers can put in chemical elixirs that will add anything from lychee to chocolate flavours to their wines. The event, which included dinner, was to be held at one of the iconic vineyards in the region. As I drove up the sun was setting over the hills beyond Château Belingard creating layers of rolling hills bathed in pink and gold light. It was so postcard perfect I took a minute to walk around the garden before my entrance and the obligatory bisous.

  Rows and rows of red wines were set up on the table. In each instance we compared an original wine with the same wine dosed with one of the additives. By the end of the evening I was convinced that additives, even natural ones, were a bad idea. Of all the wines I tasted only one tasted better with additives and that wine was hollow to start. In all instances where the original wine was good, the additives put the wine out of equilibrium. Something did not ring true. After several flights – the term used for a set of wines in a tasting – I also learnt that wearing a white shirt to a red wine tasting is not a good idea.

  Each winemaker had brought a couple of examples of his own wine to have with the meal. Our modern label stood out on the table and vignerons around me reached for the bottle to try something new. I could see from their faces they were surprised that idiots from the city with no experience in this complex métier could produce a drinkable wine. Jean-Paul, a winemaker from Saussignac, tasted his glass.

  'Bon, très bon, même. C'est plein d'espoir. (It's full of hope.) The first vintage is always full of hope.'

  Chapter 14

  Lessons in Lunacy

  The reaction from our target customer was so non-committal on the vat samples that we decided to broaden our net. Sean sent bottles of finished wine to two other buyers and I booked another marketing trip. I had no experience selling wine to trade buyers and we had no track record in the wine business. On my previous trip I had spoken to a few journalists – like the radio interview – to promote our direct sales and met a few proprietors of individual wine shops to get a feel for the market but I hadn't contacted any serious buyers. Now I had to face the music and I was scared. I organised my trip around key visits then set up to meet journalists and drop off samples. We had to sell our wine and we had to sell it at a price that could support our hand-crafted production methods.

  Sean took me to Bordeaux airport, coaching me all the way about how important it was for me to close some sales and loading on unnecessary extra pressure. My flight went smoothly and once again I picked up my hire car. It was a full year since my last trip. Between my fear of selling and my new fear of city-driving I wondered how I would last the week. I arrived at Aideen and Barry's haven and took a moment to breathe in the familiar air.

  'I could move back tomorrow,' I said, tucking into Barry's delicious pan-fried salmon.

  'Not really,' said Aideen recalling how she'd seen me so at home with the Saussignac winegrowers. 'Wait until you're sitting on the ring road trying to get t
o an urgent meeting.'

  We talked until midnight. The days flew. I met wine importers, dropped off samples, offered wine tastings at friends' houses and talked to wine journalists. I almost felt confident talking about the wines that were now part of us, and yet I neared the end of my stay with no sales in sight. Sean called every evening for news. It was stressful beyond measure.

  On Saturday I met with one of our target buyers, responsible for wine purchases across a chain of around twenty upmarket supermarkets. He had been open and positive when we spoke on the phone. His employer was large enough to buy all the production we had available for sale to the trade. I had high hopes for the meeting.

  We ordered our coffees and sat down at a stylish two-person table near the window of the plush cafe. I talked him through the vineyard, our plans and the wines. He asked questions and actively engaged in my pitch. We discussed the quantities they would need for different promotions as compared to an annual stock item. He explained they would probably include us in their annual French wine promotion as a first trial. I told him the prices and he didn't baulk. This was just the break we needed.

  I was convinced I had a sale. 'So when do you need to order for the promotion?' I asked.

  'Around August but I can't commit yet. We like the wines and your story but I need to talk to our consultant before making a buying decision. If we don't go for the 2006, we'll look at the 2007.'

  I tried not to show my disappointment, swallowed the rest of my coffee and prepared to leave. We couldn't work with decisions by committee; we didn't have that sort of time.

  'Thierry was right. It's a long sales cycle,' I said to Sean that evening.

  'Well, tough luck for them. If they don't get in on the 2006, they won't get a look in on the 2007.'

  Sean sounded bullish, but he wasn't the one meeting the buyers.

  That evening Aideen and Barry organised a dinner with old friends. No longer was a dinner simply a chance to socialise: our wines were on show. It was great to see old friends but I couldn't relax.

  'I love this rosé,' said Doug, 'not so sure about the white.'

  'It's a well-made wine,' said Conor.

  Each comment was sparkles from heaven or a knife through my heart. This wine was so personal. Now wine was our life, no social occasion would ever be free of marketing or analysis if wine was involved. The next day I met a group of people I had worked with for many years for lunch. The jokes started flowing and I laughed until my sides ached. I missed this repartee. Our second bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc arrived and I sniffed it critically.

  'That's exactly the same wine but can you pick up how smoky it is compared to the first bottle?' I asked.

  'She's right, you know,' said Andrew, surprised. 'That is smoky and the first one had no smoke.'

  Soon they were all sniffing and nodding, impressed that I could pick up such nuances in a wine. In the old days, as their colleague, I'd been someone who knew a bit about wine but not an expert. In the intervening two years I had become a winegrower.

