Friday 6th October 2006 midday

I looked at my watch. 12.01 p.m.

'Oh alright then.' 

The rose hit the spot. I viewed the tasty morsels on the kitchen table like a salivating dog.

Home made tapenard on mini toast. Mmm..

''Elp yourself' Nicolas said.

When in Rome.

Madame Bergasse appeared, arms outstretched. Petite, elegant, French.

'My mom's a great cook' Nicolas said, 'you are lucky'

Wasn't expecting a slap up lunch. 

'Hope we haven't put her to much trouble' I said.

'She's been at it since 6 O'clock this morning.'

No trouble then.

The house had a nice feel to it. Unstuffy, homely.

Family photographs on the walls, on the fridge. 

A pair of naked buttocks mooned into the camera.

'My brother!' Nicolas said.

Monsieur et Madame Bergasse doing the can-can. 

Where is the man? I thought.

Talk of the devil.

The man on the website, older, grayer, carrying a basket full of giant mushrooms. 

We'd arrived in the middle of the Cep picking season.

'Ici, est l'orange' he said in hushed tones pointing to one that looked like a boiled egg.

Mistook my look of awe for puzzlement. He produced a book grandly titled Atlas des Champignons. Found the page.

'l'orange'. 

We'd done advanced fungi and hadn't even been introduced.

Nicolas filled his father's glass. 

We chinked glasses.

'Chin chin!'

Friday 6th October 2006 11.30 a.m

'Is this it?' I thought. 'Must be. Followed the directions from Cessenon, turned right at the sign, Trellis wires glistened like spider's webs on the vines, getting warm. Then, stop. Road ends. On my left Viranel. It must be. But where are the imposing iron gates, the grandeur, the peacocks

A sign even.

Parked up beneath tall trees and walked across the driveway strewn with horse chestnut shells towards the barn. The gravel crunched beneath our feet. The only sound save for the birds. 

Up on an escarpment that ran parallel to the river, a huge cross dominated the skyline. 

'If God forbade drinking, would He have made wine so good?' Cardinal Richelieu.

'Hello!' I shouted at the large building with a chute jutting out of it.

Then, out of the black hole a young man appeared. He marched towards us, shielding his eyes from the sun.

Not the guy in the photos. Too young. The penny drops. The son.

'Hi, Steve, I am Nicolas 'ow are you?'

Laid back, easy going, young, handsome. Juliet wondered if he had a girlfriend, for Louisa, her daughter, of course!

He showed us around. Stained white T-shirt, black jeans, Wellington boots. Wellington boots? noted the Range Rover parked in the drive. The barn was dark, demonic, noisy. Men appeared from the shadows, polite, respectful. Monstrous tanks loomed above. The huge Vaslin machine churned away, pressing the grapes. A torrent of grape juice gurgled beneath. The place was alive, tumultuous.

'Here, taste it' he said handing me a glass.

Sweet, rough, unfermented. This was it, the real thing. 

Had our picture taken, like old mates. 

Felt like home. I don't know why.

Friday 6th October 2006 a.m

De Montford Hall, Leicester

The sun streamed through the perspex windows of the terrace. The wide open space outside seemed to suck you in. Felt like being in a lonely watchtower high above a forest. The valley below was decked out in autumnal golds and reds. Senses came back to life, the ropes that tie me fell away. Unbound.

The wild wind swept up the valley, rattling the windows on its way but warm sun caressed my back. 

Aline arrived, one of the neighbours. 

'Ca va?' she said, kissing me on both cheeks. 

'Muy bien' I replied. 

The women chatted away in French. Couldn't understand a word. 

She left, I wished her 'Bonsoir' 

Drove to Cessenon through the magnificent Orb Valley. The road twisted and turned following the path of the river. Felt car sick. Nervous too. 

Perched high up on the rocky outcrops, a ruined castle, a reminder of the violent past. The Cathar Heresy. Simon de Montford. Heretics burnt at the stake, eyes gouged out, unspeakable acts of barbarity, in the name of God. 

The merciless crusader got a rock venue named after him. (The Pol Pot Arena anyone?)

Glad I had Juliet with me. France is an alien place.

