I was skim coating the walls on our "new" first floor bathroom, when I heard a truck approach the house. I ventured out through the old barn, and walked the short distance to the pick-up. It was one of our neighbors, this guy is huge, not fat or tall, just stocky. He had cows when we moved here, but now he switched to sheep. We got to know he and his wife pretty well. I have helped him on occasion, and driven with him when he purchased Rams, we would joke on the return trip "what a thankless job rams had."
             He is also known to have quite an appetite, he is more honour bound than anyone I've ever met. I have never crossed anyone that I can honestly remember, but the last person I would cross would be this guy. He is also; once you get to know him hysterical, he will say something offhanded, walk away and a sea of laughs erupts in his wake.
     
            Last year Cindy and I went to a Bastille Day lunch (4 f-ing hours of heaven) in this beautiful vineyard as their guests. There's something magnetic about him, the ladies serving would ensure that he had THREE entrecote''s  (our equivalent of sirloin), I scored a second by being next to him.

            So I walked over to his pick-up and he announced that Sunday at 12:00 we were to meet he and his wife over at the Salle de Fete. ( local meeting hall) His telling us is the equivalent of politely asking by other peoples standards. The occasion, the Hunters Feast.
       
            Our small village of Saint Jean de Duras, has probably 250 as a population. We are the only Americans (I should say North Americans) so we keep up our part of the bargain by attending all the Fete's- (soiree'). Community is very important in this country, and we are getting to be known by our towns elders now.

            Cindy and I arrive and greet every one and their uncle-literally. Cindy then drives back to the house to get out pick-nic-basket with plates, forks, knives, spoons-wine glasses. And we pay the 20 euro's each for entry. We were on the reservations thanks to our friend. We all sat at the same table, we knew over half ot the 16 people there.

            After the reading of the menu to the gathered guests, they passed around pictures(not photo's, keep up fer christ sake)  of an appertife'. This was their usual blend of what tasted like boxed wine, gator-aid and apricot schnapps. I've never cared for it, so I limited my self to just two glasses of it.....don't want to seem ungrateful ( yeah, that ship sailed along time ago) . In my opinion it wasn't starting well. That wine blend always makes me feel like we're heading off to back country anchovy loaf and bologna.

            Nope, next out was a terrine of hot soup, vegetable base and hearty. It was good, but  kept thinking the Meatloaf with a can of mushroom soup-sauce was up next.

            We all had some Rose' while awaiting the next course. We scored on the wine front though as one of the four vintners of our town supplied the wine.

            Next course was the Salad,sliced tomato's, shredded carrots, and cubed beets. The flavor of all three was perfect, our friend announced that during Fete's he was relieved of eating salads. His wife had gone to help out in the kitchen. I was still teetering on is this food going to go deep country or make a left into the Haute' cuisine of rural France.

          Then they brought out the cold terrines of Sanglier' (Wild Boar)

              Bam!   Pow!   KaBoom!

They did a sharp left to incredible! The most basic comparison would be a cold meatloaf, but that sounds too insulting. First they bring out thin baguette sliced toast, and a raw clove of garlic, and you proceed to rub it into the crispy toast. Then with your slice of the Wild boar-loaf you portion a small amount onto a piece of your hot garlic toast and Viola'.  Crazy good.....Oh forgot to mention at this point they brought out the pictures ( not photo's- i'm warning yah!) of the red local wine. This was his reserve, they were doling out the good stuff.

           It was at this point that I had to leave for 40 minutes, to pick up Caleigh at home and drive her to Saint Foy Le Grand, where she an a girlfriend were meeting. They are visiting her friends father for three days in Bordeaux.

            I raced back to the Fete' and sat down as they had served me a slice of the local tiny deer. I ate it, interesting flavor, a little dry.
            Then they served the Grilled Wild Boar, This was the headliner. It was prepared over vine stock, old vines that were the traditional wood for bar-be-queing. We have a supply at Petit Clos, which we use during the summer months. Cindy had an in depth discussion on the preparing and ingredients for the Boar marinade.
   
