Glass Half Full

by Caro Feely

  'You won't believe it!' shouted Seán that weekend. He was in the lounge and I was in the kitchen. 'There's an article about Brandeau here!'

  He was clearing out a trunk of old journals and found an article he had kept from a Canadian smallholder magazine we bought on a trip ten years before. The writer had visited Fearn's parents in the early eighties then visited Fearn and Andrea 20 years later. He wrote about how, when he first visited, the farms in the locality were small mixed farms and you could buy all your food from local artisans within walking distance of the farm: milk, cheese, bread, honey, vegetables, meat, fruit and wine bien sûr. By his second trip, many farms had consolidated; they were bigger and had specialised in winegrowing. There was no other local food. Now the only food supply was a huge shopping centre a car journey away. It was a sign of the times we were living in. It was necessary to get big and specialise in one crop, with all the mechanisation that went with it, or get out. But ironically that was not good for us as humanity, for our food security, for the quality and freshness of it, for local employment. The stranglehold of global markets with their focus on price had turned farmers' work – that was about life and creativity – into factories. But the uncertainty of farming, with its dependence on nature and weather, was as far from a factory as you could get. Farmers had given up the joys and benefits of being farmers and kept the bad parts. It was little wonder the suicide rate among farmers was five times the national average in many countries. Farmers were being crushed between suppliers who set the price for seed and agrochemicals and buyers who set the price for the purchase of the farmers' products. They felt like they had no power and no choice. By doing what we were doing – going back to natural methods and thus avoiding the supplier stranglehold and selling direct to avoid the buyer stranglehold – we took back that power. The growth in farmers' markets, organic producers and consumer interest in food provenance and quality were trends that were helping to change the situation.

  Even on our own farm the mixed part was dwindling. Our last hardy chicken, Blanchette, had made it through the hard winter with snow so thick we were sledging, snowboarding and skiing down Saussignac hill. My video of her tramping through snow that came to her chest showed an old lady full of energy and life. Seán had moved her private chicken house next to the front door beside the boiler room so she had some warmth now her friends were gone.

  The head chicken Poc Poc was killed under the wheel of a hit-and-run passer-by. The rest of the chickens had quietly died of old age: one settled in the woodshed; another snuggled up against the kitchen door. We felt sad but they were ready, unlike the sudden death of Poc Poc.

  Soon after our visit to Brandeau, Blanchette began to sleep more and stayed close to the kitchen door. Then her breathing was laboured and there was a little stain of blood on her rear end. She took a walk outside and made it back into the henhouse that evening. Seán took her water and food and said goodnight. The following morning she was on the floor of the henhouse motionless, gone to the long sleep from which we do not return. Seán dug a hole to bury her up near the top orchard. He asked Sophia and Ellie if they wanted to see Blanchette for one last time. Sophia didn't want to but Ellie did. Seán carefully lined the hole with straw and wrapped Blanchette in one of our old baby blankets.

  'She looks like she's asleep,' said Ellie.

  We said a prayer for her. It was a beautiful moment of giving thanks for a chicken that had given us many eggs over her lifetime, a real character. We said goodbye and Seán filled the hole.

  We missed having chickens. They were part of our farm life. We could see how animals helped keep a balance. They were individuals and they brought a level of respect for life that was not the same as on a farm without animals. They were also part of our biodiversity and of the energy of our farm, like our vegetable garden, forest and hedgerows.

  'We need animals. I want us to get chickens and sheep,' I said to Seán as we ate lunch.

  'But we want our week of holiday in Provence. Dora can go to the kennels but chickens and sheep are another story. And what about South Africa?' said Seán.

  'But we need chickens,' I said, beginning to get irrationally angry.

  'I know, Mrs C, but you know that we don't have a neighbour we can rely on, especially now that Sonia and Fred are moving. We can think about chickens after Provence and then we can think about sheep after South Africa.'

  'And another thing,' I said, feeling aggressive and taking off on a different tack. 'We don't talk about anything but business – you don't even say good morning to me. We're no better than people sharing a house. We have to sort it out or stop.'

  Seán looked at me wide-eyed and I stormed out like an angry toddler. With my broken nights I was tired and irritable. I felt like I couldn't keep up with the demands being made on me. I wanted to run away, to be free from the incessant work of our growing business. On the outside people looking in thought we were successful, that things were going so well. On the business front it was true that things had turned around. Each month was no longer a precipice like it had been in the early days. But despite the relative financial stability I was so stretched I couldn't appreciate it. I wanted to write more but I didn't have the time. We had made it through another harvest and our fruit was safely in the winery. We had a fire to keep us warm in winter, and a garden and food store filled by Seán's green fingers. I reminded myself how much I had to be thankful for but I couldn't overcome the darkness that kept creeping over me, a film of depression and insomnia that had appeared out of nowhere, sapping my energy and my optimism.

