Grape Expectations (36 page)

  'How old?' asked Sean.

  'Around four years,' I said.

  
'Exact!'

  I held up my hand for a high-five.

  Our Friday evening treat of opening a couple of bottles of mystery wine from our stash had become a great game. Sean gave me another to taste.

  'What's this? It's delicious and spicy. There is something familiar about it. If it weren't for the spiciness, I would guess pure merlot.'

  'Correct!' He had slipped one of our barrel samples into the mix, presenting it as a wine from our collection. 'It's last year's merlot in the American oak barrel – that's what gives it the spiciness.'

  I held my hand up for another high-five.

  When made naturally, there is no other product that expresses different land or terroir as well as wine. Once you follow vintages you see each is a different character with unique charm. They evolve like their vignerons. Each farm and vintage has a story. I had fallen in love with our new profession. Not the infatuation of our dream of going wine-farming but a deep, profound love, something that resonated in my soul. A resonance that came from the three years of hard work, the inspiration of working with nature and nurturing our farm back to health and gaining a deeper understanding of what wine truly was and how it could express a place. But was it a love that was unconditional? How far was I willing to pursue it?

  This journey had taken me to a place I loved, peopled with colourful characters. I wanted to learn more; to share more. But it was early days and there was still no light at the end of the tunnel financially. A tour like the one I did with Austin would not change the economic reality that kept rearing its head.

Sean and I agonised about what to do yet again. My wine tourism had started but wasn't making any money. I was offering classes free to accommodation owners to build up my reputation, hoping it would pay off later in guests sent my way. The feedback was excellent but there was no return yet. The Wine Cottage gîte was bringing in much-needed money but nothing like what we needed to live on. Our wine sales were going well; Dave had ordered another 600 bottles and our direct business was growing. But even if we sold out it wouldn't cover the costs of operating the vineyard. We scrutinised our finance spreadsheet hoping for a miracle. Alas, nothing had changed.

  'We have to tighten our belts,' said Sean.

  'They're so tight I'm getting gangrene.'

  'I know, Carolinus, but we're still in start-up mode, we have to expect the first few years to be tough.'

  'We can't buy shoes for the girls. Look at poor Ellie: all she has are hand-me-downs. Hand-me-down clothes are fine, but shoes? She should have at least one good pair of shoes. Look at me – the cheapest body lotion I can find on my face.'

  'But look at the life we have, Carolinus. Look how much fun the girls have being outside with the chickens. Look how fulfilling it is following our passion rather than doing a job. I'm working harder than I ever have but I love it.'

  'I know, SF, but we can't live on fresh air. We have to make enough money to live and looking at these projections doesn't fill me with hope.'

  Our dream was not working out the way I had expected. I knew it would be tough but not nearly this tough. At least, for all the sacrifices, I thought we would eventually begin to reap enough rewards to feed our family.

  The following day the social services organisation inspector came around. I had spoken to him about wanting to work a couple of days a week when Ellie started school. At the time I was researching the wine classes and tours and put off finding out more about what he said. Now he was back for his pound of flesh. He explained that regardless of the circumstances I had to pay social charges of several thousand or 47 per cent of my income, whichever was the largest, per year.

  'As soon as you start working, even if you are not being paid, you have to pay. It doesn't matter what you get from us. That's not the issue. If you are working for the farm, even if you are making no money, you have to pay,' he said.

  Remembering Ellie's tough-guy 'Stop!' routine with him the last time, I considered asking him to hold on while I fetched my three-year-old bodyguard from school.

  'The farm isn't making any money, not even enough to pay Sean the minimum wage. I'm looking for a job off the farm or to start another business. At the moment the farm can't support one person, let alone two.'

  'You still have to pay the social charges. Unless you have a full-time job off the farm you have to pay the social charges as if you are the
exploitant
. You could declare yourself as working part-time on the minimum wage but then you have to declare exactly what you do for the business on the declared days and keep detailed records. If we find you doing something that is not on your declared activities or working out of the hours you declare, it will be bad for you. Anyway, that will land up being more expensive than the minimum charge as
exploitant
if you are making a loss.'

  I wondered if I had fallen into the well in
Alice in Wonderland
. How could this be the only option? It would break us.

  'If you don't agree to this, I will check you regularly and you can be sure we will catch you doing something that could be considered part of the business even if it is a bit of DIY. Then you will have to pay a fine and still pay the social charges. There is no other option for you. I highly recommend that you sign up for the full plate of charges right now.'

  He held out a pen to me.

  My throat was tight with stress. I felt like shouting 'Stop!' but no sound came out. Our finances were way off healthy and this would tip us over the edge.

  He wasn't going to leave until I had signed the papers. It was that or be constantly hounded, unable to even paint the walls on the weekend without being caught and fined for working undeclared. The huge man loomed ominously over me with the pen. He gave me a big smile.

  'Don't worry, I will write the letter saying you are now working full-time for the farm. All you have to do is sign it. Our objective isn't to put you out of business. Of course, it's important that you survive so you can pay us.'

  I felt like vomiting onto his pristine white shirt. Under his pressure I signed the documents. He gave me a satisfied smile.

  That evening Sean and I went through numerous scenarios. No matter what we did, with this new burden we would be working to pay our suppliers and the social charges and not even covering that.