  The last day of my trip I met our highest priority target customer, the chain of twenty-five wine shops. Walking in with a copy of the cover story that had been published about us at the time of my previous trip, I tried to look confident. Dave had dark, somewhat unruly hair and was skinny and hyper with a disarming smile. His office was mayhem: strewn with samples of wine and marketing brochures awaiting his approval. He gave the impression of being disorganised but I realised through the meeting he was a savvy business man and a serious wine expert.

  'I've seen the article. I really like your story,' said Dave. 'How did you get that coverage? If I could get half of the press coverage you've had, I would be happy.'

  He was right: writing the story for the newspaper the previous year and lucky breaks through my business contacts – like the radio interview – had helped our direct business significantly. The way he spoke it was clear it was going to help us here as well. He was keen to try our wines.

  I talked him through the vineyard and the white that was available and ended with some negotiation pressure.

  'We need a decision fast as I have someone else who is interested in the wine,' I said, adding to myself, 'or our adventure will be over'. The statement was somewhat true since the other contact was interested, although it was clear they would never buy in time to save us. I kept a poker face despite total terror that this tactic could backfire. He looked surprised, clearly not used to buying competition in a flooded wine market and said, 'I'll taste the wines again and phone you before you leave to let you know.'

  I still had no order to report back to Sean but at least I had met the decision maker, the person who had direct control over the buying decisions. I liked him. He was honest and direct.

  That evening Dave called to announce his decision I tried to control the tremble in my voice. He was our only hope for a fast solution.

  'I like the wines but I find them a bit light – sort of Italian style,' he said.

  A dagger slashed through my heart, followed by an intense urge to remove him from our target list despite how much we needed him right then. 'But I like the story and I think your wines are only going to improve. I'm already looking forward to next year. I prefer the sauvignon blanc but the price is too high, it puts you into the price level of well-known Loire Valley sauvignons.'

  'What price do you need?' I asked.

  He put forward a figure that was way too low for our sauvignon.

  'We can do the sémillon sauvignon for that,' I said, trying to remember the negotiation lessons I had learnt in my previous life.

  Dave explained the different options for pricing and the impact they had on sales. If he promoted a wine it sold much faster and price point made all the difference.

  'You see it depends on what you want to do with your wine. How fast you want it to sell determines the price you give us,' he said. He then proposed buying 250 cases at 10 per cent lower than the price I had offered.

  'For that price I'll have to talk to Sean,' I said, sounding more assured than I felt.

  'Talk to Sean and let us know by the end of the week.'

  My hand that stretched out to put the phone on the kitchen counter was shaking like a leaf.

  'Tell all,' said Aideen.

  'He wants 250 cases of Château Haut Garrigue sémillon sauvignon blanc.'

  'Yippee!'

  Barry beamed at me. 'Well done.'

  'But it's not at the price we wanted.'

  'It doesn't matter. It's your first trade sale. Let's celebrate!' Aideen was over the moon.

  'I got this present for you,' said Sean, handing over Nicolas Joly's book Wine From Sky to Earth when he collected me from the airport. He was alone: Sophia was at school and Ellie was playing with Alane at Sonia's. 'This is the path to exceptional wines.'

  Nicolas Joly is one of the most famous biodynamic producers in France. His farm in the Loire Valley has been a vineyard for more than a thousand years. I had read a bit about him and his methods but I was sceptical. I felt like I had been given a school textbook as a gift. After the experiences of my trip I would have appreciated a book on how to sell wine rather than one on cow horns and lunar cycles.

  'Thanks, SF. But we're going to need more than exceptional wines to make sales in this market. It's more than tough out there.'

  'I know, Carolinus. But I think we have extraordinary terroir and with hard work and biodynamics we can do great things. You should read it.'

  We quickly moved on to more pressing items, like following up our potential order. That evening I opened the book he gave me and started reading. Biodynamics is often called 'organics plus' or 'super organics'. We were farming organically and I was convinced, but the mystical activities like burying the cow dung in the cow horn at the autumn equinox and digging it out at the spring equinox to charge it with fertility were too much for me.

  The book was so gripping, however, that I read deep into the night. Joly gave substance to the mystical e
lements. The dung buried in the cow horn in the right place at the right time had been proven to have hundreds of times more soil-boosting microbiological activity than the same mix buried in a clay pot.

  I learnt that biodynamics consisted of two key parts: working with the calendar of the earth's position in relation to the moon and cosmos, and homeopathic-like preparations or treatments for the soil and plant.

  For millennia man has used the sun, moon and stars to guide his agricultural activity. Early writers like Romans Columella (AD 4–c. AD 70) and Varro (116 BC–27 BC) noted elements we now think of as biodynamics. Before wristwatches we told the time via the sun, moon and stars. They determine much of what takes place on earth, although in the modern world it is easy to forget that and to think that the world revolves around us...

  The moon moves the oceans; it has a major influence on water. So the moon's phases influence the way plants grow through the different levels of moisture in the environment and in the plant. The Romans noted that certain crops were more successful if planted when the moon was in a specific constellation or set of stars. The moon takes two to three days to pass through a constellation, so this offered a very specific window for different crops. This, and the location of the other planets in our solar system, is what determines the biodynamic day on the calendar and hence what a winegrower – or gardener – should prioritise for that day. They also noted that harvesting at the correct time meant the food lasted longer. This is because of how the plant stores the water in the fruit/crop at different times of the lunar cycle. Less water generally means better conservation.