by Caro Feely
'No worries. I'm used to it,' I said, feeling a little increase in my pulse all the same.
The next day there were another six people on the Wine Adventure. The day Chris and Dave Drake were in Bergerac for the cookery school I had a different group booked for the day. Friday would be manic with preparation for our harvest weekend, when we were expecting around 60 people. It was going to be non-stop – the way I usually liked it. Now I wasn't so sure. The effects of perimenopause, my memory lapse and bad temper with my family had sapped my energy.
The following day other guests arrived and we gathered on the terrace of the tasting room for introductions.
'I can tell the difference between white and red,' said one person, and the deck reverberated with laughter.
'I practise wine-tasting every night,' said another, setting off another round of laughing.
When sparks of humour flashed during the introductions, I knew it was going to be a good day; that there was an energy and dynamic in the group. We set off for our walk around the vines. At one of the baby Cabernet Sauvignons I picked up two flints and rubbed them together then passed them to the nearest person.
'Rub them together then sniff the stone. You pick up a flinty character, like the smell after a gun has gone off; for some people it reminds them of the smell of crackers or fireworks. That flinty aroma is a classic giveaway of Chablis, Chardonnay grown on flinty soil in north-west Burgundy. Now when you smell that on a wine, you will know it grew in soil that had flint stone in it.'
'That is amazing. I smelt that aroma on a Chablis last week,' said one of the guests.
'You'll smell it on our Silex and Générosité, two wines you'll taste later,' I said. 'But the taste of terroir will not show up so clearly in all wine. The wine must be farmed naturally. Any ideas why?'
They shook their heads.
'At the rock level there are critters that break down rocks and turn them into soluble minerals for the plants to feed on. This life in the soil contributes to the taste of terroir but also to the nutrition. Recently I read that a basket of fruit and vegetables today has the same calories but fifty-four per cent less nutrition than the same basket in the 1950s.' Eyes widened. 'Modern intensive chemical farming has impoverished our farmland, and done for long enough it will turn it into a desert. We'll talk more about the different farming methods later.
'Hand-weeding this acre of Cabernet Sauvignon takes around three man days and needs to be done two or three times a season. For older vines we use a mechanical hoe on the tractor but for baby organic vines the only solution is by hand. We think it's worth it. I can say that since it's Seán doing most of the back-breaking hand-weeding.' I paused for the laughter to pass then continued.
'This phase of "growing up", the first fifteen years of the vine's life, is the most important to farm organically for longterm health and capacity to resist disease. The vine's life cycle follows similar phases to a person's life cycle and this is the phase of building its body. By not using herbicide we offer them the opportunity to grow up healthy plus it encourages the roots to go deeper.'
'Why is that, Caro?' asked Chris.
'Hoeing cuts the weeds out but also cuts the surface roots of the vines and encourages them to plunge deeper. Chemical farming does the opposite. Herbicide kills the plants on the surface, leaving the space open for the vine roots so they're not encouraged to go deep. The main weedkiller used is not only bad for the vines; it's bad for humans too, classed as a "probable" carcinogen by the World Health Organization. The second chemical activity that encourages shallow roots is chemical fertiliser which, when sprinkled at the foot of the vine, is a natural attraction. The roots sit on the surface where the easy food is. Like us when we're attracted to unhealthy fast food, the vine is taken in by this food that will make it fat and unhealthy.'
'Interesting,' said Dave.
'I never realised any of this,' said another guest.
'Not only that,' said I, on a roll with my audience's attention. 'Chemical fertiliser turns the vine's life upside down. The vine is naturally orientated to the sky. It wants to reach for the sun and the stars, forging upwards by all means possible. By pouring man-made fertiliser – the famous mix of NPK: nitrogen, potassium and phosphate – at its feet, we make it focus on the ground instead. The vine can make ninety-four per cent of its dry matter from what it gets from the sky. It can take gases from the air, energy from the sun. Giving it fast food on the ground is like saying to someone, "Sit on the couch and we'll send you fast food and salty snacks so you don't even have to get up to go to work." The mineral salt in the chemical fertiliser makes the vine thirsty so it takes up more water and holds more water in its cells – like we do when we have too much salt – which makes it get fungal disease and that leads to using systemic fungicides. Those fungicides kill the mycorrhizae, a magical relationship between fungi and plant-root systems that helps them access nutrients in the soil. The mycorrhizae not only stock and distribute water and nutrients to the plants in exchange for carbohydrates (sucrose and glucose from its photosynthesis) for the fungi; they also act as a communication network between plants. Research has shown that mycorrhizal networks transport carbon, phosphorus, nitrogen, water and defence compounds (compounds that combat attack) from plant to plant. They're especially beneficial for plants in nutrient-poor soils and the best wine grapes are grown on relatively poor soil.'
'Fascinating,' said Chris.
'And to finish off, a third thing that can keep the vine's roots on the surface is drip irrigation. The French AOC or Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée, what we call PDO or Protected Designation of Origin in English, includes a law of no irrigation, which means that doesn't happen much here.'
