Grape Expectations (25 page)

  Over the couple of days of bottling we had come to realise that Pierre approached life with vigour. His work was bottling but his life was his family and his passion was motor cars. He collected ancient ones and did rally driving in his spare time. When he wasn't rally driving or bottling he was with his family working on renovations to his castle. I couldn't wait to see it.

  The kilometre route from Garrigue to Saussignac runs past Les Tours de Lenvège then sweeps up, surrounded by vineyards, to the village. Saussignac Castle, with its massive, perfect stones, likely cut from the quarry at Garrigue, dominates the scene.

  Pierre bowed nobly at the door with a sweep of his arm as we walked in. A brocaded curtain hung across a stone entrance that led from the imposing hallway into the grand salon. In the open-plan kitchen, at the entrance to this great room, a stately woman with dark hair and fair skin was slicing fresh carrots for a salad. Pierre introduced Laurence, his wife.

  The castle was beautiful outside but the interior was breathtaking. Vaulted stone ceilings soared high overhead creating immense grandeur: proportions from an age where space, labour and stone were plentiful, although even then it was possible to run out of money: the front towers of the château would have been matched by two replica towers at the back but for lack of finance.

  'When we arrived this room was split into five rooms with dry walls,' said Pierre. 'All these stones were covered with mortar. We planned to put the kitchen at the far end but I pulled away the tiny 1970s fireplace to discover this.' He pointed to the massive château fireplace large enough to hold ten adults standing comfortably at full height. 'I ran to Laurence and said, "Sorry, we can't put your kitchen in!"'

  'And I'm still waiting,' said Laurence drily, her hand waving over the half-installed cupboards and the oven still sitting in a box in the corner. She had been making do for three years. Pierre studiously ignored the comment.

  'Removing the mortar covering the stones was the hardest job, especially where the mix was more concrete than chalk. Come, let's go upstairs.'

  Pierre motioned upwards and led us up another level. Pierre and Laurence's piece of the castle was about one fifth of the total but they had enough space for a family of ten. The staircase, made of stone slabs about 2 metres wide, wound around storage rooms that formed what would have been a giant-size stairwell.

  The upper section, their living area, was still in progress with skirting boards and some doors and electrical points unfinished. Pierre had split the equivalent space of their grand room, just one level up, into three comfortable bedrooms, a bathroom and a study. The stone walls, high ceilings and windows – offering spring blossom views towards our farm and the Dordogne valley beyond – provided instant grandeur.

  'Now I show you the dungeon, where the real history lies,' said Pierre. We descended to the gloomy basement.

  'This seventeenth-century castle is built on the site of a monastery from Celtic times.'

  We followed, obediently picking our way carefully through the murk. Pierre showed us his well, which dated back at least a thousand years.

  'There are no prison cells here but we do have a secret tunnel.'

  He led us further into the obscurity along a wooden plank that balanced precariously over a very uneven stone floor.

  
'Et voilà!'
In the castle wall was a vaulted doorway leading into a tunnel completely filled in with loose stone. 'We don't know why it is filled in. Perhaps it was a rock fall. Perhaps it was to keep some treasure secret from the Germans in the war. Folklore says that a tunnel from the castle leads to Garrigue. Maybe we'll explore it one day.' Pierre smiled conspiratorially and turned to lead us out of the basement.

  Laurence was putting on running shoes as we said goodbye.

  'Do you run?' I asked. Laurence looked the quintessential French lady, not one who beat the pavements.

  'A leetoll.'

  'We must run together. How about this Sunday?'

  'Why not?'

  And so, that Sunday we started our regular runs, which offered me a stress-buster, an opportunity to talk French on subjects beyond wine and a closer look at French psychology and history. Laurence was a teacher's assistant and starting preparations for a full teacher's certificate. She was a delicious fountain of French culture and was into organic food and natural remedies. We struck a chord.

  On our runs we sometimes met deer and other four-legged creatures. One morning, as we were running up the road to Gageac, the sun highlighting clouds of our breath, a volley of gunshots shattered the peace. We both yelled. A hunter swaggered out of the trees swinging his gun nonchalantly on his shoulder.

  'People get killed every year in hunting accidents,' said Laurence, not very reassuringly. We ran the rest of the hill at astonishing speed.

Sean and I had our first wine bottled and were beginning to realise how long a game wine was. Each of our wines took a minimum of eighteen months and sometimes, for the reds, up to six years to get from pruning to bottling. Add to that new vineyards, which need five years to reach reasonable levels of production, and a winegrower can be looking at more than ten years of patience and investment from planting to bottle. Our financial plan had not taken a sufficiently long view. We were out of money.

  We glared at each other over the candle. Financial stress was not helping the recovery of our relationship. Sean was working crazy hours and getting no compensation. At times we resented each other for the position we were in. Since it was a joint decision at least we felt solidarity in our resentment.

  'Perhaps we could get a short-term loan from the bank,' said Sean.

