Grape Expectations (19 page)

  Oaks are notoriously difficult trees to judge because of the considerable size and weight of side branches that influence the way the tree falls or moves. Apart from his good looks Olivier was an exceptionally skilled tree surgeon, I thought. I was in awe.

  When he came back into the courtyard Olivier looked exhilarated and exhausted. I could see now that the red headband was not a fashion accessory but played the important role of keeping the sweat out of his eyes in such exacting circumstances. I brought him a glass of juice. The
grosse grue
had already left. John came up to join in.

  
'C'était difficile,'
said Olivier. 'Perhaps one of the most difficult I have done. At one point, on the second level of
le vieux
chêne
I cut and the crane lifted but it swung because of the uneven weight and missed my foot by millimetres.'

  'I don't speak French,' said John, 'but I am a forester and I just want to tell you…' John paused for a long moment as he often did. I wondered what was coming next. Perhaps 'you're a bit of a cowboy'? '… the job you did out there today was exceptionally skilful.'

  Olivier was visibly moved. Despite a significant language barrier, the tree men had a long discussion about everything from the age of
le vieux chêne
to the trees John had worked with in South Africa.

  Olivier sawed the beautiful oak into 50-centimetre lengths. I thanked him profusely.

  Our harvest was safe and we could go back to work in the winery. But Sean's finger was still total agony if something touched the bandage. He was working again but being single-handed was slow. John and Peta-Lynne would soon be leaving us and I didn't have any idea how we would bring in our Saussignac dessert wine, let alone do the work on the wines we already had in the winery.

  Sophia and Ellie were showing signs of
vendanges
stress. Sophia developed bed-wetting problems after months of being dry, Ellie was picky at mealtimes and wouldn't go to sleep at bedtime. We had not had a moment to spend with them in six weeks. Our evening meals were rushed and often in relays because of the hellish tempo dictated by the harvest. While on the face of it Sean and I were getting along OK there was a constant undercurrent of tension. We only talked to each other for business decisions and we were both stretched to our limit by the work needed to get to grips with our new business. I often worked late into the night responding to orders and sorting out direct deliveries for our fledgling online wine business while Sean did the same in the winery with John as his left hand. The finger amputation and harvest pressure didn't help. The tension was also partly due to not spending any time alone together but ironically I was not looking forward to being alone with him when the Feelys left the following week. I felt like Sean didn't have anything to say to me except 'Just get on with it'. When everyone else had gone to bed I munched my way through several rows of
touche de sérénité
chocolate, hoping it would ease my stress.

'Il faut le sortir maintenant,'
said Lucille urgently. Our oenologist had tasted the merlot wines that were still on their skins. They had finished fermenting a couple of days before and she had encouraged us to keep them on the skins for more extraction until her next visit. Now I could see from her face that we had gone too far. We had to run the free-run wine off and press the juice from the remaining grapes fast.

  That evening Sean attacked the relatively simple first part; running the free-run wine off the must. The grape 'must' is the skins and pips – and juice that is still inside the skins, rather than the free-run juice. He ran the wine out of the fermentation vat by gravity into a giant sieve placed in a 1,000-litre bucket, then pumped it into a new vat for maturation. Once the free-run was just dripping he left the dregs to drain slowly through the night, getting up regularly to check that everything was going according to plan.

  The following day we tackled the next phase; digging the grapes out to transfer them to the press so we could extract the press wine. Press wine typically represents a fifth of the total red wine produced but it can be a key part of the blend, offering more colour and tannin than the free-run wine. This step required extreme caution because killer carbon dioxide is given off during the fermentation and it lurks unseen inside the vats.

  To chase the gas out I positioned two house fans above the vats. It was Heath Robinson but it worked. Then I moved the wine paddle (like a single-sided canoe paddle but made of food-grade plastic, used to stir wine), digging tools and cleaning equipment to the back wall so we had more room to work.

  Like many things over that harvest period, digging grapes was more difficult than it looked. Just moving the must pump into position under the vat's front door was near impossible since it was so heavy. The must pump is like a miniature harvest trailer; about half a metre high and wide and a metre long with a wide but short auger in its metal belly. This auger is sufficiently powerful to pump hundreds of kilograms of grape must up the harvest pipe into the press. When the must pump is in motion it looks peaceful, but one false move and it could remove a hand or a foot or worse. Its powerful auger will crush and macerate anything that gets in its way – just like what the harvest trailer did to part of Sean's finger. Once it was in place we would climb inside the enormous vat and dig the grapes out of the vat directly into it. Sean and I tried to push it into position while John held the pipe and the electrical wire.

  'Push,' yelled Sean.

  'It's too heavy,' I said.

  'Just do it,' he growled. I nearly whacked him over the head with the wine paddle.

  He pushed me out of the way and gave it a massive shove, wedging it into position. John looked surprised at Sean's behaviour. He and Peta-Lynne knew something was wrong between us but they put it down to harvest stress and finger trauma. I was having serious finger trauma myself keeping my middle finger from jamming itself in front of Sean's nose. Instead I stood back and counted to ten to calm myself. We needed to work as a cohesive team for a hazardous operation like this. Next, we connected this dangerous beast to the harvest pipe that had thumped John and me a couple of weeks before. I felt skittish.

