by Caro Feely
Mum Feely went back and forth with the chemo treatments. She had months of hellish side effects, pain and fatigue. We thought the war was being won and began to look forward to our trip for the golden wedding anniversary the following year. Our savings for the trip to South Africa were almost there: we had enough for two fares, now we needed to save for another two.
Mum's positive emails and photos of cute animals for Sophia and Ellie came through regularly and we chatted every couple of weeks. We were sure she was through the worst of it. Then her medical team did a scan to check progress and discovered that the lesions on her lung had increased significantly. The initial success of the chemo was a false message. It wasn't working despite the increased doses and horrific side effects.
I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. Mum had been so positive that she would beat the cancer and that going through hell would mean she would become well. The oncologist said there was one more treatment that could be tried but it would depend on 'the histology lump compatibility with the agent' and that would take three weeks to check. We had been given little real information about Mum's cancer and its dangers. We were in a deep fog.
CHAPTER 12
BLOSSOM AND HONEY
I read more about cancer and more particularly about chemotherapy treatment. I found documentaries and some studies that seemed to show that people who had cancer and rejected chemotherapy lived longer than those who took chemotherapy – there was clearly a lot of uncertainty about this treatment.
The hope of another treatment flickered for a moment then came back negative. Mum was relieved that she wouldn't have to go through any more terrible side effects. With no more treatments, Mum and Dad Feely began to think of plans for the future, perhaps some travel. We discussed when they might visit us again. Mum started to walk a little, to try to get her mobility back, but she was worn out. Despite having stopped the chemo many of the side effects continued and she needed more medication to cope with them.
We were experiencing cancer first-hand in our family and outside the cancer epidemic was growing. A vineyard worker in the Médoc region who lost her brother to cancer started a blog called The Sewn-up Mouth. Her brother had been the employee responsible for the sprays for a large property in the region. When she asked for the records of the molecules he had sprayed over the 20 years prior to his premature death she got no response.
She campaigned for greater awareness. In partnership with Générations Futur, a French association founded in 1996 to raise awareness of the dangers of pesticides, she organised the analysis of pesticide residues in the hair of workers in conventional vineyards, people living near conventional vineyards and people 300 kilometres from where vineyards were being sprayed. The level of pesticides was highest in the vineyard workers but also very high for those living near vineyards.
We knew it. When a conventional farmer sprayed even several kilometres away I could sometimes smell it, which showed that it spread well beyond the target. Seán told me only certain sprays gave off a bad smell; many lulled you into a false sense of security with little odour. The agrochemical companies had spent millions to find ways to make the chemicals odourless so we didn't suspect they were poison.
There was a lack of action by political players and lack of knowledge for the majority of people. A local school in the Sauternes region of Bordeaux had a level of cancer that was five times the national average. It was no surprise that the school was surrounded by conventional vineyards. When the Telegraph did an article on it they quoted a former mayor saying there was a 'law of silence' because if they stopped the pesticides the next day the local economy of Sauternes wine would collapse. They quoted the current mayor as saying: 'One cannot say there is a problem.'
The key point the article missed was that it is possible to farm and make beautiful wine without using carcinogenic chemicals. We had been doing it for ten years and I knew a number of Sauternes winegrowers that did too. It was possible to make a living and not give people cancer. It was not necessary to create excessive yields that generated the need for carcinogenic chemicals. The global market had 20 per cent too much wine at the time so ironically if everyone went organic the market would be in equilibrium.
I received an email from a couple that had read Grape Expectations. They were on the hunt for a house in France. Sally worked for Neal's Yard Remedies and they were very aware of the dangers of pesticide exposure. They wanted to have a holiday house in rural France where they would eventually move. They had already visited the only 100 per cent organic wine commune appellation in France, but had found it too expensive. Prices had increased significantly as it was seen by those who were aware of the dangers of pesticides as one of the few vineyard areas where it was safe to raise a family. That commune had nine vignerons (winemakers), all organic. We had around 30, of which more than half were organic.
I dreamed that one day Saussignac would be 100 per cent organic. We had recently earned the official status of territoire bio engagé, a 'territory engaged in organic'. It sounded good but I still ran the gauntlet with pesticide spray machines when I ran or cycled with Sophia and Ellie. While 60 per cent of the number of winegrowers was organic, only about 26 per cent of the farmed surface area was organic. The big players were generally the ones that were not organic – the ones that needed to be turned around.
Around that time a large estate in the Saussignac commune went organic and biodynamic, the conversion hot on the heels of losing a court case to a worker who had been sent to do handwork in the vineyard less than 24 hours after an insecticide spray was done. Since the exposure the worker had experienced serious nervous-system disruption: headaches and dizzy spells so bad that they could not work or drive. The estate's owner and method of agriculture had changed. It would not turn back the damage to the health of the individual but for future employees and for us as a commune it was good news. There was growing awareness among farmers. Where personal experience and conviction weren't forcing the change, the financial and reputation implications of a court case like this one could make large businesses think twice.