Thursday 5th October 2006

11.25 Ryan air flight from Stansted to Montpelier. 

Felt like the beginning of a new adventure, like being back on the road again. 

Uncannily a fan of my band sat next to me on the flight. 

'Are you Steve Hovington?' he said rather sheepishly. 'Steve Hovington from B-Movie?'

Spent the next two hours chatting and reminiscing. Reminded me of another life, chasing dreams.

Meeting Tony? Just a coincidence or fate?

Spring in my step as we walked across the tarmac. 

Dark hills in the distance, promising adventure, fulfillment.

Monday 1st October 2006

Spoke to Nicolas today. Arranged to meet him next weekend. Luckily Juliet and Mike are heading down to France next weekend. I can tag along. Booked a cheap flight. Can't wait to tell the lads at football.

Sunday 30th September 2006

We have lift off! There was a forwarded email from Olly in my inbox today.

He'd found us a winemaker, a guy called Nicolas Bergasse who works out of Chateau Viranel. He spoke good English which is a bonus and waiting for a phone call.

Checked out the Viranel website.

A family owned wine estate with 4 centuries of history. The man in the photographs looked older than me. Could he be Nicolas? Whoever he was he looked at ease posing amongst the vines, breathtaking countryside in the distance. My kind of place!

All I need do is pluck up the courage to phone him then book a cheap flight out there.

Friday 29th September 2006

Running out of options. Louise said 'Why don't you try Olly?'

Olly was this chap we'd met in a wine shop in this town called Saint Chinian in the Languedoc region of France. We'd been taking advantage of free accommodation at Louise's sister and brother-in-law's place nearby. I never could resist the lure of a wine shop and had to take a look. The amazing thing was that the only wines he sold were from the Saint Chinian appellation and there seemed like hundreds of them. He spoke good English and it turned out he knew Juliet and Mike. He wasn't a fan of non-French wine and in particular despised English people coming over to France buying up vineyards. For that reason alone I'd avoided him as an option. How was I going to tell him that I needed help find someone willing to lend me some vines for a year so I could have a go at making wine.

'What have you got to lose?' Louise said and surveying the rapidly diminishing array of options open to me the answer was clearly nothing at all. 

Asked Louise's brother-in-law Mike to send him an email as he probably didn't remember me. I told Mike to tell him I wanted to write an article on winemaking in the South of France for an article for an English magazine and would like to shadow a winemaker at several key moments throughout the vineyard year. Don't tell him whatever you do that I want to make wine.

Mike sent the email today so hopefully should get an answer soon.

Thursday 28th September 2006

Mart phoned up this evening from Spain, asking when I'm coming out again to write some tunes. Mentioned my wine making idea. He suggested we make it has his place, in his garage.

'Won't Bev mind?' I asked 'doesn't she use it as a laundry room?'

'Nah, she'll be alright. We can borrow an allotment down by the sea. It'll be a laugh'

Yeah! a right one no doubt. It's a nice idea. It's just when I get over to Spain, I never feel like working. Their pool is too enticing. We end up working on a backing track for a bit then its suddenly time for a cold beer and a dip. Can't imagine us getting it together to make wine when we can't even get it together to finish a song.

Sunday 24th September 2006

Louise and Ben appeared at the door of the study this afternoon. 'Do you remember us?' she said 'We're your partner and child.' 

I must admit I have been somewhat obsessed recently. I'd spent most of the day googling 'vines for sale' but after careful consideration came to the conclusion I had neither the time or the money.

A lesser option would be to rent a row or two somewhere.

Found a website called ultimategifts.co.uk. A young lady stared seductively into the camera surrounded by vines. 

'Who's that?' Louise said. 'Oh, it's only research' I replied. 

What seemed to on offer was the chance to rent a row of vines somewhere hot, very hot by the look of things. It didn't cost much either. You could visit your row whenever you wanted. It was sort of like owning your own piece of France or Italy or wherever, the snag was you didn't get to make the wine. Someone else did that for you. They'd slap your very own label on the bottle made from your very own grapes but it didn't seem quite like the real thing.

'Looks like a good idea' Louise said.

