by Caro Feely
Sophia and Ellie glared at me.
'Quoi de neuf?' said Thierry. 'What's new chez Feely?'
'Ah, you know, twiddling our thumbs,' said Seán.
He and Thierry laughed. They were entering the busiest time for the vineyard. Vegetal growth was motoring towards its peak, creating the need for mowing, weeding and trimming. Potential dangers of pests and diseases were also gathering pace, so spray treatments were required even in organic winegrowing – but these were natural contact sprays rather than systemic.
'I was in Bordeaux today – that's why we're late,' I said. 'Traffic hell.'
'Me too!' said Isabelle. 'What a nightmare. An hour and a half for what should take ten minutes.'
'It gave me time to listen to the radio, which was more scary than the traffic. What are they thinking with fixing rents in Paris?' I said.
'Oh no, I find it a good thing. It's time they stopped the rents from going stratospheric. Normal people can't afford to live in the city any more,' said Isabelle.
'But, Isabelle, it means that people have no incentive to renovate their apartments. Everything will be pulled to the bottom. Bad areas with run-down apartments will stay rundown. Fewer investors will make apartments available for rent.'
'Oh no, I am not in agreement. We have to stop the rich owners from gouging normal people who need a place to live near their work.'
'But if we leave the market to be free then people can choose to renovate or not and can choose the price they want to charge and renters are free to choose. If it gets too expensive people will move to less expensive areas and so on. The rents reflect the cost of the property too; it's based on availability and demand. We can't legislate this – it's economic reality.'
'No, absolutely not. We cannot leave students and workers to be the ones to do the long-distance travel to their study or workplace. We need to have local places where they can afford to live.'
Isabelle was the economics teacher at the local agricultural college. It was a full-time job but she had a second job helping Thierry with their vineyard administration. I tried to see where Isabelle was coming from but I was too much of a free marketeer. I could see too many bad things coming out of too much legislation. We needed freedom of choice that enabled creativity and rejuvenation. The discussion was getting heated.
'I can see that Caro is coming from one side and Isabelle is coming from another. I think you're both right in some ways but I don't think we'll be able to get you to agree so let's eat and drink,' said Thierry, acting the diplomat.
We all laughed. We probably would never agree but hearing Isabelle's arguments did make me reflect on the other side of the story.
Thierry raised his glass in a toast. 'Santé! To your health!'
We clinked glasses.
Isabelle's cooking prowess was legendary. She could turn out a gourmet dinner while organising their sons' homework, solving the business's marketing and administrative problems, and planning Thierry and his part-time employee's workdays. She was a superwoman. I knew Seán wished I was as gifted. We moved from a luscious salad with walnuts and feta to duck breast that Thierry had cooked on the outside barbecue.
'I am not good,' said Thierry.
'Au contraire, this is some of the best duck I've ever had,' I said after taking a forkful.
'How do you do it?' said Seán, eager to pick up new tricks.
'Well, Isabelle does it. I just put it on the barbecue,' said Thierry.
'In fact, it's really easy,' said Isabelle. 'I slice it and marinade it then Thierry puts it on to the barbecue for a very short time.'
'So the marinade is "vin et aile"?' I said.
Sophia and Ellie laughed, and I knew I had made a faux pas.
'Vin et ail,' corrected Isabelle.
'Wine and wing' wasn't quite the same as 'wine and garlic'. The cooking technique was one we hadn't tried and it worked a charm. This was one to add to our duck recipes. We loved to barbecue down near our hangar and Seán's prolific potager.
'So are you still running?' said Isabelle.
'No, I twisted my chenille a week or so ago,' I said.
Sophia and Ellie burst out laughing again. They tried to be discreet but there was no covering it up.
'Cheville,' corrected Isabelle, laughing too.
I was providing the entertainment for the night.
'La chenille, la chenille, la chenille,' chanted Thierry, overhearing and cutting away from his discussion with Seán. 'Do you know the tradition of dancing the caterpillar at French weddings?'
He started acting out the caterpillar dance.
We nodded, already laughing at his rendition.
'Isabelle didn't want it at ours. It was too plouc (country bumpkin) for her. She had a horror of it. We told the DJ that we categorically didn't want it; that the music he played must not even encourage thoughts of the caterpillar dance. But our friends bribed the DJ to play the caterpillar dance music and they all started dancing it at full speed. We were forced to join in. Sorry, my beloved Isabelle, what can I say? You married a plouc.'
Thierry was hilarious when he got going with his stories.
'Even more so now we are bio, hé, ma chérie?' he said. 'Isabelle is shocked. Why do our organic advisers have to look so organic? The long hair, the dreadlocks, the beards, clothes that haven't been washed in a few days. She is worried I will start to look like that. That will be even worse than dancing the chenille, hé, chérie?'
Isabelle was laughing so much she couldn't answer – she just nodded – and we all pictured Thierry transformed into a bearded dread-head.