'Why no irrigation?' said Dave.
'Back in 1936, when France set up the first appellations based on the traditional wine areas we know – like Burgundy, Bordeaux, Bergerac – they wanted AOC to be something that reflected the terroir, the place the wine came from and the unique vintage conditions; they didn't want it to be adjusted. Today many of us natural winegrowers are leaving the AOC because we find it incoherent to say no irrigation for terroir and at the same time allow chemical fertilisers, herbicides and systemic pesticides.'
'Sorry, Caro, but can you explain what that word terroir means?' asked Chris.
'Sure, Chris. Terroir is the combination of soil, microclimate, plant and the human hand that give a unique flavour. These four elements are interrelated and can also influence each other. Take the soil of this Cabernet vineyard: it has an unusual mix of clay, limestone, flint stone and gravel. The hot sun on the flint stone and gravel creates more heat and those stones keep the heat for longer overnight than a vineyard of clay or one of clay and limestone. That flint and gravel are part of the heat secret of this zone – the stones influence the microclimate. This is the best plot on the farm for Cabernet Sauvignon because of that but also because it's a plateau so it gets good sun all day. In addition, because of its shape and inclination – almost flat – we were able to go north–south with our rows for best sun exposure; it gives us full morning sun on the east side and afternoon sun on the west side,' I said, holding my hand on either side of the vine row to show what I meant.
As I turned, I noticed a wild salad and stopped to point it out. 'That red-stemmed plant is wild purslane. It's beautiful to look at but also good to eat. It has great crunch and tang, a fantastic addition to any salad. Go ahead and taste if you like,' I said, snapping a piece off and popping it into my mouth.
Chris took a piece and crunched it. 'Very tasty,' she said.
'It's great that you can pick wild salads under your vines. I guess that's only possible because you farm organic?' asked another member of the group.
'You guessed right,' I said.
As we walked, I spotted a few missed bunches of white so the visitors could taste the characteristics of the different grapes we grew: Sauvignon Blanc with its zesty grapefruit character; Sémillon with its stone-fruit sweetness; then
the ones still waiting to be picked, the Merlot like blackberry and plum, and the Cabernet Sauvignon redolent of cassis.
I ended the outside part of the tour with talking about the different farming methods. For me it was the most important part of what we did. Organic was not merely about stopping the pesticides and their terrible repercussions of cancer, nervous-system disruption and endocrine (reproductive) disruption; it was about better nutrition, about rebuilding our soil, about leaving a healthy planet for the next generation.
A short tasting course, the wine and food lunch, and an afternoon on winemaking followed. The visits had evolved over the years with our increasing knowledge and increasing range. We had our first no-sulphites-added wine, Grâce, which offered the opportunity to talk about natural wine and why 'no sulphites added' could be interesting for a wine lover.
'Thank you so much, Caro. That was a great day!' said Chris when we finished in the late afternoon. 'I hope you don't mind me saying this but with everything you have going on, you need to relax to be able to cope. You should try taking ten deep breaths. Breathing deeply has a calming effect.'
'Thanks, Chris. I'll try it,' I said, barely taking a breath before racing on to the next thing. 'So tomorrow I'll see you for breakfast at eight, then I'll take you down to the station at nine so you can head into Bergerac for your cookery class.'
'Perfect,' said Chris.
I could see that she thought, 'Like hell she's going to try that deep breathing. Did she even hear what I said?'
But as soon as she and Dave left me alone in the tasting room, I tried her trick. After ten deep breaths I felt more relaxed. With my body and spirit calmed, I started the clean-up.
Seán was making good progress with our white fermentations. The Sauvignon Blanc was looking like it could be the best we had ever made but yields were low. We had done an estimate of our capacity to produce wine that year and it was not good, particularly on the Merlot. The cold wet spring had hit us and everyone else badly. The flowers did not fertilise properly so the fruit set was meagre. Ironically bad fruit set could be good for quality as the grapes that are left get more attention from the vine and have better aeration. I consoled myself that our wine was about quality.
We had decided that hand-picking everything was a priority for the following year. I made contact with our CUMA (agricultural co-op) president to negotiate a stop to our machine-picking contract. If everything went well, Thursday would be the last time we would have a harvest machine in our courtyard. We could not wait to say au revoir.
Thursday morning dawned dry but overcast. The starry dome that usually provided the backdrop for our harvest dance was missing.
Seán and I moved through the steps mechanically and the harvest machine did the same. We finished in good time, well before I needed to leave for St-Émilion. I had provided Chris and Dave with breakfast supplies the night before so they could serve themselves in case I was in harvest crisis. As it was, I could have served their breakfast tranquilly. Despite the morning going smoothly I had so much in my head, so many different things juggling for my attention – what I had to do that day, things required for the harvest weekend – that I felt uneasy. I took ten deep breaths.
