The Grapes of Wrath

We sat on the terrace drinking wine, stuffing crisps in our faces and marvelling at the thunder and lightening, and wondering if, like Jean de Florette, the storm would pass us by without a drop of rain falling. How wrong we were...the heavens opened and hailstones the size of marbles started pelting down. 

Anna, my wife, realised she had left the roof of her car down and disappeared into the night shrieking. Her screams emanated from the darkness as her little head (she has to buy hats for children of 4-6 years of age), was peppered from above.

The next day as we assessed the damage I felt a sense of loss seeing all the roses and potted geraniums, which had been looking glorious in a riot of colour, decimated to stalks and shredded leaves. The vegetable patch, whose content I had nurtured from seed looked as if someone had strafed it with a machine gun. And the water lily resembled a Swiss cheese. 

Still, it was a dramatic opening to my brother's visit. He was with us for four days and we had planned an itinerary of engaging activities including a picnic in Mervent, punting in Coulon and a trip to Leroy Merlin. But the highlight was to be a visit to a local vineyard, with tasting session followed by lunch. 

There were six of us on the tour including Mark, who we later discovered was a pilot for Ryanair and his partner (none of us could remember her name, but she looked a bit like Olivia Coleman) and Virginie (whose family had been running the vineyard for five generations), who was to be our guide. As we set off on the tour I noticed my brother had a strange look in his eye, which I hadn't seen since a Christmas morning, when we were seven (we're twins).

After wandering around the vines learning about pruning, harvesting, yield, variety and why they plant rose bushes in the vineyard we entered Willy Wonka's factory, where all the magic happens. We were surrounded by great stainless steel vats ready for the harvest, and other Heath Robinson contraptions for picking, bottling and packing. It did feel like we had just won a golden ticket; I was Charlie Bucket to my brother's Augustus Gloop, who looked ready to launch himself into anything containing wine, Anna had a bit of the Violet Beauregards about her. 

We descended to a lower level where we were greeted by rows of oak barrels... the good stuff! Each empty barrel is bought from a Bordeaux cooperer for between 800 to 1,500€ and replaced after four years. I was a bit chilly inside the dark distillery so was glad when it was tasting time. Note to self: next time bring jumper.

There were two empty spittoons in front of us at the start of the tasting and two empty at the end. Because I was driving, after an initial sip mine were passed on to Simon and Anna. Phrases like: 'This one has quite a complex finish', 'Mmm, you can really taste the terroir' started being banded about. My brother was at one point heard to say 'I'm experiencing a peppery after taste', Anna 'Oh yes, the oak is really coming through'. Being a philistine it all tasted the same to my uncultured palette, but then my favourite tipple is Les Ormes 3.19€ from SuperU. 

We staggered through to a converted barn for some ballast where an enormous platter covered with regional meats and cheeses was placed. Yum! Then four more arrived and it was one each. Hoorah! Along with the food one bottle of rosé and two reds were placed. Now, I wasn't drinking and neither was Mark, the pilot. Olivia drank the rosé leaving one bottle of red each for Anna and Simon...on top of what they had already quaffed. 

As the lunch progressed the conversation got louder and louder and their eyes took on that unfocused quality. It was quite novel for me as I'm historically the one to over imbibe. Towards the latter stages of the meal Simon congratulated Mark on dealing with the levels of responsibility he must experience in his work as a pilot... “We are similar in a way Mark, you and I. I am a psychotherapist, so am also responsible for a great many peoples' welfare.” I smirked and made a mental note of what had been said, to remind him of it when sober. 

After lunch, and with three empty wine bottles discarded on the table, we staggered back into the tasting room (Simon and Anna leaning on each other as if they were about to do the three-legged race), where purchases were made, some to be transported to South London on our next visit. 

One week on, lounging on the terrace, the sun back in the Deux-Sèvres sky, our glass of Domaine de Villemont 2018 in hand, we remember the happy time we spent together. 

Photo: Simon and Anna doing the three-legged thing.