Wine

Wines in waiting    The stark, stumpy vines in January…

This week, green and healthy growth.

And almost here, tiny grapes just appearing.

This is wine growing country as you know At one time, virtually the whole community were involved in some way or other, working for the separate domaines or wine growing dynasties, such as Domaine Mon Plezy.

A lot of the domaines have returned to their independent status after the popularity of the massive co-operatives waned, amongst accusations of inferior quality. One can still see these huge buildings around the area empty and falling to disrepair. However lessons were learnt and some of the smaller wine growers are again using co- operative wine producers and producing a superior quality of this nectar of the gods.

Handily for me the most popular grape round these parts is Picpoul. We first tasted this crisp, white wine at the Goods Shed in Canterbury with Maggie and Peter; now we see it growing. Gives one a sense of almost parental pride.

So, we were very excited on Sunday last to be going to our first dégustation or wine tasting.   It was to be the first tasting of the rosé wine from the Sarabande domaine.  This is a tiny domaine owned and run totally by Isla , originally from Ireland, and Paul from Australia.   They have two young children; they grow the vines, and do the weeding, tending and picking and produce delightful red and rosé wines.   At first,  I declined a glass of rosé, on the basis that I don’t like it.  “I know you will love it” quoth Paul and so I did.  I had to keep trying but after a fair test of 3 glasses I had to agree.   Loverly.    And dry as a bone ( technical term, unknown except among us wine quafficionados)

In their spare time (!) Isla and Paul make Sarabande gin which is rated very highly and sold to many other countries.  And they run different events around their wine tastings throughout the year.   AND they never stop smiling.

Although the guests last evening were of several nationalities, it was obvious who was the target audience.  Supper was provided by Mr. Fish and Chips

So in this exciting new world in which we live,  we attend everything.  If someone’s inspecting a drain in the next village we’ll be there.  At home I would not stir past the front door for less than a Michelin starred meal and free champagne (oh I forget you nearly all know me.   Ok for a free meal and a bottle of Prosecco).  Add into this picture my well known fear of anything that isn’t an actual human being i.e under the generic description of “animal”,  then dear bloggees you would have been surprised to see me in a field, at the end of nowhere, with a load of chickens.

” Would you like to see the chickens that produce your lovely morning eggs?”

”No”

“But it’s an idyllic spot in the country   with chairs you can sit on and everything.”

”No.”

”Take you out for lunch after.  With wine and stuff”

”Can I stay in the car?”

” Yes,  but you’ll want to get out.”

Ever in the forefront of my mind, whatever the occasion, is “what to wear”,  so in the absence of such mundane footwear as Wellington boots, I put on my black patent leather thigh-high, four inch heels,  Jimmy Chews   (yes, ok,  I was fooled.  I suppose I should have guessed as they were only £28 as opposed to £300 or so for real Choos)   We drive to some god forsaken place, up dirt tracks and then had to walk, yes walk, for miles to an opening in a hedge where sat Brian, our friend and egg man, and about eighty chickens.

Honestly, is it me?   The noise and the smell were horrendous and the other three adults cooed and clucked and stroked these beaky things    I did admit, I am not a total philistine, that some of the iridescent feathers were pretty but when Brian said to me “Jan, do youwant to hold this egg, it’s straight from the hen?”   I shuddered and politely said, “No thank you dear, let it cool down, put it in a nice grey box with five others and I’ll pretend it came from a supermarket”.

One interesting thing occurred to me though.   The chickens were eating the vine leaves and presumably the grapes when they come.   A bit of fermentation and I could have wine-infused eggs for breakfast.    I think it could catch on.

After the other three finally gave in and tore themselves away I was pleased to get back to the car    Until a nasal scorching, eye piercing odour told me that Hugh had taken the opportunity to bring three tons of chicken pooh back for his garden.   Ah the joys of country living.

Brian invited us to afternoon tea with his sister Sharon in her house in Roujan   It is an enormous three storey conversion project.    The gardens have been done, the pool installed and an amazing and enormous kitchen.   The whole of  the top floor and roof are yet to be rebuilt and unfortunately some of the work already undertaken is seriously sub standard.   Sharon , Brian’s sister,  seems very philosophical about it all.    However, she lost her farm, her home and most of her possessions to the Mugabe pogroms in her native home of Zimbabwe.    After the unimaginable horrors of her last years there I suspect a leaking roof is small fry.   She is a brave, bright and intelligent woman and I hope we shall become friends.   Despite …. the three dogs, two cats and the chicken sanatorium, housing chickens at every stage from incubator to old age.   What is it with people and animals here?

To round off a blog mainly about wine, Sharon is a wine importer    Currently she sells  South African wine to newish markets such as China.   However now she lives in France and has a French partner they hope to produce their own wine label.   She made Gary a gift of a bottle of Rhône wine which he had difficulty describing amid his exultant cries of “Oh, Oh.    It’s ….  oh”.  An adjectivally challenged man is our Gaz.   He later found that the wine was in the top 2 per cent of Rhône wines   A gift indeed.

i received one glass of a nice white.   I’ll give her one more chance to be my friend. One.