Grape Expectations (13 page)

  I arrived for the radio interview the next morning shaking with nerves and praying for a calm voice. The show host put me at ease as the ads played. By the time the break was over I felt like we were old friends. For the next fifteen minutes we talked about our new life.

  When I got back to base Aideen danced around with delight.

  'You were amazing!' she said. I blushed. Aideen is a professional life coach and great at providing feedback. That week she did wonders for me, boosting my confidence that had plummeted in a year of rolling paint and changing nappies.

  'How did you do it?' she asked. 'You sounded so natural. I was jumping round the room the entire time you were on air.'

  It was easier than any other interview or professional talk I had done, perhaps because I was talking about our life and passion.

  'The only mistake you made was using some French words without translating them.'

  That evening I found myself telling them about how the
chai
was isolated instead of how the winery was insulated: I was becoming more French than I realised. We sat down to dinner and Sean phoned.

  'We've got sixty orders and I haven't even sent the offer to the Christmas customers yet,' he said. So much for his worries.

When I got back, the rhythm of our new farm life felt right. Washing, labelling and capsuling wine bottles for the new order was far more comfortable in early spring than it had been in the winter. We finished the operation in a couple of days. To top the success of the trip we received a copy of a letter to Barry appointing him as our tax representative. At last we were official and could make our wine offers whenever we wished.

Shipping wine to end customers was important but direct sales at the property were also a key part of our plan. We had to get the grounds looking more presentable for the tourist season. The region of Aquitaine and the department of the Dordogne are much-loved tourist destinations for French and foreign alike. They are renowned for history, beauty and fine food and wine. Just over an hour's drive from us could be found delights like the prehistoric cave art of Lascaux, called the 'Sistine Chapel of Prehistoric Art', and Richard the Lionheart's castle of Beynac where he lived for much of the last fifteen years of his life. Within five minutes' drive of us were ancient castles including the oldest dungeon in the Dordogne at Gageac Castle, gourmet restaurants, picturesque vineyards and even an international competition-level twenty-seven-hole golf course.

  Sean bought a large brush cutter from a local DIY shop so he could tackle the places he couldn't reach with the field mower. The brush cutter worked for 50 centimetres then stopped. After dropping Sean and the girls at the E. Leclerc supermarket to do the weekly shopping I made a dash for the DIY shop on the other side of Bergerac. I waited at the counter for twenty minutes before a shop assistant appeared. He took me and the machine to the back of the shop where he verified that it was not working.

  'You have to go to
service après vente
.'

  'Where is it?' I asked, expecting him to point to a convenient after sales service kiosk.

  'Poil de Vache.'

  
'Comment?'
I said.

  'Poil de Vache,' he said, a little louder.

  'It's not in this shop?' I said, somewhat taken aback and beginning to wonder if he was swearing at me for being a foreigner rather than telling me where to go. I had a vague recollection that
vache
meant cow but could also be used in a less savoury context.

  'No, it's on the road to Sarlat about ten minutes from here,' he said even louder.

  
'Quoi?'
I said, certain I had misheard despite the amplification.

  'You need to take it to Agnostini Garage in Poil de Vache,' he yelled. 'He will fix it for you. He's our
service après vente
. It's near the road to Sarlat about ten minutes from here. Look, I'll draw a map so you can find it.'

  Too dumbfounded to reply I took the scruffy map and set off. About ten minutes later, a tiny laneway announced the hamlet of Poil de Vache. Having explored the entire hamlet in half a second and found nothing, I was about to give up my quest when I saw a faded sign half hidden by a tree, saying 'Agnostini 500 m'. The road led to a car garage in the backyard of a house. Monsieur Agnostini, an unkempt version of Monsieur Bonny, came out of the dingy interior.

  'Ah, another brush cutter. Don't tell me, it's the starter motor,' he said, waving his arm into the darkness where fifteen brush cutters of the same brand were lined up.

  'When will it be ready?' I asked. 'I need it by the weekend.'

  '
Pas possible
. It will take ten days to order the part then a few days to do it.
Une quinzaine de jours minimum
.'

  That little
'quinzaine de jours',
nominally fifteen days, normally meant infinity. I did not have the time to argue as I knew that Sean and the two girls would be wondering if I was in Bergerac Hospital, having taken two hours to return the faulty machine. When I got back to the shopping centre, the two girls were happily playing on the toys near the entrance and Sean appeared relaxed. They were getting onto French time.

