Alan le vigneron

Yann le Bouler  is a vigneron, a winemaker. He has a small domaine, l'Ancienne Cordonnerie, on which he grows grapes organically, and from which he makes a half dozen cuvees, three reds, two whites and a rosé. His  cave, or winery, is under his house in the village of Boujan, near Béziers. Yesterday morning at 6:45, Corinne and I set off to help Yann with the bottling. We would be done by 1 pm, be fed, and then back in time to pick up Rowan after her last day of school.

After trying to find our way around the labyrinth of the village roads, we finally make to Yann’s open door and go upstairs. Du café ? we are asked. Bien sûr ! Half an hour later we are at the Domaine de l’Haute Condamine, around the corner. Because Yann’s operation is so small, he is using his friend’s cave and bottling machine for a couple of days. This involves moving thousands of litres of wine from Yann’s cave down the hill, either by piping in into the massive vats, pipes running through the streets, or in barrels on the back of Yann’s old truck. The cave is full of shipping pallets – of new bottles, of boxes of wine ready to ship, and in the back, vats of Condamine wine. A half dozen friends and family showed up to help with the bottling, including Yann’s parents. The bottling machines made me think this is where Laverne & Shirley would work if they lived in the south of France. Basically it is an assembly line – put empty bottles on the conveyor belt, they get filled, then corked. The next person puts on the ‘capsules,’ the plastic coverings on the top of the bottles, which get shrink-wrapped by the machine. The ‘tickets,’ the front and back labels get stuck on by another machine. Then a couple more people make boxes, put in three bottles, a divider and then three more on top. The box is run through another machine that tapes it top and bottom, and then it rolls out and gets brought to the truck. That was my job (give the Canadian something where he doesn’t have to touch the bottles!) I either carried the bottles from the end of the line to the truck, or stacked boxes in the truck.

The day wasn’t without glitches. It took a while to calibrate the filling machine so the right amount of wine goes in each bottle. The labeller needs to be adjusted so labels go on the right places on the bottles, and every now and then someone would yell ‘STOP’ (not Arretez!) because the machine ran out of tape or there was some other problem.

 

The first cuvée, the Talon Aiguille (stiletto heel, because the cave used to be an old shoemaker) went smoothly once we got going. We tasted it mid-run, around 8:30 in the morning, just about when most people have their first glass of wine, right? But this was work, so it was o.k. It was a bit gassy, as is too expected, but got much better once it breathed Talon Aiguille is made from Carignan with a rich, high tannin, almost blackberry flavour. We ran out of capsules, so boxes were starred to have capsules added later. The occasional bottle with a label or other glitch was put to the side to use for tastings or to give to family and friends. In less than two hours we had filled the truck twice and unloaded it in the unassuming garage in the village. No security, no fancy signage, just an old weathered door, behind which is a gold mine of wines. The second cuvée, the Prelude, is Yann’s high end red, made from a blend of grapes with Syrah added to bring out the flavours, I was told. There were endless problems with the Prelude. Calibrating went fine, but then labels weren’t sticking and then they were stained; wine was leaking and bottles had to be wiped. It was endless Stop! Stop! We got a couple hundred cases loaded, but there were dozens and dozens of bottles that needed to have labels peeled off. Yann was getting frustrated. In the end, he realized that the labels were smudged at the printers, so he was going to send them back and redo labels later. The final third of the run was without labels and boxes left untaped on top. The Prelude was lighter and more complex in taste.

After unloading, with everyone this time, we went up to the house for a lunch that went on an on, where we got to sample all the wines, having settled and breathed after bottling. There was  bread and rilette and charcuterie, then pasta, and after comes a lamb stew, followed by chevre cheese and two cakes. And coffee. Reward for a good morning’s work. Over 3000 bottles in 4 hours. Not bad.

After lunch, Yann went back to bottle his ‘House Blend,’ which is basically a mix of the dregs of each vat of the three reds that were bottled. He will keep those for personal consumption We left with a few bottles, and I will let mine, which I helped bottle, sit in my cave back in Victoria until the right opportunity arises. I’m not sure if I could handle a life of being a vigneron, despite it being a common dream to run a vineyard in the south of France, but I am happy to help out anytime.

En Herault

Coloured fabric hanging from the balcony of the Parlement de Languedoc, now

 the Pezenas tourist office.

Place Gambetta, Pezenas: site of the weeky organic market and the setting for much of last week's Moliere Festival.

The doors here are incredible. I need to do a post with the dozens of doors I've photographed. Now could I make the door at home look like this? Would I want to?