            Then we all relaxed with a glass or two of the aforementioned Red wine, and a fresh fruit torte' was brought out. They replaced all the EMPTY pictures ( don't get me started again) with bottles of a light sweet white wine. A new weakness. It's all about pairings,, the red and the Boar, the sweet white  and the torte.  Ooooof!

           Sure it took a total of six hours but we survived the Annual Hunters Feast. After they drew the winning tickets, about thirty winners, who won various cuts of wild game. O.K. off to sleep for a week. Heavens that was hard work.  Cheers Hank

 

Doctor Doolittle's other problem

 

“The last thing I need is an old infected cock.” I let out a deep breath and started walking to the Kitchen where Cindy happened to be.

          This started yesterday, well to be more precise it started the day we bought Petit Clos. The latest chapter, I guess started yesterday.  I had returned from driving my future retirement plan, Caleigh, to school.  All was good in the world. I arrived back to the farm house and went into the Kitchen and made myself another cup of Coffee. I chatted with Cindy about my plans for the day, and then changed them to what she wanted me to focus on. At about quarter to lunch time I returned to the kitchen and was preparing myself a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I was reaching down into the pullout cabinet drawer for some chips when I saw my neighbor pull into the long driveway.

          I stopped what I was doing and proceeded to watch in awe as he pulled into the space in front of one of our open barns.

“Hmmm, we’re going a little fast today my friend….shit!”  I watched as he slid in the mud and smacked our new metal driveway gates. The large truck then backed up a few feet and he proceeded to get out. I was walking down the driveway as he rounded the back of his company’s truck.

“I can’t believe you hit that fucking gate, what an idiot.” This was said in English as I was too pissed to translate.

He looks at me and mutters something about slipping on the brakes.

“Bullshit, that was dumb. “ Then I say in French. “I’m tired of these things; maybe we don’t have to park there anymore.”

“My feet slipped on the frozen brake pedal.” He looks like he is as usual the victim. I look at him and restrain myself, say “Bon appetit” and leave.  

After his two hour lunch he proceeds to return to his work site. I watched as he left and made my way to the gate. I guess I overreacted. Then I tried closing the gate. Nope, the hinge on the bottom was bent and wouldn’t allow the gate to close. I went to my work room and got a couple vise grips and my six foot level. An hour later I had the gates trued and back to functioning properly.
 This morning I was again in the kitchen and watched as he came out and sprayed some de-icer on one of his many cars. One of his collections of fine automobiles as seen on”Sanford and Sons.” He glances at the gate contemptuously.

“Hmmm! Really?"  I go straight into Hank prick mode. So I amble out as though headed for one of the barns.

“Oh morning neighbor, do you have a second.” I say in French.

“Morning  Henri’” He replies, as I walk down to where he is and approach eying him with more contempt than necessary.

“Do me a favor, I realigned the gate you hit, so whatever you do don’t touch it.” Then I continued , being the supreme frustrated passive aggressive dick that I am. “You see metal is actually a fragile material. See the bottom hinge you bent. Yesterday I took the gate down and realigned the hinges with the adjustment nuts. You see neighbor... steel; as a for instance,... take the metal you use with concrete (Rebar- I don’t know the French word for it.) You can bend it once that’s fine, but if you bend it a second or third time the strength is worthless.” He nodded agreement.  I continued. “Don’t surprise me by trying to help and by straightening out your carelessness. If it happens again; I will take the gate down and have the fabricator cut off the metal tab and weld on a new one. Thanks, so please be careful.” Then I smiled at him and spun around 180 degrees and walked off like the little bitch that I am on occasion.

Gee Hank I pity anyone that has to share the same house as you, or city for that matter.

In actual fact he is the type of person that would not have said anything, had I not confronted him. He would have waited a week and mentioned that the gate looked as though someone had hit it. He probably would think this approach would absolve him as a suspect, as why would the guilty party bring it up. Then in passing he would gently mention that possibly the man with the horses probably accidently hit it with the tractor he has parked there. It was probably an honest mistake; he probably didn’t even know he hit it. How unfortunate. Then he would give me the tried and true look of sympathy.  Hey Whatcha gonna do?