  Fifteen days later I phoned to see what had happened to the brush cutter.

  'The part still hasn't arrived,' said Monsieur Agnostini. 'I apologise for the manufacturer.
Normalement
it should be here by Monday.'

  The little word
'normalement'
meant 'not a chance'.

  On Monday Agnostini was fiercely apologetic but the part still had not arrived. 'It will be ready in a few days. I will call you. Don't worry to call back. As soon as it's ready I will call you.'

  He didn't call. By the following Monday my French was remarkably good. He remained calm, apologising for the manufacturer's tardiness and promising the same promise I got on the last call. I hung up before he finished and called the shop. I explained to the store representative that I wanted a new brush cutter.

  'Madame,' he said imperiously, 'if I gave everyone with a problem machine a new one I would have no margin.'

  I offered to contact the European director of consumer affairs to discuss this statement and he promised that Agnostini would have the machine fixed by the following afternoon. I felt like he had done me a huge favour and thanked him profusely.

  When I picked up the machine Agnostini was so affable I couldn't be furious. I left thinking how great it was that a nationwide DIY chain supported a tiny garage like Agnostini operating in a backwater like Poil de Vache. I was succumbing to the frustrating but wonderful eccentricities of France.

  At last the garden could be transformed into a manicured haven of tranquillity. I needed one.
Vachement
.

Sean was still recovering from his 'shark bite' and unable to do physical work apart from driving the tractor so we swapped roles for a while. My first job in the vineyard was
épamprage
.

  
Épamprage
is the removal of unwanted shoots on the trunk and head of the vine. We didn't have a machine so our vineyard required doing the equivalent of 25,000 slow, deep squats in the space of a few weeks. That's about 2,000 a day accompanied by a long, steep hike. This needs to be done at least twice a season. We had done one pass working together early in the spring.

  Sean had not finished the mechanical weeding so I had to hack through a thorny wall to get to the shoots. Long-sleeved shirts and long pants, while not ideal in 35 degrees, were a necessity.

  My day started at five in the morning to beat the heat. One golden, misty morning as I worked in lower Garrigue a snort announced a dainty deer a metre from me. She curved her graceful neck to get a good look at me then cantered away. Later I bent down to push aside some weeds and a brown hare leapt out. He bounded off, all legs and ears. Soon after I saw a snake as I walked back up to the house. I asked Myreille, a neighbour, about snakes. She and Olivier, her husband, owned the vineyard that ran along our border. They were similar in age to us and had a large family. Myreille had a job off the farm like many of our neighbours' wives.

  
'Oui, c'est vrai,'
she said. 'There are many. One type is so poisonous, if you get bitten you must get to the hospital within twenty minutes, or
c'est fini. Et
,' she said conspiratorially, '
il faut absolument ne pas avoir peur
. If you are afraid, that will raise your heartbeat and then,
c'est fini
, even faster.'

  I wondered how one did not have fear when faced with a potentially fatal snakebite and a journey to the nearest hospital of slightly more than twenty minutes but nodded sagely and decided to be more careful with my
épamprage
in future. There would be no more diving in hands first. Now I stomped with my well-shod foot around the base of the vine before bending down to do the necessary. One day I caught Sean watching me from the window, laughing uncontrollably. I gave him the one-finger salute, which made him laugh even harder.

  Some days I wondered when it would end. The vines multiplied into never-ending rows on our steep slice of paradise. As my morale sank to an all-time low, and the heatwave rose to an all-time high, two friends arrived in a vintage Porsche with the top down, armed with tea, crisps and craic.

  John and Sam were keen to get their hands dirty. Sam had worked with Sean in the bank and John was his eccentric, hilarious and Porsche-fanatic brother. They had been in Le Mans for the race and were now enjoying a footloose trip around France.

  'Come on, Sammy Boy, let's go,' said John as I came downstairs the second morning. It was 5.30 a.m. and they were already heading out into the vineyard while I hadn't even had my breakfast.

  'Caro, darlin', you need a good cup of tea you can walk on,' said John. 'That was Mum's advice when I left Limerick for London twenty years ago. Make sure you have a good cup of tea to start the day, she said, you'll be amazed at what you can do.'

  I followed John's advice, brewing my Barry's Tea Gold Blend as the dawn crept across the sky each morning. Soon I was so addicted I ratcheted up to two bags. Tea I could walk on became my saviour.