Les Trois Mousquetaires, part of the Moliere Festival. Rowan & melted in the heat We also saw l'Avare in the theatre in the park that night.

La Gorge de l'Herault, a wild canyon in the garrigue.

St Guilhelm-le-Desert: After fighting the Spanish with Charlemagne, his cousin, Guilhelm, decided to leave the life of a Frankish lord and withdraw to this abbey that he built, in the middle of the "wilderness." Charlemagne gave Guilhelm a piece of the True Cross, and the abbey became both a pilgrimage site in itself as well as a stopping point en route to Camino de Santiago de Compostella. A stark but beautiful church, and another testament to the power of faith. Does the western world have anything today that rivals the cathedrals and monasteries and pilgrimages of the past, save our faith and monuments to technology?

The Abbey Cloister: Where is the opposite side of the cloister you ask? Why in New York, because in the 1800s it was bought and moved to the American Monastery Museum. Of course . . .

The hills above St Guilhelm: Beautiful for a hike. Not when it is 35 degrees and kids are low blood sugar.

Tegan and I going for our first dip in the Mediterranean, near Agde.

Rowan and Tegan is the sea. Tres salty. We'll be back. Lots

Philosophy in the fields

Today my hands smell like poireaux, leeks. I was at the farm at 7 am, first picking leek shoots and trimming the leaves and roots, and then sitting opposite Fabien on the planting trailer behind the (Massey Ferguson, good Canadian technology!) tractor sticking the shoots, roots up, in the wheel that rotates and plants the leeks. A couple hours of picking and trimming, a pause-cafe with fruit from the farm, organic apple cider, coffee,croissant and brioches. After we planted for an hour and then weeded the melons. Done by 11:30 am, when it was already well over 30 degrees.

And while we pick and plant and weed, the talk is definitely not about the hockey game. Rather, out in the midi sun, my colleagues talk of the impending failure of the capitalist system, of flaws with communism, of the French and European approach to education and socialization of youth. It is all about creating a non-thinking work force, rather than independently thinking citizens who will contribute to improving society. Yet despite all the copying and memorizing of facts that students do here, from 8 am to 5 pm [there is the work-conditioning], most French I have come across are fairly thoughtful, intellectual, philosophical. I add my two bits worth, a bit of Canadian perpective, a bit miscommunication both ways, but it gets us through the morning.


After I pick up Rowan at school and we sit out on a terrrace for a leisurely lunch in Pezenas, listening to the English ex-pats around us and the locals talk about life and properties and children. In the fields Arnaud, who moved here from Lille in the north of France years ago and isn't going back, and I were talking about how the pace of life here is so civilized, so sane and healthy. Everything move a little bit slower. You take 2 hours for lunch and have conversations that aren't just quick instant info bursts, but rather deep and intellectual. In the  afternoons everything shuts  down for 2 or 4 hours, people have siestas, and then slowly life starts up again late in the afternoon when it begins to cool down. How will I ever go back to 45 minutes for lunch! If the field workers were in control of the world we would have solved the world's problems in time for the pause-cafe, and all conflict would stop at 14 heures for a little nap: the wisdom of the fields.

Canal du Midi

Jeudi après-midi. Pas d’école pour Rowan (c’est juste quand l’école finit à 17h d’habitude!)  On s’est échappé à Béziers pour l’après-midi. Ce n’est que 15 minutes d’ici mais c’est beaucoup plus grand que Pézenas, et beaucoup plus chic. Il y a un tas de boutiques de la mode, de parfum, même Claire’s, qui était excitant pour Rowan (on n’est pas entré).

Ensuite on s’est promené au bord du Canal du Midi. Ce canal, qui éteint de Sête à la Garonne (pas loin de Bordeaux) était l’inspiration d’un Pierre-Paul Riquet de Béziers. C’est 240 km de longueur et c’était construit entre 1666 et 1681.

 

Pour Rowan et moi c’était un belle diversion au soliel, à l’ombre, regardant des canards, des peniches, et prenant des glaces et des prunes frais de l’arbre.

Market day in Pézenas

Cries of vendors, offers to taste: so fresh, local, handmade! The rain starts. The sky. Thunder and then the downpour. We run for cover under the canvas tent, among the the stylish dresses and imports from Asia. The rain subsides. We venture forth. We run into some friends and greet them in broken French mixed in with Italian and Canadian accents.



The butcher jokes with a small  boy, is he string enough to hold the bag of charcuterie on his little finger? And then we get to taste: a strong cheese, and then a milder sheep cheese, sausage for the girls . . . you like?