'Now, on to more serious subjects,' she said, gaining control of herself. 'We're looking for extra people for my Thursday yoga class. Do you know of anyone that might want to join us?'
'I would love to try it,' I said. 'I've been looking for a yoga class that can fit my schedule. When is it?'
'Thursday evening. We can go together if you like. Co-voiturage is better for the planet and more fun. Meet me in front of the Relais de Monestier the first Thursday in September and you can try a session to see if you like it.'
'It's a date.'
With one chance exchange I found my yoga session. Perhaps it would help me get through my difficult passage of perimenopause.
I checked the weather forecast before washing clothes; for ecological and financial reasons I preferred to hang rather than use the drier. At first it seemed like a nasty chore then slowly my attitude changed. Now I enjoyed it. It was methodical, melodic. It was a service to those I loved.
'Peg one side on to the line. Take the other side and peg it on. Bend, take the next item, peg it with the same peg as the first, then take a new peg for the other side, and so on and so on,' I said, showing Ellie.
We worked steadily together, filling the four strands of wire that ran the 12-metre length of the potager. As we worked, the Dordogne Valley changed with the rising sun; the plum trees, vines and forests dressed in shimmering greens, their peakseason splendour. The Merlot vines closest to us were limegreen brilliant; in a few weeks their leaves would be dark green and the bunches of grapes would change from green to purple.
The last items were crocheted blankets made by my grandmothers. We watched the multicoloured squares dancing like stained-glass windows in the bright sun for a moment. Both my grandmothers had passed on but I felt their love in these beautiful things handcrafted from wool scraps so long ago. In the twenty-first century it was much easier to buy a synthetic blanket. Both my grans rarely sat with nothing to do. Whether chatting over tea or watching television, their hands were busy with something for family or friends.
We finished in time to walk up for Ellie's school bus, chatting and singing en route, enjoying being together. I loved our shared walks up and down each day; they were treasured moments. But Sophia and Ellie didn't take to the idea of walking or cycling to begin with. Even though it was only a kilometre it was easier to get into a lump of metal and be propelled there by fossil fuel, especially first t
hing in the morning. I bribed them with money, paying the equivalent of what we saved in fuel by not driving. It was the incentive required to start doing it grumpily, but we started. Now we walked even when there was a little rain and enjoyed it; it had become a habit.
That evening I walked up to meet Sophia, who had started high school and was on a different bus timetable to Ellie. I missed walking together as a threesome but going up and back to Saussignac with Sophia and with Ellie was good for my fitness and for Dora, plus it gave me an opportunity to talk to them individually.
'So what have you and Papa been up to?' asked Sophia.
'I'm finishing off a book about wine for my publisher,' I said.
'Oh, that's good. You know, I'm very proud of you for writing books,' she said.
'Thank you, Sophia. I appreciate your compliment,' I said.
'And Papa?' said Sophia.
'He's been working in the vineyard most of the day,' I said.
'It's a bit of a waste of his education,' said Sophia. 'You don't need to go to school to work in the vines.'
'Au contraire,' I said. 'Working with living things and creating great wine requires wisdom, art, instinct and finesse. Where did you get that idea?'
'At school.'
I explained that people following their passion and working creatively with their hands and nature had to be highly skilled and should be honoured and appreciated as much as bureaucrats, lawyers or engineers. Our urban world was getting further and further from nature. We had to find ways to reconnect.
In French school there was little encouragement to take risks; if the kids weren't sure their answer was correct they wouldn't try to answer. A significant school reform programme was announced, part of it an effort to correct this recognised problem. The teachers' unions took up strike action to counter it. The programme was a leap forward for the education system but any change was systematically rejected. We loved so many things about France – the history, the food, the culture, the strong connection to the seasons, the markets – things that ironically had been preserved by this very issue, the inability and unwillingness to change.
The following day it was barely light when Sophia tore round the corner on her bike and passed my office window. Her teachers were on strike, and she and her friend Julie wanted to do something useful with their day off so they were going to offer to help Olga, the chef at Saussignac school, our local primary establishment, which wasn't on strike that day. I was impressed with her idea and her motivation to get up and be in Saussignac for 7.30 a.m. when she could have been cosy in bed.
I ran outside and yelled, 'Put your hat on!'
'I don't want a hat,' shouted Sophia. She paused, looked back, then took off again.
'You have to wear a hat,' I shouted.
'No! I don't want to!' she shouted back.
'Stop!' I yelled.
'I'm going to be late. I'm going.'
'No, Sophia. You wait there. I'll get it for you.'
'I don't want it,' she shouted. She stopped then pedalled away again.
'Sophia! You stop right there! You do not speak to me like this!' I yelled. 'You're not going anywhere! You get off that bike! You're going in the naughty corner!'
In my angry perimenopausal mania I was resorting to techniques that would have worked when she was four years old, except I had never needed them. She was such an angel; she always listened. She stopped and looked at me aghast. I realised how stupid I sounded.
'Stop right there,' I said. 'You're not going anywhere without your helmet.'
