Glass Half Full

by Caro Feely

  Despite their downbeat replies I felt happy, filled with gratitude for where we were; for the soft autumn air; for the joy of walking; the grand panorama of the valley spread below us.

  'Let's sing!' I said and waited a moment then started a song. 'There is fun everywhere, Olé olé olé, Swing your arms in the air, Olé olé olé.'

  Ellie joined me and we sang the refrain again, then she added a section, 'et fait caca par terre' ('and do a poo on the ground'). In French it worked perfectly with the rhyme of the song. I felt a little disgusted but found myself laughing.

  'One of my friends made it up,' said Ellie gleefully, her class at an age where potty humour was still a hit.

  'Oh no,' I said, laughing all the more. 'I'll never be able to sing it normally again.'

  We turned down the second Merlot row and I stopped to check bunches and taste grapes every few metres. A few had fuzzy rot and I felt a pinch of anxiety. We were still a couple of weeks off the ideal moment for harvesting the reds. It would take some nerve to hold out.

  As we entered the courtyard that formed the U-shaped centre of the house and outbuildings, Seán came out of the winery, arms wide, and the girls ran to give him hugs and kisses.

  'Make yourselves a goûter,' I said. 'A drink, some fruit, some bread and jam, then do your homework. OK?'

  'Yes, Mum,' said Sophia.

  'Help Ellie if she needs it,' I added.

  We expected Sophia to take the lead ever since she was tiny. Now, at nine years old, she was super responsible. I knew I could rely on her to do her homework without being asked, to get up on time, to have her breakfast and be ready. With Ellie, who was two years younger, it wasn't so certain. She found it hard to get up and needed follow-up supervision unless it was something she loved. She was timid with people she didn't know and rebellious at the same time, but she had an iron will and had been capable of staring down an adult at a couple of months old.

  Leaving them to fend for themselves, I returned to my cleanup. After emptying and refilling the dishwasher and vacuuming the floor, it was 6.30 p.m. I had been on my feet almost non-stop for 14 hours. My dad was probably right with his 'if you keep going at this rate you'll be dead before you retire' comment, no matter how much I loved it.

  We needed to find a solution to being overstretched but the cost of hiring someone, even at the minimum wage, made it difficult despite the growing demand for our visits and our wines. I set the dishwasher to run again, all the while thinking about what to do. To make the business financially sustainable we needed to sell out and sell everything in the bottle at higher prices than we were at that moment. But I wasn't sure how to get there, especially given the impasse of not having help. Selling more wine would take time I didn't have. We needed another pair of hands; to get that we needed more income. It was a chicken-and-egg situation I knew I wouldn't solve immediately, particularly since Seán and I took turns to cook and it was my night. I locked up the tasting room.

  Realising the time, I turned to run to the house, tripped on the outside mat and flew across the gravel. I came down hard, knocking the breath out of myself. Head pounding, I picked my body up. I was dazed, and my knees and hands were bleeding, but there didn't appear to be any serious damage. Inside the house I cleaned myself off and found my lip was bleeding too. I disinfected the scrapes.

  Oblivious to the flying mum act that had taken place, the girls had finished their homework and were preparing to play a game of Wii on our ancient, fat TV. I left them to it and went to prepare dinner. I didn't know what to cook but almost everything started with onions chopped and sweated in butter so I did that. Then I saw a bag of Seán's home-made tomato sauce in the fridge. I threw that in with crushed garlic, a pinch of sugar and salt, a twist of black pepper and a few sprigs of oregano from the garden and left the pan to simmer.