  With the must pump in position we could dig the must from the vat into it then pump the must up to the press. Sean opened the door of the vat and a small avalanche of fermented grapes fell neatly into the pump. It was perfectly positioned. He dragged a little more of the must using our food-grade winery fork – enough to fill the belly of the must pump – then switched it on and pumped the mass up to the press. Each small success with equipment we had never used was a milestone. We took a moment to congratulate ourselves then took turns digging grapes out of the front door of the vat. The recent death of our neighbours was a constant reminder of how potentially deadly our new occupation was.

  Too soon it was time for someone to get inside the vat. That someone was me since Sean was still effectively one-handed. I was scared stiff.

  'How am I going to get in?' I asked nervously.

  'Climb over it,' commanded Sean. The vicious must pump was too heavy to move out of the way each time we got in and out.

  My hand, stained red with wine, was shaking as I leaned over to test the vat's air with our BiC lighter. The flame remained strong which meant that the air was probably clear enough of carbon dioxide to be safe to enter. With Sean ready to pull me out if necessary, I clambered in. Rather than killing me, it smelt like a giant Christmas pudding. I wondered for a second if that was the smell you got just before you died – I love Christmas pudding. There was no time for philosophising. I pushed my white sterilised boots deep into the 50-centimetre-thick layer of grape must so there was no chance of slipping out into the deadly pump and dug then pushed the marc (or pressed must) to Sean at the vat door. About ten minutes later Sean demanded a turn. He had decided that he could dig despite his injury, if he covered his bandaged hand with a plastic bag to protect it from splashes.

  I demanded that he unplug the must pump, horrified and scared as I was of its potential to eat body parts. He scoffed at the notion saying it was turned off at its switch. Still inside the tank and not moving until he acquiesced, I explained, as calmly as I could, that someone could fall onto the switch and turn it on mistakenly. Unplugged there was no risk. John gave him a look that said 'unplug the pump' and he did. We changed places – clambering awkwardly over the must beast.

  The wine from the Upper Garrigue grapes was pressed by late afternoon and the ton of leftover skins and pips moved from the press to the entrance to our property. Leftover grape skins and wine sediments are given to state-owned distilleries for production of industrial alcohol. This 'forced gifting' is an ancient tax on French winegrowers. The distillery would collect the marc from the entrance to our property with a truck equipped with a small crane.

  We had done a full day's work but we still had to press Hillside; waiting was not an option now that the wine was run off.

  It was in an underground
cuve
– the one I had nightmares about. We had to move the must pump down to the horror cavern. The harvest pipe had to be moved too, and now it was gorged with grapes the weight was immense. We couldn't move it.

  'This can't be right,' I said.

  'Stop complaining and pull,' snapped Sean.

  We all heaved again but the Serpent would not budge. I pictured us working all night.

  'What about pumping water through to push the grapes out?'

  Sean glowered at me.

  'It's worth a try,' said John.

  Several litres of water and a few minutes later we had an empty pipe. My idea had worked. Sean harrumphed and I marked up a small winery success.

  Grunting with exertion we got the pump onto the tractor forks and Sean took it down to the cavern. The harvest pipe was attached to the pump then pushed up to John who was waiting at the trapdoor, tied on for safety. As soon as he had the top of the pipe I ran up to help him pull it up while Sean struggled to keep it in position below. We lifted it up over the press and tied it securely. John received a tap on the head, a gentle reminder from the pipe about who was boss.

  It was dark when we started the second dig. Strangely, after the nightmares I had had about it, I now found the underground vat cosy and comforting. Our lantern hung down, providing a warm yellow glow on the beautiful red walls. The smell of Christmas pudding was delicious and the exertion of the digging combined with the low-oxygen air was elating. I wanted to stay longer but Sean made me get out since it was unadvisable to work in that environment for more than ten minutes. We took turns digging while John handled the Serpent on high.

  At about ten that night we finished the dig and started pressing. Sitting on old plastic crates watching the press do its work, we paused for a glass of Saussignac dessert wine and an ice cream. The endorphins from hard physical work, the successful pressing of our first vintage of red wine and the divine taste created a moment of elation that helped to ease the difficult parts of the day. Peta-Lynne, who had brought us our dinner to eat on the run a little earlier and had been monitoring progress every half-hour, joined us to savour the moment. The girls were safely asleep. Once the pressing was finished we took in the silence of the winery, enjoying the delicious smells of fermentation and the call of the barn owl. The cleaning of the press and the vats could wait.

On Lucille's visit the following day I toured the Saussignac vineyard with her. We tasted and collected sample grapes as we walked.

  'Collecting samples is not something oenologists do but today it is
pratique
,' said our serious oenologist, underlining the clear delineation of roles so essential to French life. 'I think you could do your first pick at the end of next week.'