I ran to the shed, found the helmet and raced back.
She grabbed it from me with a look of fury mingled with astonishment.
'I thought you meant my woolly hat. I didn't realise you were talking about a helmet. I didn't want to wear the woolly hat.'
She raced off. The broken telephone was at work again. Only this time in English.
Seán signed Sophia and Ellie up to a programme that would give them A-level English by the end of their French schooling and thereby offer them a wider choice in their post-school education. Perhaps it would help us to understand each other better too.
Spring was almost over. We had successfully bottled our latest vintages. Demand for our accommodation, wine school and visits kept growing and promised to stretch me to the outer boundaries of my capability. I could see 14-hour days shimmering in my future and hoped that our apprentice, due to start in a few weeks, and my planned yoga session with Isabelle would help me stay sane.
CHAPTER 11
POWERFUL HERBS AND DANCING BEES
I looked to our garden for solutions to ease the ratty, sleep-deprived monster I had become. Most pharmaceuticals started out as medicines made from plants. Having a herb garden outside was like having a natural medicine chest available 24/7.
Lavender is a great soother. It calms, reduces stress, improves sleep and soothes inflammation in the body. I found that drinking a tisane (infusion) made of lavender calmed my nerves. Merely running my hand over lavender plants and inhaling the aroma lifted my mood. But I read that it wasn't a good idea to drink lavender tea for two weeks before surgery since it could slow down your central nervous system. It was well to remember that these were powerful plants to be treated with respect.
I often found the ancient song 'Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme' coming naturally to my lips as I picked herbs in the garden. The four famous herbs it speaks of are culinary but also medicinal. The first one, parsley, lifted a buttery scrambled egg on toast from a casual supper to a heavenly feast, especially when paired with Feely Générosité barrel-aged white. Our main potager parsley often went to seed in the summer heat but the parsley that had self-seeded into crevices along the north-facing winery wall thrived all year round. They knew where was best for them.
Another parsley classic we loved was tabbouleh, a couscous salad packed with this magic herb and other bits that had become a summer staple for us. Parsley provides vitamins K, C and A, folic acid and iron in good levels, is a great cleanser and has been popular for more than 2,000 years – in fact, it was used medicinally before being used in cooking.
The second herb in the song, sage, was another favourite. It grew like a weed in our first potager on the hot plateau where the swimming pool now had pride of place. After years of dreaming, it was a reality. Ad, our friend from Holland who, with his wife Lijda, had been part of our farm's story since the beginning, had arrived to build the iron fence for our new swimming pool. No ordinary fence would do; it would be a beautiful handmade fence. Ad, the bionic man, was as fit as ever. He lifted lengths of metal that I couldn't even drag and barely broke a sweat. At the end of a hard week of metalwork weight-lifting he rode his bike to Sainte-Foy-la-Grande to relax.
Before taking off on his cycle ride one evening, Ad helped me unload two boxes of live chickens. We had decided we couldn't wait any longer and had purchased a selection: two white, two brown and two with beautiful high-sheen black feathers. They were different breeds to our original chickens, which had been a classic French laying breed with bare necks. I was tired of explaining that bare necks did not mean they were sick so these new chickens had feathers thick and lustrous around theirs. The sun was shining bright; lime-green leaves created dappled shade from the afternoon sun. We let the chickens out in the run and they immediately started scratching like it was home.
'Chicken paradise,' said Ad.
'It is,' I replied. 'I love the black ones – that beautiful sheen.'
We made sure the chickens had settled and Ad went for his bike ride. Then we took a Friday night break to the pizzeria in Gardonne. When we returned the chickens were happily roosting in trees and not in the henhouse. Our previous chickens had roamed free; we didn't close them in at night and we never had a problem.
This time not so: the next morning we found chicken hell. A fox had got in and both black sheen hens and one of the whites were gone. The feisty brown chickens had made it – there was no messing with them. I felt sad
and Seán felt culpable. We had never seen foxes close to the houses at the top of the hill. From then on we closed our chickens into the henhouse religiously.
Now the plateau sage was replaced by a pool but we had transferred some plants to the pots in the courtyard and to the new potager so we could continue to enjoy the herb. The official name of sage, Salvia officinalis, originates from the Latin word salvare, 'to be saved'. It is a miracle herb, preserving and helping memory (I needed to eat more), and aiding digestion. In winter I loved to pick it fresh and serve it with honey as a tisane. It is recommended as an anti-inflammatory and to combat arthritis, asthma and Alzheimer's. It is also an excellent source of vitamin K.
Before fridges sage was used to preserve meat as it is a powerful antioxidant. In the seventeenth century it was so sought after the Chinese traded three bushels of dried tea for one bushel of dried sage from the Dutch. I found that when it came to cooking, sage suited sweet and sour. It was fabulous with blue cheese and with pork. The sage and Saussignac jelly I made brought cold meats and cheeses to life. With Roquefort cheese it was heaven.
