by Caro Feely
Not a moment too soon for Austin, we left the museum and headed for the important bit – tasting wine. Before being allowed to taste the really good stuff we had the Rothschild's other two grand crus classés wines. The tour guide poured large helpings of each. They were delicious but nowhere near the greatness of the Mouton finale. It was deep, full and rich, not in a cloying overripe way, but in a structured, robust way.
'Now that's a wine for me,' said Austin, draining his glass. 'Nothing like a little Pauillac for breakfast.'
By the end of the day Austin had a selection of grand crus classés in his boot. He was a true bon vivant, someone who drank for pleasure and could afford to drink the really good stuff. I hoped all my clients would be as much fun.
Alongside the tours I offered wine classes in our newly completed tasting room: the two-hour session that I called 'Introduction to French Wine'. It was an idea we hoped would bring clients to our tasting room door. My knowledge and my tasting and teaching skills were on a massive learning curve.
The old friends of Garrigue, the mice, continued to be part of the landscape. As I pulled the flat-pack boxes off a pallet to prepare a new wine order, a mouse leapt off the stack like a small, grey flying saucer and scampered across the room. I screamed and ran in the opposite direction, my heart beating like a runaway train.
I could not help my reaction of 'scream and run'. This one had created a beautiful nest out of shreds of paper from some of the packing around the boxes. Fortunately there were no baby mice in it. Mice are tiny but I was scared witless by them. It was illogical but I couldn't stop it. Sean, grumbling about my lack of country wife skills, checked for the mouse and set a trap.
Once he was sure there was no sign of the intruder, I got the boxes I needed and cleaned the stockroom from top to toe to make sure there were no more unwanted guests. At every moment I expected another mouse to leap out at me.
The same week, as I was walking home from Hillside vineyard, a large snake slithered off the vineyard track into the limestone cliffs. According to Myreille's theory, I had to remain calm if I was bitten. Here I was, far from being bitten, but my heart was racing. Clearly I was one of the ones who would be DOA at Bergerac Hospital if I ever had the misfortune of receiving a snake bite.
Sean mocked me. He had never seen a snake despite being outside far more than I. A little while before, I had nearly stood on a snake in my flip-flops. The racket the snake made slithering clumsily across the gravel path was like tambourines but Sean, a couple of metres away, heard nothing. I leapt a metre into the air and ran away screaming, proving to Sean what a wimp I was.
The next mouse episode took place during a course by the Syndicat des Vignerons Bio d'Aquitaine (SVBA), the organic wine producers' association.
The instructions to find the first class in Entre-Deux-Mers were typically French. I had a farm name in a lieu-dit in an obscure village and no phone numbers. All communes are made up of many lieu-dits, the old name of the place, almost like a street name. Our area in Saussignac was La Garrigue so that was the address for all the houses on our road including ours, which was the final property at the end of the cul-de-sac. I found the village but could not find the lieu-dit. Panicked at running a few minutes late, I called the association to see if they could help but got the answering machine. After circling the village several times I stopped at a winery that looked open.
Finding no one inside I paced around hoping for a call back or for the appearance of life. Five minutes later two burly farmers came out of the nearby house. They were taken aback to find a mobile-phone-packing foreign woman in their yard but they knew the property and quickly explained how to get there. Soon I was flying along vague roads in the middle of nowhere.
At Château Ferran a small group of people consisting of the owner, the oenologist giving the course and the woman who ran the organic union were talking in the courtyard. I was fifteen minutes late but the first attendee to arrive.
A half-hour later when the other vignerons, mostly handsome young men, arrived, there were no introductions. I thought perhaps everyone else knew each other but later realised most of them didn't. The course was aimed at experienced winegrowers looking to extend their knowledge and would offer a solid grounding on principles of organic and biodynamic winemaking. The eight sessions would take place over a full year so we could chart the progress of the wines through a full winemaking cycle. It was another step on the road to understanding the mysteries of winemaking. At the end of the session the other attendees gave me a familiar kiss on each cheek. It was strange having good-looking men whose names I didn't know kiss me but it was a French habit I knew I could get used to.
The next class, a month later, was at a St Émilion grand cru property. I had learnt my lesson about timing and arrived a half-hour late as the class was starting. This time there were many new people but again no introductions. Halfway through the class a little mouse ran along the shelf a few metres from our table. I would have been screaming had I not lost my voice from the shock. The mouse looked relaxed and not put off by the human voices in his domain. I was ready to leap onto the table but noting the calm demeanour of the other farmers I remained frozen in my chair. Anne, the owner of the property said fondly 'There's our little mouse.'
If I was to be a true farmer's wife, I would have to overcome my insane fear of tiny rodents. I didn't want them in my house but after experiencing the calm of all those vignerons in that converted barn my reaction to mice was transformed. If they could remain calm, I could too.