I was working on breaking down part of the cinder block wall between Caleighs room and the new first floor bathroom, for a door. Then I heard our dog Skye starting to go off, barking loudly. He does this whenever Cindy starts talking French. He’s not being critical of her accent, or lack of one. Moreover it usually means someone is at the door. I stop my work and listen. Yep it’s the neighbor

I don’t come to the aid of Cindy to help with translation; instead I choose the insipid approach. I literally watch through the front door keyhole. I hear Cindy conversing, quite well; I was impressed as she repeatedly turned down his gift.

Then he walks down the driveway and I see he is carrying a live old roster, upside down by its feet.

 

 

 

The Cuckoo’s Nest

French Gothic - 2009

 

We are two months from completing this old French country farmhouse. What started out for us as a visionary’s nightmare has morphed into a source of pride for Cindy and I. The renovation was total in scope. The biggest ticket item on the menu was the complete mechanical system. What started as the original wiring for the Cabinet of Dr. Cagliari in 1897 has been transformed into the bridge of the Enterprise (Star Trek not the WW2 aircraft carrier, pay attention for Christ’s sake.).

 There is now city, well more like village water in addition to the existing well water. We literally experienced the well running dry. Then there is Cindy and Caleighs favorite, the heating system. The new boiler is finishing up installation on Saturday.  Hopefully it will thaw out the Artic corridor (First floor hall, skating rink) into a more tropical setting.

So two years and three months later we will have a completely renovated, beautifully built stone house from 1900. Even though it appears that the family that lived in the house never performed any maintenance for over a hundred years, she was a survivor.  We have poured blood, sweat, and tears into the old girl and she’s ready for the dance. Her threadbare smock has been transformed into more formal attire. Once we have finished the final punch list and final cleaning it will be odd walking around this dapper old house.

The Original first floor bath with what we lovingly (?) called the dog bath now has been razed and doubled in size and two small sheik bathrooms have been added upstairs.  There is now wifi cascading through the house invisibly connecting us to the innerwebs, and more importantly to the world out there. The Kitchen which was our first main project has settled into its new job as heart of the house, it has performed flawlessly. Although Cindy, on occasion shrieks when the smallest lodger pays a visit. Usually it is a stowaway in the pullout compost container, next to the recyclable and trash container.

I wasn’t sure about including the brief, never-ending experience with a contractor we ….worked…?.... with?

He installed the pool, and most of the pool stuff, nebulous enough for you?

He ah…he ah…supplied the cast iron wood stoves I installed.

He quoted us for the new wood burning boiler, solar panel aided radiator hot water heater system. We paid for it and the six week estimate turned into sixteen weeks. Then (I kid you not) on week sixteen he informed us, on a Sunday via e-mail, that he would not be able to install the system until May.  So that was stressful, the local vineyards thanked us for the added quantity of red wine we used for interior heating fluid. It was the most stressful time that Cindy and I shared, although I think shared is the worst word to use.  

Would I recommend renovating a French farm house, and all the romantic wonderment it contains?

Would I recommend a root canal without a heaping amount of Novocain?

 Would I recommend preforming your own appendicitis’s?

Better believe it, whole heartily.

 One cannot truly appreciate the good without experiencing the bad.

(I have learned how to format now, so reading this .....stuff should be at least easier on the eyes. Although still headache making).

The Hatfield and McCoy’s; part deux

     

Obviously what I thought to be an open and closed case, was just the prelude to the French Opera I call “Voisins”. Or as we would say in English, “Neighbors”. So let’s recap; my neighbor “watchdog” is seen taking 6 trailer wheels and a few trailer frame members and confronted in the act by Cindy, he changes the subject. I question him he replies they are his materials, the owner of the horses and of the parts asks him; he says I gave them to him. I tell him that’s not true, the two parties exchange words; the owner of the horses throws him (“watchdog”) about the interior of his car. End of story…..