  PART 2

  AIR AND FLOWERS

  Wine brings to light the hidden secrets of the soul, gives being to our hopes, bids the coward flight, drives dull care away, and teaches new means for the accomplishment of our wishes.

  Horace

  CHAPTER 5

  CHANCE MEETINGS IN THE TIME OF FLOWERING

  The weather turned dark like my mood. It was late spring, time for the vines to set their flowers, and it should have been sunny. We needed the bees buzzing and the kids blowing dandelion fuzz. We should have been running through the light-filled vineyards singing gleefully, 'The vines are alive with the sound of buzzing.' Instead temperatures plummeted and it poured with rain. It had been hot so the vines flowered since they knew they had to follow their unstoppable seasonal progression but cold and damp wrecked the transformation from flower to fruit.

  Like harvest, the flowering can be a scary time for a winegrower. Each tiny cream flower has the potential to turn into a grape given the right conditions. The conditions were not right and a toll had been taken but we didn't know the extent of the toll. To know the damage we had to wait for the bunches to form but industry pundits predicted significant losses.

  I consoled myself that my mum and dad's golden wedding anniversary was around the corner. In a few weeks, friends and family from South Africa, Zimbabwe, the UK, USA and Canada would converge on our farm, a place to meet in the middle. My brother, who I hadn't seen in more than a decade, and his family were coming from British Columbia and my sister from California. I felt a little shaft of happiness shine through my dark funk.

  Then my brother called to say that they couldn't make it after all. His IT support business had been hit with some nasty surprises that quarter and he needed to be at work. He didn't have anyone to fill in for him on crucial projects. Our children had never met. It had been too long already and now it was going to be even longer. The news added to my grim mood.

  Vinexpo, one of the largest wine fairs in the world, took place every two years in Bordeaux, usually just after the flowering. A few years before I had participated in the Expressions Bio, an exclusively organic show that took place at the same time. Back then the show had delivered nothing but a severe dose of noconfidence. We rarely participated in wine shows; they were an expense that was hard to justify with the volumes we produced. Now our local organic winegrower association announced that Expressions Bio was being held within t
he Vinexpo halls and I was tempted to try it again.

  Wine shows were a great way to meet other winegrowers, as much an inter-winegrower networking event as they were a selling event. I loved meeting other people that were as passionate about organic wine as I was. It was also a chance to swap wine with those growers to keep our cellar stocked so we didn't get 'cellar palate', a well-known trap that winegrowers could fall into: drinking only their own wine so in the end it was the only one they liked.

  I didn't hold out great hope for the show but I was excited since I was sharing a stand with my friends Clément and Francine Klur from Alsace. Spending two days with them would be like taking a tonic – and I needed one. On the way into the show I shared a ride with a friend, Thierry, who farmed about five kilometres away from us. The drive into Bordeaux offered a chance to catch up; to talk about everything from the state of the wine market to our business with Naomi Whittel of Reserveage for our dried grape skins. Naomi was a part of the small miracle that had turned our failing farm around a few years before. Instead of the grape skins left after pressing going to compost or to the government distillery we dried them and sold them to Naomi. She created a resveratrol antioxidant food supplement from our skins and other ingredients, essentially an anti-ageing vitamin supplement. Thierry's relationship skills had developed her initial contact through our website into something enduring. Chatting non-stop, the 90-minute drive felt like 15.

  We unpacked Thierry's red forgon (utility van) and set up our wines on our respective stands. I had received the first few copies of a Polish translation of my book, Grape Expectations, and I laid a copy of the original in English and the Polish one alongside our wines. Having my book translated felt grand, like I had hit the big league. Perhaps a Polish wine buyer would be tempted to stop.

  A few minutes before the show opening, Clément and Francine came flying down the alley, arguing with each other. Their partner rivalry reminded me of Seán and myself. It took a very strong relationship to work together like they did. They pulled in next to me behind our shared table.

  'Caaarrrrooooo, comment va?' said Clément, letting go of his wine trolley and hugging me close. Clément was a happy Bacchus with curly brown hair, beard, apple cheeks and a smile that took your cares away. He was always upbeat and ready for a laugh.

  Francine drew in behind him, a second wine trolley in hand. She was delicate with long hair and fine features, but beneath the calm-looking exterior was a cauldron of energy and an iron will, like a wise woman plugged into an electric current. Clément was convivial and laid-back while Francine was super organised and dynamic. They made a powerful combination.

  'Très bien! All the better for seeing you!' I said as I hugged Francine. It was four years since we had visited their vineyard in Alsace.

  Clément took off to fetch another load from the car.

  'What was the argument about?' I said to Francine as we unpacked wines.

  'Oh, something about how we'll build our new wood house,' said Francine. 'We're planning to move out so our old house can become apartments. Nothing at all. We were squabbling over nothing. As usual.' She laughed.

  'Sounds familiar – just like Seán and I do,' I said.