France put in place a two-day course called Certiphyto, mandatory for all people responsible for using chemical sprays. Seán attended. At the start of the course two burly farmers were laughing like schoolboys in the back of the class, bemoaning the waste of time the course represented. They were uninterested in and unaware of the dangers of the poisons they routinely sprayed on their farms. By the midday break they weren't laughing. The statistics shared on the dangers of the products and the dramatic effect they were having on the wider environment had left them silent.
It was ironic that organisations spraying systemic chemicals were not allowed to send employees into the zone that had been sprayed for the required 24 or 48 hours but there was no requirement to notify walkers, clients or schools in the area of the no-go period. I felt more determined than ever to spread the word about why it was so important to support a healthy, no pesticide, organic agriculture. I knew the scourge of cancer was a direct result of what we were doing to the earth and particularly what we were doing in agriculture.
As author Michael Pollan said, each of us votes for the future we want three times a day: at each meal. With every purchase we encourage the kind of production it encompasses and hence the kind of world we want. Organic farming delivers relatively more expensive food on the face of it but it is the true cost as opposed to chemically farmed food where you are only seeing a small part of the real cost. The pollution and health implications of the cheap chemical solutions are 'externalised' and not shown in the price – things like treating cancer and nervous-system disruption and cleaning polluted water. They are left out, set aside for someone else to pay.
Mum Feely put on a brave face when we spoke but Dad told us she needed an oxygen machine to help her breathe at night.
'I think you should plan a trip,' I said to Seán when we hung up from the call.
'And who would look after the vineyard? You kno
w I can't get away in the peak growing season,' he said.
It was true: no one could do the vineyard work that he did. If we missed a beat or hit a crisis while he was away we could lose our crop.
'I read that people with this cancer can live for years,' said Seán. 'We'll wait for our family trip next year for their golden wedding anniversary.'
In a whirlwind of visitors, summer passed and harvest was almost upon us. We planned to hand-pick everything. Through contacts I sought potential pickers and learned how to do the associated paperwork. Our apprentice Sandrine, who had been a significant help through the summer, would be a key part of the team. She had energy and was keen to learn.
Feeling confident we could leave the vineyard with Sandrine for a few days, we booked a last-minute getaway to an ecological campsite, mere steps from a beach near St-Jean-de-Luz, four hours away on the Atlantic coast near the Spanish border. I had confirmed a large group for the Monday long before we thought of the idea so Seán and the girls left on Saturday and I was to follow on Tuesday by train.
The day they left, Sandrine took a message down for me saying Clément from Bio Logis had called and could I call him back. I had no idea who Bio Logis was and a quick internet search offered up nothing.
I called the number.
'Le Vieux Logis,' said an elegant voice on the other side. 'How may I help you?'
'Bonjour,' I said. 'I am looking for Clément – he left a message for me to call him back.'
'Oh, Monsieur Clément,' she said. 'He is the master of the hotel.'
My heart upped its pace. Clément from Bio Logis was, in fact, the maître d'hôtel of our dream client Le Vieux Logis, one of the most hallowed restaurants in the Dordogne.
'Oh, thank you. That must be it. May I speak to Monsieur Clément?' I said, feeling super excited.
'I will see if I can find him.'
'Bonjour, Madame,' said the suave voice of Monsieur Clément a few minutes later.
'Bonjour, Monsieur Clément. It's Caro Feely from Château Feely. I think you left a message yesterday asking for me to call you back.'
'Oh yes, Madame Feely. I would like to visit to try your wines. A wine critic visited us this week and said that of the wines he discovered in Bergerac yours were some of the best. He said I had to come and taste your wines.'
'Thank you. I didn't know we had had a visit from a wine critic this week,' I said.
'He stopped incognito. It's my day off on Monday so I was thinking of coming to see you.'
We agreed a time and I hung up then danced round the room, singing hallelujah.
On Monday he visited as promised and bought several cases of two wines for his Michelin-star restaurant list. Alone that night I raised a glass in celebration. Clients were coming to us without us having to 'sell'. Seán's hard graft in the vineyard was bearing fruit. A few weeks before, a Dutch importer had emailed to ask if he could import our wines. He paid for a box of samples to be shipped to him and ordered 10 boxes, then 20.
The next day I trained down to join my family near St-Jean-deLuz. That beach holiday I found deep joy being with Sophia, Ellie and Seán, reading on the beach, swimming, walking. I considered how much we had sacrificed of this time together over the years of incessant work and felt sad. I knew that we needed to change something. I had escaped for three days and it felt like Christmas. Having an apprentice was a start but I wondered if it was enough.