Not a chance, I get a call from the Gendarmerie, our local police, and they ask for the phone number for the owner of the horses. I look it up in our notes and tell them the number and describe the location and town of where he lives. Interesting, probably following up on the theft of his material.

A couple hours later I’m in the kitchen and hear Cindy talking outside with our neighbor, the watchdog’s wife. I go out to see what’s up, and I am confronted with what I would imagine a rural casting call for “Brunnhilde “from “Ride of the Valkyrie” would resemble. (See photo above for reference) She along with her daughter and her daughter’s daughter are milling about with expressions you might see on posters illustrating “the greatest injustices ever waged on humanity.”

I enter (actually wade into, as in fecal matter) halfway into the greatest Shakespearian tragedy never written. The daughter, who is running away with the part of Brunnhilde, is not only gesturing with such despondency, but she is telling the tale as a nearly grieving mother who could not live without her littlest Brunnhilde. Let’s pick up where I joined in. I will tell it in English, although ideally it should be sung in Italian.

“We are but humble, simple farm folk, living our simple existence, spreading joy to the unenlightened. This dark stranger vaulted our gate with a bloody saber and a large bore shotgun. All the time, I am selflessly standing in front of my weeping infants, ready to lay down my selfless life, so that they might live, and go on to lead the lives of missionaries.”

“I wonder why he was so mad and threatening.” I ask.

“That is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, stuffed into a baguette” the neighbor’s wife offers. “We are mere pawns in this injustice. My husband “watchdog” is suffering the most. This madman was threatening us with the gun and pointing it at the little ones. On cue the daughter mimes a menacing figure pointing a gun, behind her mother.

(I find no humor in this aspect of the story, but Cindy and I imagine if this aspect of the tale were true the Gendarmerie would have taken him in. There was a wealth of misinformation and half truth told in this act.)

The wife of “watchdog” was starting to catch up with her daughter for the part.

“Abbiamo pensato che fossimo a essere massacrati, martirizzato come cani e mortalmente sacrificato per nessun motive.” She sang.

(We thought we were to be massacred, martyred like dogs, and mortally sacrificed for no reason.) Sorry I just wanted to see it in Italian.

The part was hers for the taking at this point, then she clenched it, she grabbed the part from her poor understudy of a daughter. She wept genuine tears, she so believed of their injustice, she wept. Cindy comforted her, it was sad. It is only as the story unraveled, and hidden truths were uncovered that I thought of this as a comedic tragedy. Were I a prop artist at this point I would have given “watchdog’s” wife a chainmail dress, a shiny two horned Viking helmet, and a Valkyrian battle axe.

After fifteen minutes of this country theater, and me asking two or three times to speak not scream, the troupe continues their soliloquies.

A script rewrite was definitely needed; forgotten facts have since been brought to light. Turns out the daughter of the horse guy came over and enquired where her wheels and frame members were, and when could she expect them. Well as in any opera, I imagine the volume was increasing during the conversation. Then it turns out the daughter of “watchdog’s” wife hit the smaller, although taller daughter of the horse owner guy. I think that was the aforementioned motive that was missing during the tryouts.

Later that evening the boyfriend of the girl that was hit arrives, (queue in trumpets and battle drums in the background) and the action ensues.

At this point “watchdog’s” wife’s daughter tries futilely to wrest the part from mom. With vaudevillian exaggeration she pantomimes the arrival of the evil caped figure. She mimes the world wide gestures for abundant drinking and “POT” smoking. She takes an exaggerated draw from an imaginary joint. But too little too late for being awarded the part; the Russian judge gave her a two. Sadly she over reaches by then telling me if he shot my child I would shoot him. Flailing madly with punch drunk inefficiency she tries the angered revengeful mother routine, but she’s reading off the wrong script to the custodian in the basement at this point.

I guess the reason it seems so laughable is that during this whole audition, they never mention that someone hit the horse owner’s daughter, and thus started the events rolling. They never admitted “watchdog” came onto our property and stole stuff, also setting this tragically funny audition in motion. And lastly, there has been a history of so much stuff being taken from the property, and who just went to number one with a bullet, on the suspect charts.