'The whole point is for me to make it myself' I replied, 'to be involved in the whole process from start to finish'

She sighed

 'This is cheating' I said, 'like singing someone else's songs'

'You're really determined to do this, aren't you?' she said backing away from the door.

'Yes I am, deadly serious'

Friday 22nd September 2006 (p.m)

Rounded off the course with a spin in a tractor. Been looking forward to this as thought it might reawaken the closet farmer in me. Alas, not. Managed to lose control of it and almost collided with another tractor in the purpose built training area. As the rain began to fall the terrain got muddier. Time to bid Plumpton farewell. 

On the train back to London I wondered what I had gained from all this. The overriding thought was that I was hopelessly out of my depth. It might not be a bad idea to back out now before I humiliated myself. 

But something inside me said with a conviction I'd rarely known, 'you're not going to give up just yet, not until you'd truly exhausted all the options. 

Friday 22nd September 2006

9.30 a.m

Back in the classroom for the morning theory session. More mathematical equations and scientific formulas. The most interesting part was about pest management. Its a wonder wine ever gets made so vicious are the forces of nature stacked up against it. The accompanying slide show was of Hammer Horror proportions. 'This is a dagger nematode' Chris said pointing to a particularly ugly worm on the screen and this cue Beethoven's fifth, pale of lightning is 'Phylloxera' Oh how those 4 syllables must have struck terror into European winemakers in the late 1800s. Having hitched a ride over on some vine cuttings from America, where the vines were resistant to it by some intrepid British Botanists, Phylloxera began its blitzkrieg across Europe, laying waste to everything in front of it. It took years and many ruined businesses before it was stopped in its tracks by grafting European grape varieties onto resistant American rootstock. Its still around today but thanks to effective pest management largely tamed. The list seemed endless. If the bugs don't get you, then there are the diseases. If they're not enough to put you off then there are the animals and the weeds. Of course all this could be managed using the proper techniques but I couldn't help thinking back to my one and only attempt at growing anything. The ill fated allotment which was infested by Bindweed. So bad was it that I practically napalmed the plot with weed killer, killing virtually every living organism in the process.

Ah well! at least the theory was over. As dark clouds began to circle overhead the afternoon promised to be more fun with a demonstration of vineyard equipment and a spin in a tractor.

Thursday 21st September 2006 (p.m)

 1.30 p.m 

We all assembled outside the classroom and were introduced to Kevin, the New Zealander in charge of the College's two vineyard sites. He was suitably dressed down for the occasion in T-shirt, shorts and hiking boots and possessor of a skin several shades darker than my own pallid complexion, this no doubt as a result of hours spent outdoors tending to grape vines. We all got back in the mini-bus and were driven at breakneck speed to our first destination. After exiting the mini-bus a further shade paler than when I got in Kevin immediately snapped a few sharp questions at us. 'Is this a North or South facing slope?' silence 'Why is there a row of tall trees on this side of the vineyard?' much shuffling of feet. 'What did you eat for lunch because you guys are pretty slow?'

The vineyard backed onto the hills of the South Downs. Cows grazed obliviously in the next field. It was slightly weird seeing lines of grape vines growing against such a quintessentially English back drop. A fair old wind blew as we wandered up and down the neatly trellised rows of vines.

'This is a Scott Henry' Kevin informed us 'and this is a Geneva Double Curtain.'

There was more to vine growing than just plonking them in the ground and hoping they sprouted forth perfectly ripe grapes. The vineyard seemed to contain every example of a trellising system known to man, all designed to aid the ripening process crucial in places like England with such a marginal climate. 

Kevin told us about a frost that had 'burnt' half the vineyard one chilly morning a few years back. I was full of admiration for this Canute like stand against the forces of nature but couldn't help wondering whether it was really worth all the effort.

Kevin showed us his automated bird scarer that mimicked the distress calls of most of Britain's indigenous bird population. He flicked a switch and suddenly the air was filled with the sound of frantic bird noises. I was suddenly in a Hitchcock film and gazed nervously at the skies. I couldn't help noticing the line of sparrows twittering away obliviously on a telegraph wire above our heads unfazed by the noise.

