Wednesday 4 September
We’re off! Harvest 2019 has begun. And what a day to begin with! Incredible. Do we live in paradise? Yes, we do, but we’re too busy to raise our heads and enjoy it.
There was the petit problème of the brand-new harvesting machine, out on its very first outing. That meant we didn’t start in the dread dark dead of night, as we usually do when machine harvesting our entry-level wine, but just as the sun was beginning its clime into the sky. By the time it got to the heart of said incredibly beautiful day, we were basically finished. Grapes absolutely immaculate, there’s no need to do anything at the sorting table. And they’re wonderfully cool to the touch. For once the weather is playing along with us.
The machine zips up and down the rows of vines, hugging them in a stranglehold embrace and shaking off their grapes. Then 
the machine’s reserve is tipped into the trailer, as can be seen here, and tractored the 500 m or so to the winery. By yours truly, the No. 2 tractoriste, who is too worried about tipping trailer, tractor, grapes and self into the ditch to really enjoy this magnificently unfolding day.
Everything seems to be falling into place today. The vibrating trailers vibrate uncomplainingly, the sorting table moves along happily, the conveyor belt obediently conveys the grapes into the press, the press presses. The yield from the first block picked this morning looks good – much much better than the last few years, and we can expect to have a reasonable quantity of our IGP chardonnay Pays d’Oc. What a great beginning!
We are hungry and tired in equal parts. Lunch never tasted better. Bedtime never looked further away.
More of the same coming up tomorrow.
Thursday 5 September
Oh no! Rain. Falling with consistent persistence. Uncalled for, unexpected and, at this point, unwanted.
Plus, the petit problème with the harvesting machine continues, and it is not able to harvest in any event.
We get on with office work.
But it doesn’t last long… and the grateful earth soaks up all the water immediately, and actually very little has fallen. More importantly, the technicians sort out the new harvesting machine. We get down to work shortly after noon, not what we had planned, but that’s the way it goes with the best laid plans of mice and men …
At least it was overcast and coolish, and the grapes were also still cool to the touch, and the end of the day put a fullstop behind our entry level wine. It’s pressing as we speak.
Friday 6 September
Today the harvest proper starts. I had forecast September 10 as the kick-off date, so I wasn’t far off. We wait to see which of the harvesters will come, which won’t. We have a large contingent of people we don’t know well this year, including a group of refugees.
They walk all the way from our nearest town, Limoux, and are waiting patiently in the courtyard long before anyone else arrives.
Christine and her two sons are the next to arrive, old routiers dating back at least 12 years in a row or so.
But where is Dany? The ex-Legionnaire has been the backbone of our harvest for longer than anyone can remember. He is no where in sight.
“So where is Dany?” we ask Christine. She is his ex-wife, so she should know. She mumbles something about ill health, and then alights on ‘mechanical problems’ with relief. Mechanical problems? Yes, mechanical problems.
Monsieur Caron rolls up with a pretty daughter whom we’ve not met before, called Ingrid.
And then there are the newcomers: a very attractive free spirit called Sandra, who walks barefoot over our stony land with stoicism and no evidence at all of discomfort, and has chalked up a harvest with Patrick Boudoain in the Loire to her favour, someone from Réunion who talks and talks but manages to work pretty efficiently in between, there’s the one who’s going on to Beaujolais for the harvest tomorrow, and whose name we won’t remember for that very reason, Carine, who is pleasant, efficient and harvested last year in Pomeral … time will bring out all their stories, and we’ll find them in the bottom of our bottles. but there’s already an air of camaraderie, and we feel in our bones that it’s going to be good.
The day certainly is. Stunning. The grapes too. Stunning. No other word for it.
A great start.
Saturday 7 September
Haven’t seen Mauzac as beautiful as this for years and years and years! Rolling down the sorting table like a throw of perfect, flawless emeralds. There’s a very beautiful Blanquette de Limoux in the making here!
And it’s another amazing day. The early-morning sun rises over Blaise, our small east(ish)-facing field with a calm Madonna-like smile, and the équipe sets to work withenthusiasm. Shortly after the mid-morning coffee break, everything the vines have to offer is in the bag. So far so good. The mood is high. But the trailer is not full.
So we continue picking mauzac from the adjoining block until lunchtime. And then measure the juice as the wine press goes into action. The sugar is a bit lower than we like. The yield is also lower than we like. We call a halt to it and switch to chardonnay for the afternoon. Is this group capable of picking the two highest blocks in a single afternoon? They are, and they do it, and it tastes just right!
Tomorrow, Sunday, can be a rest-day, hurrah!
Monday 9 September
I know I shouldn’t keep saying it, but this weather is truly unbelievable! Absolutely picking-perfect!
We continue with Chardonnay on the Rive Gauche.
In under an hour, Redwan comes up with a bloody finger to be bandaged. It’s already the fourth time he’s cut himself. And for the fourth time we suggest he hold the grape at its base, and cut at the top.