As the stage lights dim and we are returning into the sanctity of our house and the minstrels depart, I imagine I heard someone overweight singing, in Italian, with a lone thunderclap.

The Hatfields and the McCoys ; “Or Les champs de chapeaux avec le maître des cérémonies coys” (French Version)

Out of the corner of my eye I caught what appeared to be someone leaning into the parked car down at the end of our driveway. Then the headlights flashed, the wipers started up, a blinker signaled, and the windshield fluid sprayed. It indicated that there was someone being tossed around the interior of the car, forcefully. I allowed myself a smirk and slowly turned away and proceeded into the barn. I would have to start readying the vine sprayer for the three hours of back breaking anti-mildew vine treatment. I certainly had a spring in my step as I savored the surreal imagery of the car jumping into that animated state.
When we bought our fifty acre’s of heaven in South-west France, it was a quantum leap for the family. We went through the whole French buying process, and it was at this point we met our neighbor. He was helpful and talked loudly so we could better understand him. He certainly was familiar with the property, and offered to look after things. He would remind me a couple times, “You know there are gypsies to watch out after”. It sure felt nice having someone so close to the property and someone who had our best interest at heart. The purchase included most of the furniture and a lot of agricultural items. So Cindy and I inventoried the house and property and prepared to return to the states.
Prior to leaving we were introduced to the man that kept his two Belgian draft horses and small donkey on the property. The arrangement was in exchange for boarding, he would help with maintaining the land. Ah everything in place, and thoroughly accounted for and then we returned to the states.
Fast forward six months, we loaded up the truck and we moved to….sure the hell wasn’t Beverly. Long story short, when we got to the property everything was gone. Well specifically anything worth taking was taken, and anything worthless was left. I have written before about this so I won’t repeat the tale other than to say that some enterprising soul had removed anything of value, to the point of grinding off items embedded into the centuries old stone walls. We squared away with the seller and were compensated to a degree. We learned over time that our “watchdog” neighbor should not have the word “watch” in front of this title. Over time the ever opportunistic neighbor ingratiated himself by bring me “Cadeaux”; presents as it were. These “gifts” were of little value to him and usually stuff from his jobsites that were removed for a renovation. It was always awkward when he would walk up the driveway carrying a three legged chair that only required a little work. There were some useful things, but the presentation was similar to a waiter lobbying for a tip. Luckily he had the added talent, of knowing everything. His depth of advice was staggering, even though I spent almost 30 years in the construction industry; he had the ability to correct any thing he saw me do. We were installing an arched window for the kitchen, and had hired a mason to do it. I was outside taking down stones as directed by the mason, and my neighbor runs up the driveway yelling. “Henri’, attention, tomber, tomber!” Essentially he was saying, “Hank, beware, its going to fall, its going to fall.” I had tired of his constructive help, to the point that I replied with my best glare and said. “Dit avec le macon, ami” (“Talk with the mason, pal!”) I jerked my thumb towards the kitchen. Thank God there was someone helping the mentally challenged American.
The man with the three horses has over time proved to be a man of his word. He helps with so much, and has such patience. He has a slight limp, and favors his left hand, the result of an accident that left his right side slightly incapacitated. We have over time discussed the migration of a lot of items from the farm. All roads lead to Rome, well here all departing items lead to our neighbor’s doorway. We believe he was hired by a relative of the seller. But what has always annoyed me was shaking my neighbors hand on our first meeting, and him assuring me that he would watch the property. Well in truth he did watch the property; he watched it all get loaded into trucks.
Just recently we had guests visiting from England, and the U.S. One day I left the house with a carload of guests to drive to Saint Circ Lapopie.
“ Ahhh!! an opportunity presents itself.” Someone must have thought as he eyes the abandoned house. So he has a couple friends drop by with a big van and they proceed to load it up with a half dozen spare tires and frame members that belong to the man with the horses. I wonder if you can imagine the startled look on our “Watchdog’s” face as Cindy walks down the driveway and inquires as to what they are doing. “Watchdog” didn’t pick up on the fact that Cindy didn’t go with us on the road trip.
Instantly he affects the animated posture of introducing Cindy to his two friends. He literally introduces them as Mr. Moustache and Mr. Glasses. (in French of course.) This tactic backfires as this makes Cindy notice their features. Then the “Watchdog” continues by telling Cindy that one is the Chef for the fete’ at a local town. He never even acknowledges the items he is removing as the stupid American has successfully been distracted by the information regarding the fete’.
A couple days pass, and I notice the “Watchdog” and ask, hey was that your stuff or was it the horse guys stuff? He replies that it was his.
The next day the man with the horses is working on his tractor and mentions that his daughter spare trailer wheels and trailer frame members have been taken. I fill him in on the events as seen by Cindy and my inquiry.
Later that day I see him again and he says that the “Watchdog” told him that I had given him the material. I look at him and laugh shaking my head, and say.”It is not mine to give away; he has told you a non-truth.” (That is literally the translation, I didn’t know how to say “fucking lie” in French)
Next day I’m walking non-stop between the house and workshop and I notice the man with the horses driving his tractor down the driveway towing a tank of water for the horses. He stops and notices “Watchdog” watching him from his walkway gate. I think my understanding of rural French slang was rusty but they were discussing the missing items. “Watchdog” comes out of his walkway gate without his shirt on and stands there hands akimbo. (Both of his hands are on his waist) not unlike a scraggly rooster. He has adopted the attitude that he is the alpha male and that the slightly handicapped horse guy should acquiesce. Then I hear the wife bandy about some verbiage. Horse guy drives down the driveway and attends to his horses.
Later that same day, the insults have been brewing inside the horse guys mind. The “Watchdog” drives up and parks his car at the bottom of the driveway to lob a couple more insults toward horse guy who is still working there………..
Out of the corner of my eye.

