Woke up in Blenheim very early as jet-lagged usual, groped in the dark for the Blackberry, to have the shocking news that John Avery had died. It was only last week at Jean Marc's party we'd agreed to meet up soon.
John was about the only wine trader I know older than me … Was wiser too. Ten years ago my Company bought his Company from the then German owners who wanted out. We made strenuous efforts to leave John and Avery's alone to carry on buying their own choice of wines and doing things their very own way. Result was we were lucky to meet even once a year. Usually by chance. Of course I now really regret that. You put these things off thinking that things will quieten down and there'll be time for long lunches. It never happens. Now know it never will. Poignant that I get the news in New Zealand; John loved it so.
Move on.
With the sun just up on a sparkling after-rain landscape, B and I head for the ferry terminal. Boat is late but trip through Marlborough Sounds is so lovely. 3 hours later at Wellington docks my case towing handle won't retract so, now running late for the plane, I smack it one … and it shatters leaving un-retractable jagged spikes they are never going to let through security. Taxi dash to luggage shop gets new case but causes loss of my i-pod. Bugger. Those things are now just too small to see.
Airport sprint. She frowns but checks me in then - 'click' - "flight is closed"; wife not yet on! Blood pressure probably quite high now. But it is resolved. Get the seats next to the engines which allows me to discover that 'The Artist' is the perfect film for such a situation.
At Sydney am made to look a silly old fool by the customs girl. Blood pressure! And miss the bus to the Domestic terminal. Wife is glad to leave me and go off to stay with her sister.
But some hours later I miraculously arrive at – or 'into' in airlinespeak – Adelaide to be greeted by tall, sunburnt, vintage be-grimed, but still ogled by the girls - the sod! - King Steve Grimley of Red Heads.
Put in his 'Ute' and off to the 'New, Improved Red Heads Studio'; our little winemaking home on the other side of the world. It’s 11pm. There they are where I left them two years ago, standing around the fermenters, beers in hand, dog-tired, wine-stained from head to foot. So why is that girl spraying that man's boots with red paint? It’s the sort of thing always happening here and you'll never get any answer so why ask?
It’s been a long harvest. Very long. A small, but excellent one. The tubs and tanks are full. No space left and yet more grapes due tomorrow. So, they're thinking about that and hoping a few stubbies of cold Coopers Ale will bring the brainwave.
My brain by now useless. Go to bed at the old McLV Motel I love so well. Long day. Zonk.
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