  'Men can be so têtu! So stubborn!' said Francine. 'Allez hop! It doesn't look like I'll have time for a coffee.'

  A caviste, a wine-shop owner and client of theirs, presented himself at the stand. The show hadn't even officially started and they already had a client. The Klur stand was always buzzing with action. Their family vineyard had been in business for more than 400 years. It was about the same size as ours but with significantly higher density – that is, more vines per hectare. In addition, the grape types grown in Alsace were more productive than ours so Alsace maximum yields were around 8,000 litres per hectare while for most of Bordeaux and Bergerac standard appellations they were 6,700 litres per hectare. For some commune appellations like Margaux the limit was 4,500 litres per hectare, and for our dessert wine appellation of Saussignac it was 2,500 litres per hectare. With Klur's larger volumes they did business with specialist wine shops and restaurants all over France as well as exporting to many countries. The clients kept pouring through.

  'How's the gîte business going?' I said as we chatted during a brief lull.

  'Good,' said Francine. 'Last year was a great year. How about you?'

  'I've lost a few potential clients because they want a swimming pool.'

  'We find the same thing. With global warming, clients want a swimming pool, even in Alsace,' said Francine. 'But how to do it ecologically? Last year we created a small dam, like a natural swimming pool, that our guests can use. We've filled it with plants that clean the water so we don't have to add chemicals.'

  'Wow, Francine! You're always a step ahead! I've been looking at the natural swimming pools but they're so expensive and they say not to use sunscreen. We can't ask guests to go without sunscreen.'

  'Hmm. Yes, it's complicated for that and for the bureaucracy too,' said Francine.

  She explained the bureaucratic hoops they had to jump through for approval and promised to send me the details of their installation and links to their suppliers. I was in research mode for a swimming pool and hungry for information.

  Another client had arrived and, after pouring for him, Clément offered me a taste of the Klur Gewürztraminer. It was an aroma bomb; an explosion of rose and lychee. I sniffed for a few moments, enjoying the aromas before taking a sip, swirling it around in my mouth for a few seconds and spitting into the spittoon. It was slightly sweet but with a lovely freshness; a brightness that was the signature of biodynamic wines.

  'How are the new Lodge and tasting room working out?' said Francine.

  'Great. They're paying for themselves but it's a lot of work. I'm stretched.'

  'You need to find a good person to help you.'

  'But, Francine, we're so scared of French employment law. It's a minefield.'

  'It is. We've had some expensive experiences over the years,' said Francine.

  She went on to describe their stories and those of neighbours and friends. It confirmed what I feared: for a small business one bad hire could be the end.

  'You have to be very careful about who you select. It's difficult to find really good people. Try to keep the contract as flexible as possible until you're sure.'

  'Thanks, Francine. I really appreciate your advice. What about you? Any new projects?' I asked.

  'Of course! Always. We're building a new ecological house as our home – that's what we were arguing about when we arrived. Then our current house will be renovated and rented out like the other apartments.'

  'A big project,' I said.

  'Yes, with many, many decisions and that means some arguments,' she said and laughed again.

  Two gentlemen presented themselves at my side of the stand.

  'Excuse me, Francine,' I said. It felt strange to be the one calling the halt to our flood of exchanges for once.

  'Bonjour, messieurs,' I said. 'Welcome. I usually start the tasting with our driest white wine, a pure Sauvignon Blanc that we call Sincérité. Is starting with the dry whites suitable for you?'

  I asked this question because sometimes buyers tasted one specific type of wine at a time.

  'Beh oui,' said the stockier of the two in an accent of the south-west.

  'Château Feely is an organic and biodynamic vineyard based in Saussignac, near Bergerac,' I said as I poured the Sauvignon Blanc then held up the bottle for them to see the label and gave them a moment to taste.

  'Moi j'aime bien. I like it,' said the other man in Englishaccented French. 'Et toi, Raymond? What do you think?'

  'Me also, I like it a lot. It's lively,' said Raymond. 'I like wines like this. Racy.'

  'The Sincérité is from two small parcels of Sauvignon Blanc, one on the plateau and the other an east-facing vineyard that descends off the plateau,' I explained. 'They're middle-aged vines with their roots deep in the limestone. Farming organically
and biodynamically on the limestone gives freshness and minerality.'

  'I can see what you are saying,' said Raymond.

  'Yes, me too,' said the other gentleman, writing in a small notebook as he spoke.

  'Now a white that is smoother, rounder, more rich. Générosité, our barrel-aged Sémillon,' I said and poured into their outstretched glasses.

  Another winegrower from Saussignac, Jean-Marie, waved as he approached my stand.

  'Caro, can I interrupt?' he asked.

  'Bien sûr,' I said.

  'Monsieur Walker, please may I have a photo with you?' he said to the gentleman who was writing notes. 'My clients in Germany will be so impressed. I'm an organic winegrower in Saussignac, like Caro, but most of my export business is in Germany.'