I am up to my elbows in blood and wine. Monsieur C. paid one of his visits last week and after four days of serious marinating I’m ready to slice his massive thigh of wild boar into fine strips. It’s raw and cold but smelling wonderfully of burgundy and juniper berries. The boar have been pesky lately. We hear them rooting in the thickets at night and witness their destruction in the morning. When I’d gone out eager to see them at work the other evening, our elder son collared me; they charge if they feel threatened especially if it’s […]
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Spirit of the Place With the wine settled into beauty rest, my thoughts turn to the great old house and surrounding land. They also seem to have nodded off for a long sleep. But “Vive le vent d’hiver,” the French children sing. When it’s all gone quiet, winter winds stir up other elements around here. They are shy things. Noise and bustle sends them into attic corners. Yes, I miss the warmth of summer, but I shiver gladly as we bring in the firewood. Winter is best for chance encounters with those who only venture forth under a “vent d’hiver.” […]
My first taste of wine was poured from a picturesque bottle of Mateus Rose. Two points off for the plastic cup, but it was the best my college roommate could rustle up for French Club Night in our favorite professor’s garret office. A little wine (even Portuguese, I suppose) was supposed to liberate our tongues so we’d opine about Literature like natives. As it turned out, my French was still rubbish, but the wine had turned a 1st trick – flowing ideas despite bad grammar. Then a further challenge: describe this novel beverage as it rolls through your mouth. But […]
6 months ago it was a stroll through the vineyard munching on grapes after a hot bike ride through the hills. 3 months ago we were in the rows checking sugar levels with a spectometre, biting the grapes carefully to explore the pink pulp. 11 weeks ago was harvest, juice so sweet it hurt our teeth. Talk about learning curves. A custom wine tasting crash course not offered on the night class circuit – daily dipping into infant wine, childhood wine, adolescent wine… You taste each day but she’s a girl in motion who fools you at every turn. Big wardrobe, […]
Pressing Day came about a month after harvest. October 17th. John was woken by a nightmare before the 5h30 alarm. Yesterday’s conversation with the farmer – he reminded us that every year workers die from asphyxiation inside wine vats, that he lost two relatives this way, and in one case the rescuer also died. Can’t dwell on that. Need to get up to the chai and drain the remaining 200 litres of “free run juice” (we can’t call it wine yet) out of the Cuve and into the Garde Vin (GdV) before the contractor arrives. 6h45 am, he’s here […]
Midnight. I’m perched precariously at the top of a tank, 15 feet up in the air, looking down into a fairy land of bubbling sparkling popping elixir. It reminds me of the way snow shimmers at night when the moon illuminates the white crust like diamonds – but this is purple. And it’s moving. I can’t stand mesmerized for long because down below John is shouting at me not to lose the flashlight or my glasses into the juice. He’s also swearing and fiddling with the controls for the moveable lid of this 94 hectolitre tank (94 hectos – that’s […]
The wagon loads keep coming in and one especially fertile parcel is providing much more fruit than anticipated. Since the farmer estimates volume with idiosyncratic algorithms to translate surface area into potential tonnage, we’re wondering about his apparent back of the envelope advanced calculus. Plus we’re still haunted by the late rains, so the oenologue’s worrying buzzes in our ears: are the berries too juicy? Will the wine be too wet? This leads to a heated debate about “bloodletting” (letting some of the juice run off to improve concentration) and the farmer howls with disapproval. You’d think we were talking […]
September 20th. After weeks of agonizing, Vintage 2011 arrived healthy, sweet and pink as can be; a dainty 8 tons of potential intoxicating delight. It was a gorgeous morning, crisp, brilliant. I found the farmer in the choicest parcel aloft his giant blue harvester, gazing over the rows of fruit he’d tended all year. Pierre, 19 year old son of our neighbor, Wilfrid (godfather to this venture) deftly curtsied the tractor and the first tons of berries poured in. A short haul through the fields of merlot, past the bull who was nursing a hoof, back to the chai. Greetings from the […]
For Geneviève Early September. I’ve been thinking a lot about pregnancy lately; three babies come, grown and flown the coop, the last just this month. Expectant mothers don’t have an easy lot of it. The weight, the body working on overdrive. The worry. Then again, the glory parts are undeniable. Fullness, fertility, the fun of dancing with a newborn in your arms. It’s two weeks before wine harvest and up on the plateau mother earth is about to go into labor. Most patient of patients, not a groan or complaint; she puts up with our poking and testing, with the insects […]
Walking the Land Before Harvest One month before harvest, a hot, dry morning after a cool night. Perfect August day. We’re hanging around the Merlots waiting for the oenologue to arrive. She’s like an old fashioned traveling doctor or midwife making rounds, which means she’s sometimes late. That’s ok. It gives us time – John, two of our children, the farmer and me – to talk about the weather. What a strange year it’s been: droughtish May, wettish July. Bodes ill, but August so far is noble and we cross our fingers we’ll be spared the rot many others are suffering. […]
Over the years we’ve lived so many stories on this land my journal entries could fill an 18th century armoire. In truth, La Tourbeille is such an out of world/out of time place, she should really be the subject of sonnets. Even the postman goes poet when he steps on the land. He brings extra junk mail as an excuse when he can’t fill the box with bills; he lingers and chats and reminds me every day that we live in a “magical” place. For sure, this is a place that makes people dream. Maybe that’s why I’m trying to write […]
Be careful what you wish for. They say be careful what you wish for, but I guess we weren’t. For years my husband’s wish was, “Just some grapes and old stones.” Mine: “A place for dreaming.” And then one day, there we were. Bound and shackled to the endless mending of centuries’ old stone buildings and risking our savings to revive a vineyard. One result is this almanac of what life has become; not exactly what we wished for, and not exactly what we would have wrought if we’d had the prescience to know what was coming. Marie (alias […]