  A pasta sauce like this needed a glass of Italian wine – for the sauce and for the chef. Taking a medieval-looking key from the cupboard, I walked down to the wine cellar under the house. Stepping into the ancient cellar filled me with awe at the weight of history, its sense of solidity and the bottles of wine – including our own from back vintages that were sold out. It was a crossroads of architectural history and wine. The back wall of perfectly cut square stones blackened with age dated, according to a local expert, to around 700 AD, the time when a monastery was constructed in Saussignac. The other walls were 'young', dating to the fourteenth and eighteenth centuries respectively. I still found it hard to believe it was ours and we were slowly building our own vineyard history in the wondrous liquid wine. I felt a little bipolar at times, as if my relationship with wine and our vineyard was love–hate. It was such a hard taskmaster, such a roller coaster, and yet I loved it.

  Ours was nothing like the bottled history of some of the châteaux I visited in St-Émilion. At Château Guadet they had vintages going back to 1914. Ours was modest, a mere seven vintages. We knew them all, down to the details of 'Maeve and Conor were here for that harvest' or 'that was the year of the frost'. Each bottle and its year were a tapestry of memories, of hiccups and of successes. For all the angst of winegrowing, there was something profound about this métier (profession), where we worked with nature and made a living product that could last a lifetime.

  The swap stock I had exchanged at the last organic wine fair we attended was piled up against the back wall. Like other fairs, it had been a good opportunity to meet other growers, but it had delivered little in terms of sales. Many buyers would walk past the appellation of Bergerac, not even bothering to stop and taste. If they did, we were too small and our volumes didn't come near their minimum requirements or our prices were too high for what they expected from the appellation. In the dim light I rifled through bottles stacked in cardboard boxes.

  'Perfect!' I said out loud, spotting a Chianti, the ideal match for my pasta supper. I lifted the bottle that recalled a frantic swap with a handsome Italian at the end of the show but not much else. I wouldn't tell Seán that. 'Horse piss,' he would say, 'and he probably wore pointy shoes.' Seán had a thing about pointy shoes. For him they were a sign of a salesman, a slippery, shifty character and an instant write-off for the unsuspecting wearer.

  The wine was a young Chianti DOCG (Denominazione di Origine Controllata e Garantita), made with organic grapes; mostly Sangiovese with a little Merlot. Since 1996, under pressure from the success of renegade wines known as 'Super Tuscans', Chianti had allowed up to 20 per cent of the blend to be international varieties like Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Syrah (Shiraz).

  'What's going on?' said Seán, passing the open cellar door as he walked up from the vineyard.

  'Wine for tonight,' I said, holding it up without a word about the maker. I took my treasure and locked the cellar door.

  'What happened to you?' Seán asked, noticing my lip then seeing my hands and knees.

  I explained.

  'You've got to slow down, Mrs C,' he said.

  'Easy to say, not easy to do,' I said.

  'I know,' he replied.

  We walked back up to the kitchen together.

  The sauce bubbling on the gas flame filled the kitchen with the delicious aromas of tomato and garlic. I took two glasses from the cupboard, pulled the cork and poured, savouring the sound of the wine passing from bottle to glass.

  My nose picked up a waft of cherry then I gave the glass a good swirl and sniffed again, this time more deeply, allowing the aromas to expand through my nasal passage and into my brain. Images of cherry, cinnamon, scrub herbs and tea formed. I took a sip and slooshed it all around my mouth. On the palate it was light and fruity with good acidity.

  'It's good,' said Seán.

  'Not bad for a man with pointy shoes,' I said.

  Seán's face dropped and I burst out laughing.

  'He-he. Only joking.'

  I crossed the courtyard for fresh parsley, snipped it into my sauce and served it on to just-cooked tagliatelle.

  'Cheers, everybody!' I said, lifting my gl
ass as I sat down. 'To a successful harvest!'

  'Cheers, Mummy,' said Ellie, clinking her glass of elderflower juice and making eye contact then moving to do the same with Sophia and Seán.

  We made our way around, careful not to cross each other in the process. It was a family ritual.

  Eating together was a sacred moment but it was a weeknight so we didn't linger. Seán had started a routine where Sophia and Ellie cleaned up so at the end of the meal we got up and left them to it. It was precious extra time. I went to catch up on the emails that had come in through the day. In amongst the work mail was one from a biodynamic truffle farm in Quercy, near Cahors, offering a truffling weekend in February. We farmed in the biodynamic way, like 'organic plus', so my ears pricked up.