There followed a question and answer session. Now was my chance to grill and expert. I was curious to know how many vines were in a row and how many vines might I need to make a bottle of wine. Kevin looked at me, a slightly bemused look on his face. It seemed a bit of a stupid question. We were here to learn about trellising systems not waste time with irrelevant hypothetical scenarios but I needed to know whether my whole project was a waste of time. Better to learn the harsh truth now than later.

I asked him how much it might cost to set up your own vineyard.

'if you don't already own the land' he said, which of course I didn't, 'after you've paid for the posts, the wires, the rootstock, the equipment, not to mention the labour, you're looking at tin to fifteen grand'

Tin to fifteen grand. That's that option crossed off the list then.

We clambered back into the mini-bus, me feeling deflated. I noticed a blueberry bush growing from a hedge. Maybe that was more my level. Pick some blueberries and buy a kit from the internet. Far less hassle but I had my heart set on the real thing, nothing less.

After another high speed journey through the beautiful countryside and picturesque villages we tumbled out into the next vineyard known as Rock Lodge. This one was much bigger, about the size of two football pitches. It was surrounded on all side by trees. As we admired the trellising systems Kevin suddenly spotted two pheasants wandering aimlessly onto the patch. In an instant he was off, doing the impersonation of his national rugby team doing the Haka. The pheasants scarpered into the safety of the woods as the mad eyed Kiwi raced towards them. 

One up for humankind. Kevin looked like the kind of person who could handle himself in the great outdoors. I was more the indoor type, cursing the fact I'd forgotten to bring my hairdryer along on this trip. Roughing it goes with the territory with winemaking. It just all seemed a million miles away from my comfortable urban life. As we walked back to the mini-bus I couldn't help thinking there must be a simpler way of doing this. People have been making wine for thousands of years. OK it might have had the aromatic appeal of a Legionaires jock strap but at least they'd managed the alchemy from grape to alcoholic juice which is essentially all I'm aiming at. It was a bit of a wake up call. I had to get real and quick.

 

Thursday 21st September a.m

A gang of bored looking teenagers dressed in blue overalls milled around the entrance like extras from a George Romero film, all revved up for a day spent artificially inseminating pigs or something suitably agricultural. 

The place had a slightly surreal air to it, like an open plan zoo. Kids roamed the grounds alongside various beasts of the four-legged variety. Dawn of the Dead meets National Velvet meets Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. By the look of the litter strewn on the lawn a sign reading 'Please do not feed the humans' might have been useful.

I must have been the oldest and grumpiest person there apart from Chris, our lecturer. He'd made wine in the seventies and not just any old plonk but the revered Chateau d'Yquem, the frighteningly expensive sweet wine from Bordeaux. Felt like Eric Clapton showing you how to play Layla.

After a few minutes though the combination of the dark classroom and his slow measured voice began to send me to sleep, thanks to a king size hangover after last night's impromptu 'getting to know each other' piss up in Brighton with my fellow trainee viticulturalists.

The most important information I needed to garner from him was where the coffee machine was.

'In the corridor, adjacent to the reptile room' he said. For a second I thought this might be a witty euphemism for the student common room but far from it,  'Try not to disturb the giant Chinese cockroaches while you're at it, they can get rather moody!' I'll bear that in mind. 

Bolstered by caffeine the morning perked up a bit. It was like being back in a biology class at school and that was a long time ago in my case. I was useless at sciences but did against all odds manage to scrape an O Level in Biology. As a vine is a plant, one needs to have some rudimentary understanding about its molecular structure and how they go about producing grapes. It was like a trip down memory lane, words I hadn't heard for years like photosynthesis and chlorophyll. I was starting to enjoy it.

'Did you know wine is fermented ovary juice?' Chris informed us. To be perfectly honest I didn't think that plants had sex, I thought they just, well, grew. Seemed they're at it all the time. Pistils and stamens in a state of frenzied copulation, the dirty little beggars. Some happen to be hermaphrodites and can do it with themselves. 

It was so far so good but then things started to get worrying. Just in case I was under any illusion about how difficult it might be for me to actually produce something drinkable on my own over the next hour Chris put my plans firmly into perspective. 