With the grapes safe in the winery, Chris, Dave and I waved goodbye to Seán and set off for St-Émilion. I parked the car between two low-level marker rocks on the free parking near the Porte Brunet and we walked into town through the medieval city gate. I loved coming into St-Émilion this way; I found the promise of the gateway to somewhere exciting. In spite of having done guided visits there for more than six years, I still found new alleyways and doorways when I had spare time to wander.
We made our way to the central square, stopping at different points to appreciate the vistas over the town. I pointed out some key landmarks.
'Château Ausone, the top estate in St-Émilion, is the grey roof you see at the edge of town. It was started by Ausonius in around AD 350. The bell tower you see is the monolithic church carved from the solid rock by Émilion, hermit monk and namesake of St-Émilion, who settled here in AD 750. The square tower to the left is the King's Tower, built in 1200 for an English king, John, one of Eleanor of Aquitaine's sons. The English rule, from 1152 to 1453, started when Eleanor, the heiress of our region, married a toy boy, Henry, who become King of England soon after. Have you heard about her?' 'A little. She has quite a racy history,' said Chris. 'Absolutely. She was married to Louis VII, King of France, in Bordeaux city when she was fifteen years old. Fourteen years later she convinced the Pope to annul the marriage on the count of consanguinity and she married Henry. She outlived eight of her ten children.'
We took a commune path through the vineyards to our first winery visit. On arrival the winegrower led us out into his vines. I spotted a wild spinach plant and pointed it out. Chris bent to pick a leaf so she could try it, like we had tasted some of the wild salads between our vines two days before, and the winegrower dived like Superman to stop her putting it into her mouth.
'I would prefer you didn't eat it. We sprayed the vineyard yesterday to stop fungal disease,' he said.
Chris dropped the leaf like it was a snake about to strike. After all I had said about pesticides, she knew this was not something to be messed with. Spraying had to stop at least four weeks before harvest. The fruit was safe from fungal disease once it did the veraison (changed colour), but some winegrowers like this one sprayed a systemic fungicide immediately after harvest so they could keep their foliage healthy for as long as possible, theoretically to allow the vines time to take back the nutrients before the winter sleep. Ironically that would mean that the natural breakdown of the leaves, and hence the health of their soil, would be damaged since fungus forms a key part of this natural composting cycle.
Later, over lunch on the main square, we chatted about the reaction we had seen at our first visit, about the harvest that morning and about life. After a couple of days together, Dave and Chris were becoming my friends. I checked the time on my phone and realised we had been chatting so much we were running late for our next visit. I paid the bill and we raced back up to the car. As I took off, the car hit something then lurched forward and wobbled down the road.
'That's the tyre gone,' said Dave.
'Heck,' I said, holding back the expletive that I wanted to use and pulling over on to the grass verge. 'A burst tyre is one of my tour nightmares. Thank goodness I'm with wonderful people like you!'
In my haste I had forgotten about the marker rock. In my recurring nightmare I was with difficult clients and we were under pressure to get to the airport for their flight home. I stood on the side of the road thinking, What will I do? How do I even change a tyre? I had no idea. Then I woke up in a cold sweat. Now here we were with a real puncture. We would be even later for our visit – and in a week where I really couldn't afford any lost time – but at least I was with friends.
'Ten deep breaths, Caro,' said Chris.
We all laughed.
'Dave, do you know anything about changing tyres?' I said.
'A little,' said Dave. 'I'll give it a go.'
'Thank you! I'll call Antoine and let him know we'll be late.'
Antoine Mariau was the winemaker at Château Cadet-Bon, where we were due. He picked up.
'Antoine, I have burst my tyre.'
'I will come over and help you,' he said without hesitation. 'Where are you?'
I explained, and in minutes Antoine's small white van turned up the road snug between St-Émilion's ramparts and vineyards. He was a dark, good-looking twenty-something. We got on well. With my regular visits to his vineyard he had become a friend. I introduced him to Chris and Dave.
He and Dave reviewed the 'biscuit' replacement tyre Dave had found in the boot of my car and the car jack. They were in the process of installing the jack when a man in shorts and flip-flops sauntered past.
'I'll do it for you. I am a mechanic from Poland,' he said. 'I can do this in my sleep.'
Dave and Antoine
happily handed the task over and we formed a committee of observation on the sideline.
'He knows what he's doing,' said Antoine.
'He sure does,' said Dave.
'You don't need me. I'll head back and see you at the vineyard in a few minutes,' said Antoine.
'Thank you so much, Antoine,' I said.
'It's my pleasure. But, in fact, I did nothing,' he said, laughing. He jumped into his forgon and sped off.
The Polish mechanic swiftly finished the job.
'You saved the day. I can't thank you enough,' I said, giving him a token of appreciation. I felt like hugging him.
'Oh, it was nothing. Like I said, I can do this in my sleep,' he said.
Dave and I carefully checked for marker stones and I cautiously took off again.
'And so I find that my wine tour nightmare turns out to be a great opportunity to meet people and chat with friends on the roadside in St-Émilion,' I said.
Dave and Chris laughed. I was trying to put humour on the situation but I was rattled – I didn't usually forget things like marker stones on the road in front of where I had parked.