The thermometer says its only 24 degrees, but it feels a lot hotter than that. The sky is painted a relentless burning-blue. Some of us begin to flag, though the porteur Abdullah still skips where others would walk, runs where others would skip, and sprints where where others would run. And he looks cucumber-cool.
Did you know that Eritrea was once an Italian colony, and lots of Eritreans speak Italian? I didn’t. You need to harvest at Rives-Blanques to learn that sort of thing.
Safina and Siti, the stars of the show, hustle everyone else along. “Yalla! Yalla!” they shout (or words to that effect) with magical effect. Abdullah revs up from a run to a sprint, Christine’s porteur-son steps up his languid pace, Mishee, who appears to have lost himself in a philosophical discussion about religion, remembers what he’s doing and picks faster and faster. Sandra replies that her religion is The Earth, and lingers a moment in contemplation before moving her bucket along. Ingrid, plugged in to her mobile phone and wholly engrossed in a long, long, possibly endless conversation about football, reluctantly says goodbye to the patiently listening ear at the other end, and puts her attention where it should be. “Yalla! Yalla!” echos over the vines all afternoon, and by day end, three-quarters of the Rive Gauche is done and dusted.
Tuesday 10 September
Rain!
And the last quarter of Rive Gauche is sitting there getting wet.
Too much rain can split the grapes’ skins. It can also dilute the grapes. And if humid conditions follow, it can precipitate unpleasant moulds. In short, it’s not really what you want at this point.
We take a gamble and decide we’ll press on tomorrow. Literally.
So Jan-A phones around the harvesters. Siti offers to reorganise the picking crew. “Put me with one of those slow guys” she says, “and Safina with the other. It’s demoralising the way they slow us all down. We’ll show them how it should be done.”
Well, this is a first…
Wednesday 11 September
And they do. We’re really moving well, through all the remaining chardonnay, led by Larry, a dog with attitude. He’s not ours, he belongs to the neighbours, but clearly he likes the idea of being a wine dog.
It’s cool, which is helpful. The sky is overcast but it’s not raining, which is also helpful. Siti and Safina are ticking off all the slow teams in the nicest possible way. “Yalla! Yalla!” rings over our vines. We’re pushing hard; we want all the remaining Rive Gauche in the press by lunchtime. We do it! even if it’s more of a Spanish lunchtime than the usual French hour.
Jan is ill, so Jan-Ailbe and Xaxa take over the management. Caryl continues as No 2 tractoriste, even though there isn’t a number 1, and as no. 1 sorting table sorter, even though there isn’t a no. 2. In between, a caviste comes by to pick up an order. An importer from Mexico, completely forgotten in the chaos, also comes by, on time for his appointment. A Swiss importer comes by to taste the new vintages, and finds himself helping out at the sorting table instead.
By afternoon, we move on to the chardonnay in the Vincent field, and it looks absolutely wonderful. Once that’s in bed, and the press washed, and the winery cleaned, it’s way past our dinnertime.
And then we finally sit down and say, “What a day!”, and raise a glass of Blanquette, and then a glass of Ormes de Pez 2005 to Jan-Ailbe, whose birthday we had almost forgotten it was.
Thursday 12 September
This harvest is in danger of running away with us. Today we did … what did we do? We’re too tired to remember … oh yes, I remember, we finished Vincent this morning! There was a light dusting of snow on the mountains as well, something that always lifts the spirits.
The grapes were fantastic. The crew moved on in in their various paces, Ingrid and her father at a snail’s, Christine and her sons at a judicious 2 vines ahead noon the slackers, Abdullah darting around somewhere between a skip and a sprint emptying the full buckets into his hotte, Sandra and Mishee somewhere in the middle but chatting at increased volume and increased speed, and of course Siti and Safina miles ahead of everyone else. Again the harvesters were asked to work through their lunchtime in order to get the field done and in the press, and by 2 pm, Vincent was as clean as a plucked chicken.
At the sorting table, the grapes looked just as good.
The rest of the afternoon was spent taking leaves off around the grapes on one of the chenin blanc fields. We know it is susceptible to rot; the weather forecast is 
forecasting the unhelpful Mediterranean wind, bringing headaches to heads, flatness to soufflés, and rot to the grapes – and this is one way we can limit that. Or try to.
Jan finally agrees to go to the doctor and is consigned to bed. Xaxa’s husband Ian returns to the scene from a few days in London, signifying a competent and able-bodied man on the tractor, a most welcome replacement for the No 2. tractoriste, who still can’t reverse a trailer-load of grapes to the sorting table, and an almighty family row erupts about whether we should or should not harvest the mauzac tomorrow.
Friday 13 February.
We do harvest the mauzac for the Blanquette today. Jan is trapped in his bed, fuming. Occasionally he phones and offers advice in quite a loud voice. Sometimes it is heeded, sometimes not, and that exacerbates the situation even more. But we pick on.
Bacchus, the big white Labrador, pants like a steam engine, under a vine. Benson, the springer, brings us a bunny in his mouth, and then jumps into the driver’s seat of the tractor to recover from the excitement. Christine’s team is forging ahead, for reasons unknown to anyone. And no, no one wants to work through lunchtime today. It is hot, and scheduled
to get even hotter.