  'We have to sell the farm. We'll never make a living. We aren't going to make it through the next twelve months with this extra charge.' I burst into tears. 'I don't want to sell,' I sobbed.

  'I know, Carolinus, but we can't carry on if we can't pay ourselves. We can't carry on until the bank forces us to sell.'

  The writing was on the wall. We could not continue. I felt angry, sad and frustrated. We had put so much into pursuing our dream. Our wines were good, critics and clients loved them and yet we could not make a living. Since arriving, I had never seriously entertained the thought that we might fail. Now we were facing it full in the face. I wanted so badly for us to succeed, now more so than ever.

  Once I got control of myself we discussed it further. After looking in every direction for a solution we agreed there was no way out. We had to sell. There wasn't enough time for us to build up the wine tourism business to make up for the shortfall.

  We had to return to city lives and normal jobs. At least we would have most weekends off, holidays, sick leave and some money for our work. There was that upside. But even the idea of being paid could not help me shrug off the devastation I felt. The next day I called an estate agent and asked them to come around to look at Garrigue.

  Laurence was still in the Basque country with family so that Sunday I set off on my own with my MP3 player, running along the road, my feet beating in time to U2. I turned onto the high vineyard track that runs along the ridge above Saussignac. As I crested the hill, a panoramic view of the village floating above the Dordogne valley with the castle, solid like an anchor in the sea of green vineyards and forests, engulfed me. I felt a deep love of this place. Our life, full of priceless riches, stretched out before me. Rich relationships, simple food, a passion for what we were doing and magnificent countryside.

  I stopped and lifted my arms into the air in silent homage to this exceptional place into which we had haphazardly fallen. I felt part of it. I loved what we were doing. I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay so badly it was like a physical force sinking down into the ground. I felt like I was rooted to the spot. I could see my children and my children's children on this hill looking down towards our farm. It was like an ancient force. A spirit well. This was my home. This was our home. I felt at once powerless and powerful. Grief for the imminent loss of this place overtook me. Sobs racked through my body. I stood with tears flowing down my cheeks staring out at the landscape. That week I felt like I was in a bad dream. I went about my work in a mechanical daze. Thursday evening the phone rang.

  'Hi, Caro. It's Andrew.'

  I hadn't spoken to Andrew since my last trip home. It was great to hear his familiar tones. We worked together for more than five years and had known each other a lot longer.

  'How are things?' I said. We had a chat about the new job that he had started. It sounded like a good place to work.

  'They don't need more people do they? I need a job.'

  I explained what had happened and how we had just put Garrigue up for sale. Andrew was incredulous. He had been a major supporter of our vineyard and a loyal direct customer.

  'I don't think you should give up,' he said.

  'We just can't see how we can make it work given the time frame and resources we have,' I said.

  'Well, this is more than a friendly catch-up call. We've decided to wind up the company. After costs, there is some money to divvy out, including enough to cover your loan to it. That might help you to hang in there.'

  'Tell me more,' I said, excitement mounting. He was referring to a loan I had made to a start-up about ten years before. I had written off the sum long ago, not expecting it ever to be repaid.

  As Andrew filled me in I did a quick calculation. The money would meet our shortfall on running expenses for the next twelve months, which would give us the breathing space to develop the new business lines of tourism and holiday rental. I ran through to Sean.

  'We've been saved,' I shouted.

  'Calm down. What's going on?'

  'We can take Garrigue off the market.' I felt a strange sense of déjà vu back to the days of 'it's on, it's off', when we tried to buy Garrigue almost three years before.

  'I feel like we just won the lottery,' said Sean, a smile spreading over his face as the impact of my news sank in. Then he looked serious. 'But Carolinus, we have to decide if it's worth investing this second chance in Garrigue. We need to be sure we aren't throwing our energy into something that will deliver nothing in the long run. The farm has to be financially viable, it has to make a living for us. We've got to be rational.'

  There it was, rational. We had to be rational, but I wasn't. If I had been rational, I would have walked out the first time a mouse launched itself at me or the first time my back felt broken from stacking too many cases of wine or the first time I came back from a full morning of shoot removal. No, it was not rational, but Sean was right, it needed to make enough money to feed our family and to fund a modest retirement.

  Once the girls were asleep, we worked for hours on a new business plan. Going over the history of the business we could see how badly we had misjudged the time it would take to have the wine business operating as a going concern. The red wine had taken eighteen months longer than expected to be available. The costs had been much higher than estimated and we hadn't planned for the excruciating level of social charges despite our consultation with an expert accountant. Add the low yields of the organic road we had chosen to that and it wasn't pretty.

  We looked at different scenarios and discussed potential income streams deep into the night. Our average wine prices had to increase considerably. We had to sell our wines for what they were worth. With optimistic projections, higher wine prices, the self-catering cottage and the wine classes, we could find sufficient income to keep the wine business going while we developed new vineyard plantings. The new plantings would then help Garrigue to pay its way. We would have to work hard to put bread on the table.

  No one in their right mind would stick with this business. No investor on earth would touch it, but I had left my consulting roots long ago. I had found a discipline I loved, something that was awesome, demanding and vibrant.