A few days later, Sean prepared some bottles for a Friday evening mystery wine session for the two of us. It was a game we had started to play a few months before. He poured a glass and set it down in front of me. I lifted, sniffed, swirled, sniffed again, then took a swig. The wine filled me with warmth. It was rich.
'That's delicious. What is it?'
'You tell me.'
I looked at the glass in the light. It looked quite bright but on the rim it was turning slightly tawny. All wine browns with age. Red wine goes from purplish red to brick red, and unoaked dry white wine goes from straw yellow with perhaps a hint of green, to deep gold, as it ages. Cabernet sauvignon is particularly purple when it is young. This one was well past its purple stage and into mahogany territory.
The next clue was the aroma. The wine was ripe blackcurrant with a hint of spice. Wines range from upfront fresh fruit in a young wine to complex and cooked fruit aromas in an older wine.
Finally, and most importantly, comes the third element, the taste of the wine. I reflected on my memory bank. The wine was reminiscent of a vintage I had tasted in Médoc.
'Tastes like a ripe Médoc grand cru.' My range of vision was Bordeaux-centric. 'Definitely oaked.'
Salvador Dalí said: 'Who knows how to taste wine never drinks wine again but tastes secrets.' Wine is an expression of the place and the year that it was produced, a magical journey back to the summer of its birth. As I learned more about wine tasting, I realised that with practice, one could tell what age a wine was, where it was from and the grape variety without looking at the label.
The wine whispered its secrets; messages in the form of look, smell and taste. The colour was the first clue about its style and age.
'I don't know. It seems slightly "cooked". No, I don't think it's Médoc. It seems too hot.' Sean played the wine along, not ready to give me the answer. We discussed other clues that it offered: the alcohol, the acidity, the tannins, the aromas. I named just about every place except the correct one. Eventually he relented and gave me the answer.
'It's a ripe, expensive cabernet sauvignon from Walla Walla in Washington state.'
A client who booked The Wine Cottage gîte had given it to us as a gift. The self-catering unit was paying off in more ways than one. 'That's where Jeff and Sheila have their vineyard,' I said. Jeff and Sheila were my first tour customers, the people who I almost subjected to the most disgusting toilet in the whole of France.
Many gran
d crus in the Médoc have a large percentage of cabernet sauvignon so I had been in the right arena with the varietal on my first guess but on the wrong continent.
'Now that I know what it is, it's reminiscent of the South African cabernet sauvignon we had a few weeks ago,' I added. 'In fact, I think I would struggle to tell the difference if they were both here. It's the globalisation of the wine industry.'
'How old?' asked Sean.
'Around four years,' I said.
'Exact!'
I held up my hand for a high-five.
Our Friday evening treat of opening a couple of bottles of mystery wine from our stash had become a great game. Sean gave me another to taste.
'What's this? It's delicious and spicy. There is something familiar about it. If it weren't for the spiciness, I would guess pure merlot.'
'Correct!' He had slipped one of our barrel samples into the mix, presenting it as a wine from our collection. 'It's last year's merlot in the American oak barrel – that's what gives it the spiciness.'
I held my hand up for another high-five.
When made naturally, there is no other product that expresses different land or terroir as well as wine. Once you follow vintages you see each is a different character with unique charm. They evolve like their vignerons. Each farm and vintage has a story. I had fallen in love with our new profession. Not the infatuation of our dream of going wine-farming but a deep, profound love, something that resonated in my soul. A resonance that came from the three years of hard work, the inspiration of working with nature and nurturing our farm back to health and gaining a deeper understanding of what wine truly was and how it could express a place. But was it a love that was unconditional? How far was I willing to pursue it?
This journey had taken me to a place I loved, peopled with colourful characters. I wanted to learn more; to share more. But it was early days and there was still no light at the end of the tunnel financially. A tour like the one I did with Austin would not change the economic reality that kept rearing its head.
Chapter 20
Goodbye Château?
Sean and I agonised about what to do yet again. My wine tourism had started but wasn't making any money. I was offering classes free to accommodation owners to build up my reputation, hoping it would pay off later in guests sent my way. The feedback was excellent but there was no return yet. The Wine Cottage gîte was bringing in much-needed money but nothing like what we needed to live on. Our wine sales were going well; Dave had ordered another 600 bottles and our direct business was growing. But even if we sold out it wouldn't cover the costs of operating the vineyard. We scrutinised our finance spreadsheet hoping for a miracle. Alas, nothing had changed.
'We have to tighten our belts,' said Sean.
'They're so tight I'm getting gangrene.'
'I know, Carolinus, but we're still in start-up mode, we have to expect the first few years to be tough.'
'We can't buy shoes for the girls. Look at poor Ellie: all she has are hand-me-downs. Hand-me-down clothes are fine, but shoes? She should have at least one good pair of shoes. Look at me – the cheapest body lotion I can find on my face.'
'But look at the life we have, Carolinus. Look how much fun the girls have being outside with the chickens. Look how fulfilling it is following our passion rather than doing a job. I'm working harder than I ever have but I love it.'