Mauzac is truly horrible to pick, when it is trained in what we call the ‘gobelet’ bush-vine style. All the grapes are hidden right in the heart of the vine, behind masses of leaves which we did not strip away at all this year, because of the extreme heat. That at least seems to have paid off: the grapes are absolutely fabulous. But difficult to reach.
We call it a day at four-thirty, wish the harvesters a good weekend, and say we’ll call them when the chenin blanc is ready to be picked.
The question is if they will all be available to return when we need them.
Tuesday 17 September
A group of students from Carcassonne’s agricultural college Charlemagne, come to put their biodiversity project into action. We like supporting this kind of thing. So they dig holes at various points throughout the vineyard, and fill them with bottles of sweetened water to attract insects. Which they will count up and analyse on a weekly basis.
They’re full of enthusiasm, as they hack away into our rock-hard, stony soil.
And leave with big smiles.
Wednesday 18 September
Took the dogs for a quick walk before turning in tonight. The vineyard was like an after-hours discotheque in which someone had forgotten to switch off the strobe lights: a constant, silent, hot white flashing and flickering of light jerking and cavorting over a sleeping dark landscape.
But by the time we were in bed, the wind had whipped up, thunder started rolling overhead in a loud, determined way, and the temperature plummeted. The rain came, first in thick heavy drops, then in a downpour. We stood at the open window, looking at the flashing landscape. Hail? An uneasy question. A very real possibility.
Didn’t sleep. Kept getting up to see if the landscape had changed. It hadn’t. Then at some point in the night, the thunder gathered itself together into a mighty crescendo, before tapering off over miles and miles of an unbroken, receding drumroll. Finally five seconds of suspended absolute silence. And then a huge crashing finale directly overhead, Beethoven’s Ninth taken to a new, higher level. And then complete and utter silence.
Sleep.
Thursday 19 September
Sandra is working on the young vines. She had had a bad night in her van, but no hail, she reported. She would have heard it clattering on her rooftop.
We got 25 ml of rain.
Jan Ailbe has almost finished pumping the chardonnay into its barrels. The Blanquette is fermenting away happily. At least the winery seems to be under control.
Tomorrow we resume the harvest.
Friday 20 September
A picture-perfect beginning to the day.
A picking-perfect middle to the day
A postcard perfect end to the day.
In short, today’s chemin du chenin was perfection-plus!
Perfect for all of us, but particularly for the chenin blanc, which we brought in under the best possible conditions. A day like today gives us hope … that we will find a memory of all this perfection in a bottle of Dédicace.
As usual, in times of stress, it seems that the chenin blanc outperforms the others. The yield looks pretty good, the quality ditto. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.
Saturday 21 September
We finish off the last remaining rows of yesterday’s parcel. It’s done in a jiffy, and then we move down to the block romantically called 2004.
It’s a really fresh day, no direct sunshine, just a lovely dry brisk breeze. Invigorating. It propels the harvesters forward. “Yalla! Yalla!” has now been replaced by “N-Jamo!”
It sounds African, but it’s Italian, a corruption of “andiamo!”
When coupled with “Abdullah!” it becomes a rally for faster picking, faster moving porteurs. They’re positively galvanized. I walk behind the pickers, checking the vines. There’s hardly a grape that’s been overlooked.
By 3.30 pm we’re done for the day, and all our chenin fields are plucked as clean as a chicken.
By 6 pm all the grapes have been sorted and are in the press.
By 8pm everything’s cleaned up and put away, ready to be called to the front line.
And now we can play the waiting game.
Waiting for Godot.
Waiting for the mauzac for Occitania to get itself ready.
Tuesday 24 September
A carload of kids from Charlemagne Agricultural School drives past, filled with long-faced young people.
They’ve come to the count their booty, their treasure chests of insects full of useful information.
Jan Ailbe asks them: what did you find?
Rien !
Boars are very much a part of our biodiversity. They got into the way of these students’ biodiversity project, sniffing out and triumphantly upending the bottles of sweetened water buried deep in the soil. They also managed to cart off the planks of wood judiciously placed to harbour shade-seeking insects.
Monday September 30
Spent much of the weekend and all this morning stripping leaves away from the grapes on the remaining mauzac vines that still have to be harvested, and cutting out the ones we don’t want to pick. Back breaking work. Discovered on Day 3 that a little plastic stool helps. But you still have to dive right into the heart of the vine … which fights back. It’s a known fact that mauzac in the gobelet form – what other people call ‘bush vine’ – is impossible , and these gnarly, old, stubborn vines are proving that fact. At least there’s Radio 4 for company, though would have preferred if it hadn’t been Boris jollying me along so early in the morning.
Telling me to be enthusiastic and hopeful. Nothing’s hopeful when after so many hours of this, you’ve only done 10 rows, and there are 40 more to go …
But there are some good moments too. Like when you find a perfect birds nest harbouring a bunch of grapes right in the very heart of the vine.
../ to be continued.
.