Big Day

My vineyard wanderings have always been much more rushed than I let on. I imply lots of leisurely lunches and meandering through lovely countryside.

Well, yes, I do eat too much and yes, the countryside is invariably lovely but I have never yet meandered or taken much leisure when on tour. Stupid, I know, but that is how it goes. And it just gets faster... and faster. There is more and more ground to cover. Good wine is everywhere now. It gets so it is frankly impossible.

So this week, here I am in a small rented plane with Anne, Jean Marc and a new chap called Paul, headed for Benevento Campania, Italy, thence on, same day to Ortona over on the east coast, then tomorrow its both Toledo, Spain and Bordeaux. As I said ... fast! Landing over a blue Bay of Naples in bright sun is spectacular and encouraging after the weather back home. But as we emerge all laughing from the terminal I get a call from Bordeaux to tell me that 'Monsieur', my French father, died in the night. 94, and 94% deaf and blind, a lonely widower for the last four years ... Monsieur's death is not as sad as so many are, but all the same...

Monsieur Jean Cassin was born in St Magne de Castillon in the house by the level crossing in 1909. His adored big brother went off to war in 1914 and was killed. His father died. Times were tough. Monsieur was sent to West Africa at 17 to work in a trading company. Just as he was getting success, the 2nd World War started. Monsieur enlisted, went to the front, was captured and spent the entire war in POW camp eating turnips. His only consolation; letters written from home by a girl he'd met at tennis; Genevieve 'Ginette' Reynaud; only daughter from a rather grand family in Ste Colombe. Their correspondence must have been wonderful stuff for in 1945, immediately upon release, a very thin Monsieur married his stunningly gorgeous pen pal.

They went back to Kano, northern Nigeria where Monsieur ran a huge trading empire dealing in things like ginger, groundnuts and Chrysler cars. They survived drives home across the Sahara, and a plane crash on the same route. As French Consul Monsieur enjoyed battles with the British Authorities ... I'll bet he bloody did.

In 1957 he had a heart attack and they returned to their home in Ste Colombe. Monsieur I think planned a quiet life, but it was not to be. The biggest wine producer in the district; the Co-operative Vinicole at Puisseguin had just gone bankrupt. The entire local economy was devastated. The co-op's President knew Monsieur, came and pleaded with him to come and save them. I would imagine Monsieur was already finding retirement boring, so he accepted.

'La Cave' where I first met with wine is now a hugely successful business. Not a bad testimony to the man the snobbish Bordeaux wine trade called 'Le Marchand de Cacaohuettes' (The Peanut Vendor). He had no experience of wine, true, but he immediately enrolled at the University to study oenology under the great Professeur Peynaud.

The Cave (pron. Cav) had no money. And Monsieur hated waste; every morning when the post was opened, the envelopes were carefully cut fully open and clipped together to make scribble pads. All my early business plans worked out with Monsieur were written on these backs of envelopes ... I still have them. Everything was done after this fashion. Yet he was the first to have computerized accounting and he had great business flair.

In Bordeaux it's always people who come from another background who make the most impact. Monsieur started the whole process of selling direct to the newly arrived French supermarkets. He appointed agents around the world.

One fine day an English lad wandered into his garden and asked for lodgings. Monsieur and Madame took me in ... and then gave me work at the co-operative. At the dining table and in the Citroen 2CV, I learned about business done Monsieur's way; sensibly and successfully. Methodical, strictly disciplined but with great exciting flashes of flair and inspiration. I am not sure I could ever have been taught so well in Britain, or indeed anywhere outside of Ste Colombe. Of course he taught me French too, and about France ... de Gaulle's 'certain idea of France'. Our newspapers often call the French 'arrogant'. I tend to see it as just pride ... very understandable pride... and such pride is not unknown in Britain. I like being British and living mostly in Britain. But that I can get on a boat, train or plane and within a couple of hours be in a completely different yet equally rich culture I regard as a very great, inspiring and re-invigorating treat denied to many remoter nations.

I love France, she is the other woman in my life, but it was only through the eyes of Monsieur that I came to see her true beauty. If angry French farmers had ever tried to hijack my van as they were wont to do I would have doubtless hoist my standard and cried for 'Harry and St George' before they belted me one. But I have always supported their fight to maintain a way of life; the French rural economy is wonderful and must be saved to become a model for the whole world to aspire to.

But don't go thinking I am any kind of Brussels fan ... Monsieur certainly wasn't. Mind you he knew how to get hold of their money. He ran his co-operative 'til 1974 or thereabouts at which point the place was 3 times the size and a great success. And he wearied of the constant committee room battles. Co-operatives are much harder to run than normal businesses; there are always factions and fighting.

My own business was just getting going, and getting difficult, so Monsieur helped me out. I adopted most of his principles and he decided to sell me most of his vineyard ... I had no real say in the matter and so La Clariere was born.

Monsieur loved whisky, marmalade, fruitcake, stilton and Shakespeare ... which he knew much by heart. I have taken him to Stratford and seen his mouth silently reciting entire speeches, understanding all the baffling bits. How many Brits could recite Moliere like that? He loved his rugby with a passion and never ceased to believe in the great Anglo-Saxon conspiracy of referees. He was a Bonapartiste ... quite a rare political position these days, and a Gaulliste. He believed the French were actually two people... two nations in one; the Romans who were sound, steady, clever and built things up. And the Gauls ... mad, hairy loonies who just loved to smash everything back down again, just for the sheer hell of it. Well, you have to admit, it happens.

As Monsieur saw it, the British, well mannered, good drivers, though not of course all that bright, did not have the self-destructing gene and so tended to do better in general. Helas. Monsieur and I never used the 'tu' form, whereas all sorts of blokes met with in bars will 'tu' immediately. I don't think we ever embraced as is quite normal in France. And we had rows. Some quite splendid rows. But for nearly forty years he was my mentor, my teacher, my fixer, my banker, my accountant, my protector, my French father.

He saved me from myself and from others many a time. Our business which now looks so successful (though you never know ... be careful, be very, very careful says a French accent in my ear)... in the old days hung frequently by a thread until Monsieur dragged us to safety again.

Mind you when success came, he saw nothing wrong in trying to relieve me of as much of the fruits as possible ... but that was just another way of teaching. Monsieur, I promise to pay attention to my comptabilite, to always keep a close eye on what my Mareschauds are up to, I will always look after my clients, always always stick to wine of qualite and honnete.

So take your rest, Monsieur, you needn't wag that finger at me any more, your 57 year old 'jeune anglais' has to look after himself now.