The rain begins again, stronger than before. We look for a café, go through an archway into the old town, la Vieille Ville, into the Jewish Quarter,  the Ghetto. No Jews anymore, not since the 1300s. Intolerance past.

The narrow cobbled streets are deserted in the rain. Shutters closed. Doors tightly shut. The rain drives down harder. Images of medieval artisans working these streets, obscured by the dampness. Our clothes are soaked. We run again, a narrow archway into a courtyard, open to the sky but protected. A moment of respite.

Then out, finally stumbling upon a bright modern café hidden among the stone walls and ancient towers.
I drink my coffee and the girls their chocolat as we watch the lightshow and listen to the sky's rumbling.

Au lavendre

In among the lavender

Weeding - faisant le desherbage

Pull back the stems

Hoe the soil and pull out the roots

My arms are scratched from the lavender plants

But the fragrance on my scaped forearms

Is pure essence of le Sud

Even months before they flower

The lavender is sweet perfume

I take a break to the side of the row

Borage and olive trees around me

Sip from my water bottle

Not quite cold anymore on this hot humid day

The Mediterranean just a few miles away

I take off my shoes

Empty out the dry red soil

Along with a snail shell.

Au sud . . .

If you look out our window from the 200 year old house we are living in for the next month this is what you see: the red clay tile roofs of the 11th Century village, vineyards stretching off into the distance, the massive fig tree growing in the garden, the town of Pezenas and the desert-like hills of the Herault in the distance.

We arrived in Chatelnau-de-Guers on Monday night. It is a small, very small, hilltop town and feels very Mediterranean, as we are only 15 or 20 km from the sea. Stopped in front of the epicerie and asked directions to the street, and after a bit of meandering found our way to the house. We were given the tour, including the stone arched kitchen that used to be a cellar/cave for wine. Wine production in the area is huge. We ate outside overlooking the fields, lots of olive oil, local sausage, and all organic veggies. Our hosts, Corinne and Selma are wonderful. The girls were a bit reserved at first but they were having a great time in the local playground and right now they are listening to tunes on YouTube, wrestling, giggling, and singing Katy Perry and Black Eyed Peas songs together. I think they will do fine over the next month.

On Tuesday we registed for school, starting next week., as tomorrow is a holdiay (Ascension) and there is the 'Pont' (days of holiday between a stat holiday and the weekend). For Tegan it was just a matter of going to the local Mairie (town hall) and getting a letter from the mayor. Its not that big a town so that wasn't such a big deal, though we didn't have the official French record of vaccination or family folder. A passport and medical card did the trick. She will be in Selma's class at the elementary school a block away, dating from 100 years ago. She goes swimming on Monday. Life is rough! For Rowan we went to the College office (it took a while to find it among the maze of buildings and hallways) and we had lots of paperwork to fill out. Is Rowan 'externel,' 'demi-pensionnaire' or 'interne,' and why does it matter what my job is? These things are apparently important to the French education system. Then Rowan was whisked away by an assistant to get a stack of textbooks, including English (easy), French (not so tough) and Spanish (hmm, we'll see how that goes . . .) We were then take to meet a woman who I think was a vice-principal, but was called the CPI or CPU or some such thing. She gave Rowan a schedule - starting at 8 am and going to 5 pm, though Wednesday and Thursday she finishes at no, on, unless she needs English support Thursday afternoon.

I started work in the fields today. The farm is 15 km away. Corinne grows and collects all sorts of herbs. We arrived and were invited into the owner's house for un petit cafe, very civilized. I got the tour of the farm, was introduced to all the plants, some of which I recognized, and then we began with the desherbage (weeding). Morning Glory is a pain here too. My back might be stiff tonight. After weeding one of the endless rows of verbene, I trimmed the sage, and then the rain started. Generally it doens't rain for months, but it was actually cool and damp today. So inside we went to the sechoir, the drying shed, and bagged coquelicot petals (red poppies), verbene, and another little green plant whose name escapes me at the moment but will be burned into my mind forever after this trip.

After lunch we did an incredible explore down the hill from the town, following the dried up stream, through the rosemary and thyme and irises and pine that grows naturally here. It is the most wonderful smelling brush I've walked through. We scrambled up red/orange/gold/white rock, more sandy than solid, up and down hills, and then through the town to get stamps and bread. No luck as the post office is closed from 12:00, the 'tabac' corner store only has French stamps, and the boulangerie keeps irregular hours, so far as I can tell.

I think we going to like it here (he writes, as the 3 girls wrestle some more, play with Tegan's bear, chat in French,and sing Michael Jackson songs.