On our return it was a headlong rush into harvest and back to school for Sophia and Ellie. Harvest looked like it would be early. I booked the team for the following Monday. It would be our first fully hand-picked vintage and we were excited but anxious. It was a different way of doing things. We didn't know how long it would take, particularly on the vineyards we had never picked by hand, and we didn't know what pace to expect from paid pickers. All our hand-picking to date had been done by friends and clients.
We were chatting about this and Seán was drawing out each vineyard and its quantity estimate while I prepared dinner when Ian, Seán's brother who lived near his mum and dad, rang. He never called so I knew something was up. I handed the phone to Seán.
As they spoke Seán's face clouded over. Ian said Mum Feely was not doing well; that Seán needed to come and see her. It felt like days since we had chatted with her. With the chaos of our tourist season and our escape to the beach, we had missed the signals.
The following day Seán went through the motions of his work like he was in a trance. He was in shock from the news and not sure what to do. Going from rural France to rural South Africa was a 24-hour journey. Our harvest was ready and we couldn't harvest without him. If he did go, he would get there and have to come straight back. He checked flights. His mum wasn't getting any better – it sounded like she wouldn't hang on until their golden wedding or even until after harvest – but it seemed crazy to go for a single day.
Bruce, Seán's sister's husband, called.
'It's really important that you go and see your mum even if it's only for twenty-four hours. It's not how long that matters. It's the fact of being there.'
His advice helped clear our harvest-pressure-addled brains. Seán found a flight leaving the following day, Friday, and returning on Monday. While he packed his case, I called our picking team to delay the start by a day. I felt like organising harvest was wrong, like we shouldn't be doing it, like we should be focused on our family, that Seán should be going for longer, that we should all be going – but nature would not wait for us.
Seán joined his siblings and dad at his mum's bedside, cherishing the brief moments with her and them. He crossed the world, changed seasons and continents, and returned in three days.
'Her eyes flickered recognition when I showed her the fresh figs I had packed for her but she couldn't eat them,' said Seán. 'She's on liquid food and a drip now.'
His mum loved figs and she knew our tree. We started harvest with heavy hearts.
Mum Feely passed on two days later. Even though we knew it was coming, tears poured out of me. I recalled shared moments, especially their visit over our first harvest. We raised a toast that night and wished her well on her way. I passed the tissues around the table. I loved the Irish wake idea; that everyone gets together to celebrate your life when you pass on. That's what I want when I go to the next place, a big party to celebrate and share memories. Seán was missing that. He was missing being with his family at this critical time of grieving and celebrating Mum Feely's life.
In the days that followed, Seán focused on harvest with quiet determination. He went through the motions but he was in shock. Missing his mum's funeral and the shared time with his family made it difficult to close the circle.
Seán's sister Glynis stayed on for a few weeks with their dad then he was alone. The shock of Mum Feely's passing after almost 50 years together, especially after the intense nursing of the last few weeks, hit him hard.
For the following month Seán had a constant upset stomach. Eventually he agreed to go and see our doctor, who said it was because Seán hadn't had the time to grieve, to assimilate the passing of his mum. Our hard taskmaster, the vineyard and its associated business, did not let up – there was no getting away, no escaping. Seán needed to go back and to see his dad, as much for himself as for Dad Feely. He booked a two-week trip in November when the key winemaking activity would be complete.
Hand-harvesting was different to machine-harvesting. It was convivial and slow. Whereas machine-harvesting all our whites had taken one short morning, now it took five mornings for a team of six. We started at dawn and slowly proceeded across the vineyards. It was better for us and for the grapes; the human scale and pace of it were peaceful and joyful, and the grapes were handled gently rather than thrashed. It was hard work but it was worth it: the grapes arrived sorted, whole and perfect into the winery.
I noticed that Sandrine was slower than the rest. She kept standing up to stretch her back. Slim and young, she should have been one of the swiftest of the group. I asked
if she was all right and she said yes. Seán noticed too. We decided I needed to have a chat with her when she returned from the next few weeks at school.
Between harvesting our whites and reds, Seán, Sophia and Ellie harvested honey from the beehives and processed it for the first time. I returned home from a day of touring in StÉmilion and found them deep in sweetness. My feet stuck to a floor decorated with a mass of sticky spots and the fragrance of honey and beeswax engulfed me. They used a stainless steel centrifuge to separate the honey from the wax and were starting the next step of pouring the honey into glass jars. The thick liquid squeezed out in a lazy river of gold, catching reflections of the setting sun. Seán, Sophia and Ellie were working as a perfect team. I wanted to stay but I had pre-booked visitors that had arrived for a one-hour visit.
It was almost dark when I returned. Boxes of honey jars were stacked on the bench. All the stainless steel trays and pans we owned were dispersed around the kitchen coated in golden honey. The kitchen floor hadn't escaped either; instead of spots it was an almost continuous layer of stickiness.
'Get out and leave me to clean up this mess,' said Seán. 'Take these and lick them. Out, out!'