  I shook my head. 'We have no track record of selling bottled wine in any volume. Anyway, one of our core tenets from the start was that we would not risk this so far that we would become indebted for it. For our sanity and the kids' future we have to stick to that. The day we have to take out a loan for the day-to-day running of the business, it's over.'

  That was a fairly solid line in the sand. The candle flickered ominously and went out.

  'Feck it,' said Sean. 'What are we going to do?'

  'Light it again.'

  'No, I mean about the bottling costs.'

  'We'll have to get some wine sales fast. Our creditors will have to wait.'

  We knew what we wanted to do and where we wanted to go with our business. We wanted to produce high-quality, natural wines. We knew a growing part of the wine market wanted a real taste of terroir and not a trick of additives but we were running out of time and we had no idea how long it would take us to break even, if ever.

  Meanwhile, Lucille had invited me to a presentation on cultured yeasts and natural additives like tannins for winemaking. In the European Union, unnatural wine additives are illegal but in some other jurisdictions winemakers can put in chemical elixirs that will add anything from lychee to chocolate flavours to their wines. The event, which included dinner, was to be held at one of the iconic vineyards in the region. As I drove up the sun was setting over the hills beyond Château Belingard creating layers of rolling hills bathed in pink and gold light. It was so postcard perfect I took a minute to walk around the garden before my entrance and the obligatory
bisous
.

  Rows and rows of red wines were set up on the table. In each instance we compared an original wine with the same wine dosed with one of the additives. By the end of the evening I was convinced that additives, even natural ones, were a bad idea. Of all the wines I tasted only one tasted better with additives and that wine was hollow to start. In all instances where the original wine was good, the additives put the wine out of equilibrium. Something did not ring true. After several flights – the term used for a set of wines in a tasting – I also learnt that wearing a white shirt to a red wine tasting is not a good idea.

  Each winemaker had brought a couple of examples of his own wine to have with the meal. Our modern label stood out on the table and vignerons around me reached for the bottle to try something new. I could see from their faces they were surprised that idiots from the city with no experience in this complex métier could produce a drinkable wine. Jean-Paul, a winemaker from Saussignac, tasted his glass.

  '
Bon, très bon, même. C'est plein d'espoir
. (It's full of hope.) The first vintage is always full of hope.'

The reaction from our target customer was so non-committal on the vat samples that we decided to broaden our net. Sean sent bottles of finished wine to two other buyers and I booked another marketing trip. I had no experience selling wine to trade buyers and we had no track record in the wine business. On my previous trip I had spoken to a few journalists – like the radio interview – to promote our direct sales and met a few proprietors of individual wine shops to get a feel for the market but I hadn't contacted any serious buyers. Now I had to face the music and I was scared. I organised my trip around key visits then set up to meet journalists and drop off samples. We had to sell our wine and we had to sell it at a price that could support our hand-crafted production methods.

  Sean took me to Bordeaux airport, coaching me all the way about how important it was for me to close some sales and loading on unnecessary extra pressure. My flight went smoothly and once again I picked up my hire car. It was a full year since my last trip. Between my fear of selling and my new fear of city-driving I wondered how I would last the week. I arrived at Aideen and Barry's haven and took a moment to breathe in the familiar air.

  'I could move back tomorrow,' I said, tucking into Barry's delicious pan-fried salmon.

  'Not really,' said Aideen recalling how she'd seen me so at home with the Saussignac winegrowers. 'Wait until you're sitting on the ring road trying to get to an urgent meeting.'

  We talked until midnight. The days flew. I met wine importers, dropped off samples, offered wine tastings at friends' houses and talked to wine journalists. I almost felt confident talking about the wines that were now part of us, and yet I neared the end of my stay with no sales in sight. Sean called every evening for news. It was stressful beyond measure.

  On Saturday I met with one of our target buyers, responsible for wine purchases across a chain of around twenty upmarket supermarkets. He had been open and positive when we spoke on the phone. His employer was large enough to buy all the production we had available for sale to the trade. I had high hopes for the meeting.

  We ordered our coffees and sat down at a stylish two-person table near the window of the plush cafe. I talked him through the vineyard, our plans and the wines. He asked questions and actively engaged in my pitch. We discussed the quantities they would need for different promotions as compared to an annual stock item. He explained they would probably include us in their annual French wine promotion as a first trial. I told him the prices and he didn't baulk. This was just the break we needed.

  I was convinced I had a sale. 'So when do you need to order for the promotion?' I asked.

  'Around August but I can't commit yet. We like the wines and your story but I need to talk to our consultant before making a buying decision. If we don't go for the 2006, we'll look at the 2007.'

  I tried not to show my disappointment, swallowed the rest of my coffee and prepared to leave. We couldn't work with decisions by committee; we didn't have that sort of time.

  'Thierry was right. It's a long sales cycle,' I said to Sean that evening.

  'Well, tough luck for them. If they don't get in on the 2006, they won't get a look in on the 2007.'