For starters vines need certain things to grow successfully. Plenty of sunshine for one, enough for it to successfully complete its year long life cycle. It's why we struggle to produce anything decent in this country. Too far North but thanks to global warming things are changing. Chris informed us it might be worth throwing a few bob at a vineyard just off the south part of the M25. Same soil type as Champagne region of France apparently. Unfortunately I don't have the x number of million pounds needed to do that. As well as lots of sunshine you need sufficient rainfall but with the proviso it falls at the right time as too much during the growing season can damage the crop. We talked a bit about vintages and how the weather can influence whether its a good or bad year. In Bordeaux, they insure against the weather by blending their wines from different varieties thereby mitigating the chance that a particular variety might fail. The guy sitting next to me raised his hand at this point, worried about the half a dozen vines he planted in his back garden in the Wirrel. Global warming will have to go some before the Wirrel Peninsula is the new Medoc but one has to salute his stoical fortitude in the face of impossible odds. 

There seemed to be a million other things as well to take into consideration. Planting the vines at the right angle to catch the sun (cue several diagrams on the white board with mathematical formulae - I was crap at that too!), at the right altitude and with enough shelter from the wind. But most important of all folks, don't plant a vineyard in a frost pocket!!

So having now had a quick refresher course in biology, geography and Maths it was now time to move on to Geology. 

Chris was not much of a fan of 'terroir' that much beloved word the French use to describe the special environmental factors that go into making their wine without a trace of modesty the best in the world. To be honest I thought it was a given too. Sancerre is the best Sauvignon Blanc in the world because of its chalky soils. I wasn't sure why that should be the case but its there in black and white proclaiming it on the back label so who am I to disagree.

Apparently there's little hard scientific evidence to support the view that it's the soil that gives wine its character. I thought to some of the wine tastings I'd been too. There was a definite whiff of bullshit in the air at especially when someone remarks 'ooh this wine is sooo minerally, it's just like sucking wet stones' Having not sucked many wet stones recently I invariably take it as a fact and nod my head 'come to think of it, you're right' 

All things considered though I reckon I'm a terroirist, being a romantic at heart, someone only has to say the magic words Puligny Montrachet and I lose all sense of reality.

We finish the morning with a quick trot through the dizzying complicated world of cultivar and vinestock selection. It had been a fascinating morning but by now my head was numb with theory, I was looking forward to the afternoon exploring the college's vineyard sites. My chance to get my hands dirty perhaps and ask some serious questions.

Thursday 14th September

Saw something interesting in the Weekly Bulletin at work. A two day hands on Viticulture Course at Plumpton College near Brighton. Hopefully I'm not too late. Fired off an email to training. Could be just what I need and you get to drive a tractor.

Wednesday 13th September 2006

My new investment doesn't seem to be faring too well in the garden. Louise said it looked dead. I informed her it was in its 'dormant' phase. 'Still looks dead to me' she said. Must admit it looked pretty sad propped up by a stick on like a drunk on someones's shoulder. I'd found the sunniest spot in the garden like it had said in the leaflet. Trouble is there'd been nothing but rain since I bought it. The cats also use the spot as a toilet. I reckon I'd need a thousand of these to make a bottle of wine. But the vine in the back garden is symbolic. My idea has been planted. There's no going back.

Saturday September 9th 2006

Went up North to see mum. On the way to the Care Home stopped at a Garden centre to get her some flowers. Found myself drawn to the soft fruit section. Not quite sure what a soft fruit was. There were several grape plants for sale. Couldn't make my mind up which one to get. Decided on something called 'Beauty Seedless' because 'very tasty' was written on the pot. Felt a bit of a prat carrying the puny little thing to the checkout. Picked up a leaflet on growing grape plants in the UK. OK! it wasn't Chateau Lafitte but it was a start.

September 7th 2006

Read with interest the front page of The South London News. "Chateauneuf du Peckham". Some bloke had managed to make wine from the the old vine that ran up the side of his house. There's a picture of him standing proudly next to it. I wouldn't be one of the poor souls who receives a bottle of the stuff for Christmas. Still it shows it can be done and it got me thinking. Maybe if I bought a vine or two from a garden centre and planted them in my back garden I could do the same.