My good intentions to keep those at home up to date on my exploits via the interwebs were clearly optimistic, as I have very little time to myself and even less on the computer. Today marks just a bit over a week in la belle France and much has befallen me since then. I reckon I'll just write when I can and chronology be damned- sorry if anyone actually intends to read and make sense of this stuff.
(To your right, you can see the stack of bottled but unmarked wine that is at our disposal in the caves. It's not for sale, just for the family and workers. We go through about ten bottles a day without so much as making a dent. It varies significantly from bottle to bottle but is consistently refreshing and light.)
The day I arrived and my first day of work went relatively well. In spite of only a few hours sleep and twice as many going from train to train as I made my way from the aeroport to Gare l'Abresle, I was in high spirits. Gazing out the window of the train and alert for any early sign that this trip was a good idea after all, I was encouraged by the sight of a pack of tweed-clad geezers. They were ranging an open field (with no game in sight,) rifles tossed cockily over their shoulders and beagles weaving inbetween their legs. The banlieues of Paris were visible in the backround. I had passed the duration of my overnight flight to Paris fretting over the question of what I expected to achieve this year. Was my impulse for adventure merely a foil for a more urgent developmental deficiency? The kooks in suits made feel no less Quixotic, but at least here was a sign that I wasn't alone.
One week in, I can report that so far I thoroughly enjoy the work of a winery in the full throes of harvest. I was warned by the other volunteers that the picking would break me, but on day two I found that the scenery was so beautiful and the excitement of picking grapes by hand, delivering the precious cargo to the tanks to undergo maceration is actually really fun for me. Within a few days I had shown enough interest (and maybe asked enough involved, nerdy questions about the winemaking process) that the winemaker and proprietor here invited me to work with him in the cellar in the afternoons, and some mornings while the others were picking.
For those who care, here are some interesting particulars about the wine and the process here at D.C. The grapes, all Gamay of course, are organic- bio. This means that as we sweep the fields in groups- the volunteers tend to be slow and whiny while the native and profession vendagers are hyper efficient and boisterous- we're constantly tripping over weeds and flicking slugs, snails and spiders off of the bunches. This year's yield has suffered due to too much rain, but not the quality of the grapes, Vincent assures me.
Once picked, the grapes are driven immediately to the caves, where we drop they by hand into the tank from a window above. It is an oddity of Beaujoulais wine that the grapes are not separated from the stems and thank goodness- as I'm sure we'd be doing it by hand. No doubt this level of detail is boring, but having only seen very modern and well endowed wineries in California I think it's fascinating- so indulge me as I explain this process. The tractor, bed full of bins of grapes, is pulled up alongside the outside of the cave. We stack large plastic bins on the tractor and lay a wooden board across the top to stand on, then hand up the bins (which must weigh about sixty pounds each) up to two people standing in the windowsill. The bins are tipped directly into the tank, afterwhich one or two people disinfects and stops around a bit to start the juice running and even out the mountain of grapes within the tank.
The grapes are left alone to undergo carbonic maceration for about five days for the Nouveau. (due to this years poor yield, D.C. will only make Nouveau this year- it's a pity.) Once or twice I day I get to do the pumpovers- or pump juice from the bottom of the tank back over the grapes from the top to allow more extraction of pigment and tannins from the skins. This is a twenty minute process per tank. I also get to tag alongside V. as he takes measurements of alcohol and density levels, to monitor the fermentation progress. Oh, and of course, I get to taste the juice when it first comes in and at every stage along the way. It's remarkable to be able to taste the individual character of the grapes from different vineyards- some taste spicy, of green pepper and chives and others of cherries and ripe fruit- and how much they change as the sugar ferments along the way.
Once maceration is complete, they are shoveled out by an elderly native who has taken a liking to me, calling me at turns 'Louise' and 'la belle Americaine," who is usually macerated himself. HE descends, naked cept for his grey astro suit-pants and a fork, into the 15 foot tank with little fear of the oh so toxic CO2 that makes him even more ridiculous than usual. I take it he's developed an immunity, because I get woozy when I'm up there with a hose for twenty minutes and have to sort of lean over the edge for fresh air. In any case, the grapes are shoveled through the porthole into a Dr. Seussian looking machine which involves a stainless steel basin which pushes the must aside into a tube by virtue of a giant screw, then pumps them vertically through the tube making absolutely desgusting noises as they go. It spurts, sputters and heaves as it goes and my job throughout this process is to physically prevent the machine from leaving the premises. The intense heat emenating from the tiny porthole of the tank and the fumes of gas are incredible.
Being such a small production with old and constantly broken equipment, this harvest has seen a series of small crises. V. alludes constantly to other career options and reasons he may sell the business, which his family has owned for hundreds of years. Some examples involve u-boat leakage scenarios from the doors of tanks, pipes that don't reach from one place to the next, a broken pressoir, and a contamination of grapes which reeked of rubbing alcohol. The solutions to these problems are primitive, labor intensive and infurating to Vincent, but pretty much fun for me to witness and help to solve: carring five tons of grapes in bins from one place to the next, fishing out contaminated grapes.
Also intersting to observe have been Vincent's highly dramatic relationship to the co-op in Bully who for some reason this year refuse to buy his grapes, his refusal to age anything in Oak, and the fascinating politics of the A.O.C appelations.
There is also the matter of how colorful the family is. Up until a dramatic denoument after only a week here, at which point I was no longer comfortable working with V., I was thoroughly enjoying my status as the designated cellar rat and first mate to the winemaker. But the rest of the family and the locals who help out with harvest are wonderful. The food is incredible and all lovingly prepared by V.'s mother, Colette. For lunch and dinner there are always four courses- starting with a soup made entirely from vegetables in her garden, usually just a simple soup of leeks, celery and carrots blended with one of those plastic blending wands right over the stove. Then comes some kind of salad, followed by meat and some kind of other vegetable. After the main courses, apples and peaches and other fruit from trees on the property are passed around along with several cheeses. Sometimes there is even dessert on top of that. It's just unreal.
I could go into even more detail about the family and lots of funny vignettes about them, but I should probably quit while I'm ahead as this is already obscenely long. When I next write, It will be to tell you about where I've relocated to after the event which I cryptically alluded to above...
I'll leave you with an example of how beautiful it is here:
With love,
Lise
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