Vines, Rose', and Tears

I made the kilometer trek up to Sylvans vines, apprehensivly. Last week I saw him meeting with a local vineyard consultant, after the consultant drove away I went to see Sylvan. "The harvest will be easy this year", he said slowly, he looked back to the Merlot vines he had worked on for the last five months. "They were hurt badly with the late springs frost." I felt the hairs on the back of my neck bristle, my heart ached for him. "I am lucky if there will be two hundred bottles". I choked back tears and nodded, looked at the wounded rows of Merlot vines, they showed no outward signs of the crippling wounds the frost had left.

Sylvan:

I first met him when our well had gone dry, Mr Coussy ( The man we Purchased the Petit Clos Farm from.)had arranged for him to drop by and deliver a tank of potable water to help my family. We solved the problem by hooking a temporary tether from our neighbors house water supply to ours. But I would never forget him offering to help us. During the rains that spring, two years ago, his van got stuck on the rural road beside our property and I noticed. So I got the old Ford tractor started and drove to his aid, we hooked up a chain and I reversed down the muddy gravel road. Afterward, as we're getting soaked, I was coiling up the chain and he looked at me grinning and said. "The French have a saying, good friendships are usually started by good deeds." I drove the old Ford back to its spot in the large steel barn, glowing inside from this meeting. I have pulled him out on occasion and he usually drops by later that same day with a bottle of his Rose'. I have worked on the 1450 vines, backbreaking work, in all kinds of weather, freezing pruning of the vines, sweltering hot days spraying sulfer and copper from his borrowed gas backpack spraying machine. Weaving the adolescent vines and later clipping the tops of the sprouting vines, so they stay within the wire trellis system, also backbreaking work. Weeding constantly so the vines get what moisture they can without weeds robbing the rain water. It is prohibited to water vines manually, they must subsist by themselves. He works during the days for a vineyard in the area, then after hours he tends his vines, four times as many as mine. He would show up after work around six and stay until exactley nine oclock, then race the 6 kilometers to his house where his daughter Claire would be waiting for him to kiss her goodnight. That accomplished he would race back to his vines, recharged by the love of his daughter. Again he returns to work the vast rows of his tertiary love. I am addicted to my vines, I have never been a gardener, not even remotely competent at keeping green things alive. This year we took the plunge in taking care of our vineyard that was included with our farm, I would be given a pointer course in vine pruning. We arranged to meet a local British vintner, he gave me a half hour course in the finer points of spring pruning, then left me looking at the remainind 1400 vines. GULP. The weather temperature dropped, and so I layered up and ventured out into the unknown. After a week of pruning, the vines were set for spring. Sylvan would drop by and inspect and fine tune my budding pruning talent. I would work 8 or 9 hours and be heading into the house as he would be showing up to work his vines.