'I know, SF, but we can't live on fresh air. We have to make enough money to live and looking at these projections doesn't fill me with hope.'
Our dream was not working out the way I had expected. I knew it would be tough but not nearly this tough. At least, for all the sacrifices, I thought we would eventually begin to reap enough rewards to feed our family.
The following day the social services organisation inspector came around. I had spoken to him about wanting to work a couple of days a week when Ellie started school. At the time I was researching the wine classes and tours and put off finding out more about what he said. Now he was back for his pound of flesh. He explained that regardless of the circumstances I had to pay social charges of several thousand or 47 per cent of my income, whichever was the largest, per year.
'As soon as you start working, even if you are not being paid, you have to pay. It doesn't matter what you get from us. That's not the issue. If you are working for the farm, even if you are making no money, you have to pay,' he said.
Remembering Ellie's tough-guy 'Stop!' routine with him the last time, I considered asking him to hold on while I fetched my three-year-old bodyguard from school.
'The farm isn't making any money, not even enough to pay Sean the minimum wage. I'm looking for a job off the farm or to start another business. At the moment the farm can't support one person, let alone two.'
'You still have to pay the social charges. Unless you have a full-time job off the farm you have to pay the social charges as if you are the exploitant. You could declare yourself as working part-time on the minimum wage but then you have to declare exactly what you do for the business on the declared days and keep detailed records. If we find you doing something that is not on your declared activities or working out of the hours you declare, it will be bad for you. Anyway, that will land up being more expensive than the minimum charge as exploitant if you are making a loss.'
I wondered if I had fallen into the well in Alice in Wonderland. How could this be the only option? It would break us.
'If you don't agree to this, I will check you regularly and you can be sure we will catch you doing something that could be considered part of the business even if it is a bit of DIY. Then you will have to pay a fine and still pay the social charges. There is no other option for you. I highly recommend that you sign up for the full plate of charges right now.'
He held out a pen to me.
My throat was tight with stress. I felt like shouting 'Stop!' but no sound came out. Our finances were way off healthy and this would tip us over the edge.
He wasn't going to leave until I had signed the papers. It was that or be constantly hounded, unable to even paint the walls on the weekend without being caught and fined for working undeclared. The huge man loomed ominously over me with the pen. He gave me a big smile.
'Don't worry, I will write the letter saying you are now working full-time for the farm. All you have to do is sign it. Our objective isn't to put you out of business. Of course, it's important that you survive so you can pay us.'
I felt like vomiting onto his pristine white shirt. Under his pressure I signed the documents. He gave me a satisfied smile.
That evening Sean and I went through numerous scenarios. No matter what we did, with this new burden we would be working to pay our suppliers and the social charges and not even covering that.
'We have to sell the farm. We'll never make a living. We aren't going to make it through the next twelve months with this extra charge.' I burst into tears. 'I don't want to sell,' I sobbed.
'I know, Carolinus, but we can't carry on if we can't pay ourselves. We can't carry on until the bank forces us to sell.'
The writing was on the wall. We could not continue. I felt angry, sad and frustrated. We had put so much into pursuing our dream. Our wines were good, critics and clients loved them and yet we could not make a living. Since arriving, I had never seriously entertained the thought that we might fail. Now we were facing it full in the face. I wanted so badly for us to succeed, now more so than ever.
Once I got control of myself we discussed it further. After looking in every direction for a solution we agreed there was no way out. We had to sell. There wasn't enough time for us to build up the wine tourism business to make up for the shortfall.
We had to return to city lives and normal jobs. At least we would have most weekends off, holidays, sick leave and some money for our work. There was that upside. But even the idea of being paid could not help me shrug off the devastation I felt. The next day I called an estate agent and asked them to come around to look at Garrigue.
&nb
sp; Laurence was still in the Basque country with family so that Sunday I set off on my own with my MP3 player, running along the road, my feet beating in time to U2. I turned onto the high vineyard track that runs along the ridge above Saussignac. As I crested the hill, a panoramic view of the village floating above the Dordogne valley with the castle, solid like an anchor in the sea of green vineyards and forests, engulfed me. I felt a deep love of this place. Our life, full of priceless riches, stretched out before me. Rich relationships, simple food, a passion for what we were doing and magnificent countryside.
I stopped and lifted my arms into the air in silent homage to this exceptional place into which we had haphazardly fallen. I felt part of it. I loved what we were doing. I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay so badly it was like a physical force sinking down into the ground. I felt like I was rooted to the spot. I could see my children and my children's children on this hill looking down towards our farm. It was like an ancient force. A spirit well. This was my home. This was our home. I felt at once powerless and powerful. Grief for the imminent loss of this place overtook me. Sobs racked through my body. I stood with tears flowing down my cheeks staring out at the landscape. That week I felt like I was in a bad dream. I went about my work in a mechanical daze. Thursday evening the phone rang.