  To go biodynamic a farm must already be certified organic. In plant and tree farming – including vines – being organic means no chemical fertilisers, herbicides, systemic pesticides or systemic fungicides. Put simply, biodynamics includes three additional elements. The first is to think of the farm as a whole farm system, a living ecosystem that can be self-sufficient. The second is working with the farmer's almanac, a calendar of the earth's movements in relation to the moon, planets and constellations. Each cosmic entity is associated with one of the four elements of our world: fire, air, water and earth. By plotting them and their position in relation to our planet, the calendar identifies which element is strongest at a given moment. Each element is linked to a part of the plant: fire to fruit, air to flower, water to leaf and earth to root. The ideal moment to do different activities is when its associated element is strongest. For example, we plant carrots on a root day, lettuce on a leaf day, roses on a flower day, tomatoes on a fruit day. We prefer to harvest our grapes on a fruit day. It sounds crazy but think of the effect of the moon on the tides of the sea – if it can move that volume of water it's a seriously powerful force. Third, in biodynamics we use plant- and animal-based preparations and sprays, ideally from our farm, to aid the plants to grow and protect themselves.

  I was a sceptic until I saw what a difference biodynamics made to our vineyard and to our wines. Since going biodynamic, we had decreased our dose of copper for combating downy mildew, one of the most dangerous fungal diseases in our region, from 6 kilograms per hectare (the maximum that was allowed in organic) to under 1.5 kilograms per hectare (less than a quarter of the maximum dose allowed for organic). With biodynamics, our vines were becoming more resistant to disease and our wines tasted better. Our experience made me want to visit more biodynamic farms.

  St Amour's truffle weekend fell on our fifteenth wedding anniversary. In Dublin Seán and I would go out every year to celebrate but since moving to France all funds were siphoned into the farm and we hadn't been out to celebrate at all. This looked like an ideal opportunity to find out what the truffle hype was about, to learn from another biodynamic farm and to catch up on years of missed celebrations. I knew our relationship needed attention. It was like anything – ignored for long enough, it would wither and die. We needed to act before it was too late. Before I had time to think about whether we could afford it, I sent an email to book it.

  Over the next month harvest progressed peacefully. We hand-picked the hailed Merlot on our annual vine shareholder weekend. Our diligent pickers carefully removed all rot. We lost a quarter in the sorting but the result tasted good. With the worry about hail damage assuaged and visits calming with the cold season, I should have felt more relaxed but instead I felt more on edge. I struggled to sleep and when I did I had nightmares about dying. I flushed hot and cold and felt out of sorts. My temper flared at nothing. Seán remained calm. He swept the chimney of our wood-burning stove. Winter closed in. Soups and stews took over from salads and barbecues. Sophia and Ellie began working on their Christmas lists.

  CHAPTER 3

  HUNTING BLACK GOLD

  Real Christmas came and went. It was one I chose to forget as Seán gifted me a household steam-cleaning machine. He must have missed the How to Avoid Divorce 101 course.

  I considered cancelling the truffle weekend but decided that I deserved it even if he didn't. He was halfway through the pruning when I gave him the card for our truffle experience at St Amour on our anniversary.

  'I hope you booked the truffle menu,' he said. 'No point in going truffle-hunting if we aren't going to eat the truffles.'

  I laughed nervously. He knew me too well and he didn't know how much the truffle menu cost. I had pre-booked the cheapest menu for both of us. I wanted to experience the place but the cost made me hyperventilate.

  On the appointed day, we delivered Sophia and Ellie, bubbling with excitement about a night of fun with their friends Florence and Martha of Famille Moore. Dave and Amanda had transformed their run-down farmhouse, bought a couple of years before, into a manoir. There was no trace of the fire that had ravaged their living room when they looked after our daughters during our trip to California a couple of years before. The stink that persisted for months was gone and the chimney that caused the fire had been erased. The progress they had made on the house and on the wine their vineyard produced was extraordinary.