Rose'

: Since watching the movie "Sideways", I've been a Pinot Noir fan, skipped white wine and rose' and went straight to Reds. I love the full bodied reds with the vast tastes within. Well Sylvan dropped off one of his Rose's when I pulled his car from the mire. I think I begrudginly took a glass with Cindy and thought one glass and then I could tell him we tried it. Gotta tell ya, I thought rose' from Provence was the measuring stick, this blew the Provencial Rose's out of the water. His is a Merlot grape, that he add a miniscule dash of sugar and it opens up the floodgates of flavor. It has the full bodied makeup of its Red cousins, but it also refreshes. Sitting by the pool with friends, its like kool aid for grown ups. We now purchase six packs of his Rose' telling him our clients and family are the ones drinking up all our Rose' stores, liars. So today I made the kilometer trek up to Sylvans vines, and walked by the rows of wounded vines. I though of all his sacrifices that he made for his third love and inspected his grape bunches. They were like raisins, with a smattering of healthy still green grapes struggling to make it. There were vines wiped out by mildew in small leper like gatherings. Further into the rows the grapes got better, there was hope; but at that point I already had tears running down my face.

 

Vine pruning

Horizontigo
We have decided to prune our hectare ( 2 ½ acres) of Sauvignon Blanc vines ourselves , after having a British couple tutor us on the finer points, they left and we started, well to date we have one third done after three days. There are six rows, running east to west or vice versa if you want. Each row is about 900 feet long, or the equivalent of walking down the side line of a football field, crossing the end zone, then back up the other side of the football field, then across the end zone, completing the perimeter of the entire football field. But it is all one length, and it’s more of a sideways shuffle. This morning after suiting up with the obligatory three layers of clothing, coveralls, jacket, and then an outer jacket, I made my way through the snow flurries the 300 meters away and started cutting. I continued; with each new vine you present yourself to it and stare at the structure, identify the two young growths that will carry next year’s crop and two other shoots that will be the reserves. It seems to me each dormant vine is unlike another, they all present their own set of attributes; there is a focus that is required for each pruning. Yesterday after six hours in the cold, solving each vine, it started to flow nicely. To start, after cutting the twenty or so shoots that will not be required shoots, and trimming off dead growths from the previous year, you cut the two winners at the sixth bud, and the two reservists at two buds. Then you shuffle sideways four or five feet and you present yourself to the next vine. This being my third day, I walked up the second row of six, as it was almost completed, and looked down the row to see how much more there was. After a half an hour I looked down the row again; and it seemed longer, hmmm. After another half an hour I looked down the row and it again seemed longer.
One of my favorite stand-up comedians is Stephen Wright, his irreverent humor cracks me up, I thought of one of his lines while I was looking at the vines.
“I’m not afraid of heights, I’m afraid of widths.”
I was out in the rows, not believing how they kept elongating with a weird foreshortening and then hypnotically stretching out. It was like Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak in Vertigo, Jimmy’s character is chasing a suspect across a roofline along with his partner, the partner slips and while hanging on Jimmy Stewart’s character kneels down to help save him, he loses focus and the height extends and shutters visually, he gets freaked. Well I got to tell you that row of vines was rough, so I kept chipping away, and finally made it to the end of the second row. Packed up the tools, and like Quasimodo as the hunchback of Petit Clos, I meandered home.
Then the snow hit, so we are of vine duty and returning into the house to start punchlisting the semi-completed rooms. Cheers all, hank