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.