The Alchemist

I inherited the gardening bug from my father. I don't know any of the plants' latin names, have never tested the pH levels of my soil and must be the only person in Christendom incapable of producing fruit from their orchard, but the garden is the place I go if I want to relax. 

Anna, my wife, has no interest in this past time. I have tried to pass on my enjoyment of horticulture by encouraging her to join me in the vegetable patch, but she has resolutely stated, on many occasions, gardening is not for her. She loves being in the great outdoors, riding up and down on the sit-on lawn mower, but if asked to fetch the secateurs from the potting shed she would struggle. Her interests lie elsewhere. 

When we lived in Lincolnshire we had a potted grape vine given to us. It did nothing, but when planted in the ground it took off, like a beanstalk, across the back of the house and within a few years was covered in grapes. Anna announced she was going to make wine. I scoffed in a supportive sort of way, a large amount of expensive equipment was purchased (including an enormous thermometer) and large areas of the house dedicated to her new hobby.

The first year's brew, she named Shaw-raz-mattaz, was not award winning. It tasted more like sherry and had to be poured through a tea strainer to get the 'bits' out. But she had done it. After nearly breaking my arm trying to cork the bottles with a woefully inadequate device, ten green bottles, labelled, stood proudly on the table.

Last year, the vintner in Anna was reborn with a vine laden with juicy, bunches of white grapes. 

Having filled a large plastic tub with the harvest Anna insisted doing it the traditional way, so sterilised her feet, donned her swim suit and clambered into the tub to do some marching on the spot. My weeding in the vegetable patch was interrupted by shrieking from the patio. Anna's Grand Old Duke of York had been too aggressive and had split the plastic tub. A sizeable puddle of precious grape juice was spreading over the paving slabs. 

Being 'lockdown', equipment was hard to find, and try as she might Anna could not get her hands on demijohns or airlocks, so the remaining juice was put into large plastic bottles and a complicated arrangement of plastic tubbing and bottles of water (acting as makeshift airlocks) was situated behind the television. It looked like she was cooking crystal meth and television watching would be accompanied with a disconcerting bubbling sound. 

A bottle corker, we later discovered was for capping beer bottles, was purchased and I nearly gave myself a hernia trying get the corks in. After much effing and jeffing and a severely torn bicep we resorted to smashing the corks in with a bit of dowling and a hammer. 

I am no wine connoisseur, but despite the setbacks, Shaw's Shite White as it was labelled, was delicious; a very alcoholic apple juice. The recommendation on the label was to again pour through a tea strainer and not be consumed near a naked flame. 

At the end of a long day of being in the garden, in the months of solitude, we would lift our spirits with a bottle of SSW. We look forward, with anticipation, to this years brew...we just need a more robust plastic tub.