  After goodbye kisses, our daughters scampered off to play with their friends without giving us a second glance. As we drove away I felt sad to leave them. It was strange going away for a lovers' weekend.

  St Amour was expecting us mid-afternoon so we had time for sightseeing. En route via small district roads the farming I observed passing by slowly changed from vines to grains and pasture. Through the window I drank in the sight of ancient Monflanquin, a bastide (a fortified town), bound by vestiges of a security belt of stone ramparts that were studded with five city gates in the Middle Ages.

  The further inland we travelled the colder it became. The houses were more enclosed; windows were smaller; roofs steeper and colours more sombre. At Fumel, we parked the car and walked up through the village, around the famous castle with its terraced gardens and panoramic views, on to the Lot river. We looked for a guided visit but it was deserted and silent, a classic winter scene on a Saturday in modern rural France. A few boards told the history of the nobility of the castle but it was bone dry and I struggled to concentrate.

  Feeling hungry we wandered back down, looking for a place to eat. I wanted something light and Seán wanted something solid after pruning for two hours that morning. We found a dark tavern that offered both and was the only place open.

  Fumel was on the border of the region we were heading for: the Quercy, famous for Cahors wine, a strong and tannic red made from at least 70 per cent Malbec with blending partners of Merlot and Tannat. The region's food did a good impersonation of the Dordogne and was famous for all things duck. We knew it was best to stick with regional specialities that were certain to be local products. Seán selected confit de canard (duck confit) and a glass of local wine, and I chose salade de Quercy. When it arrived it looked exactly like a Périgourdine salad: a pile of fresh lettuce and tomato loaded with duck gizzards, smoked duck breast, walnuts and a vinaigrette dressing made with walnut oil. Both delivered more than we expected from the outer appearance. We were fortified and ready to truffle.

  In the tiny village of Lariolle a sign pointed up a track to St Amour. It was remote and isolated; a cluster of houses rather than a village. We wound up to a small parking area in front of imposing gates. A dark green Porsche, a black Mercedes sports car and a red Audi cabriolet were already parked up. We squeezed our Mazda into the last space.

  'Perhaps we should have brought the Louis Vuitton,' I said, taking out my beat-up kitbag received as a corporate gift years before.

  Seán laughed, rubbing his old leather shoes with a cloth. He made to close the car boot.

  'Don't forget the bag with the boots. We need them to go truffling,' I said.

  'No way am I taking that old shopping bag in here,' said Seán. 'I'll come back for them later.'

  Wrapped in coats and scarves, our bags slung over our shoulders, we passed through the gate and f
ollowed a stone path up to the main building, a double-storey Quercy farmhouse. A wide set of stairs led to a terrace where the door opened into a dining-room reception area. We heard voices and a slight blonde woman, dressed in jeans and collared shirt, appeared from their direction.

  'Bonjour. Caro et Seán Feely,' I said, introducing us both.

  'Bonjour et bienvenue. Inés,' she said and shook our hands. 'Enchanté.'

  'Sorry we're a little late,' I said.

  'Pas de problème. We're having tea. I'll show you to your room so you can install your bags then you must join us.'

  We followed Inés down the steps and up another staircase on to the terrace of a separate part of the farmhouse complex. She opened the door of a cosy-looking room and spread her arms in a gesture of welcome.

  'Make yourselves at home. We don't have keys so just close the door behind you to keep the heat in. As soon as you are ready please join us.'

  The room was cold but the bed had layers of inviting covers. Within, cream stone walls, a solid oak floor and exposed-beam ceiling provided the backdrop for antique bedside tables and a large bed, a walnut armoire, a flame-coloured sofa, a low table and a writing desk. I dropped my bag on to a chair and threw myself on the bed.