Bordeaux Harvest - the gathering

Sunday is 'The Gathering'. Of the people. The grapes? That's later.

Beds made and shoved in every spare space in the house. Huge amounts of food. Cases and cases of wine. Barrels of beer.  The Halls will ring with the roar of feasting for the next two weeks. We don't pay anyone to come and work harvest. But they live well.

Last night Scott the half-kiwi from Theale office; today Philbo and Nat; Red Headers off the plane from Adelaide, with Philbo's now grown-up son, Nick the pilot. All winemakers, these. Skilled men. Then the muscle; B's sister Helen, Booker and Super  Jack arrive from UK. Then Chris and girlfriend Miggy from Marlow Vineyard. There's Dan and Laura still to come from Harrogate plus baby William. And Kaye of course. With baby Eleanor. With Barbara, Tom, Henry, me that's 17, plus babies. Plus Nadja and James; Chai winemakers who live down the road but seem to prefer it here.    

All will turn up on time. But the harvest never does.  All of us ready to go. Except the grapes. Mr Perfection Henry reckons they need a little more sun. So it’s a Wednesday start. Not that we can sit in the sun. We have to clean the cellars and the machinery, anyway. So no more lie-ins now.

Henry's in charge.

I can't remember when I was last in charge here. If I ever was. I'm not a winemaker. Though I did make a few wines. Back in the '80's, but only by constantly asking real winemaker friends what to do next. For years I've just done light manual labour. As light as I could get. I'm good with a hosepipe and brush. I can strip and clean a de-stemmer.

And of course I can pick. And I can sort grapes. I have, this year, invested in a pair of knee pads. I saw a builder wearing them and thought that's just what I kneed. I ordered off the web; top of the range gel-filled beauties. See, picking grapes, it’s not long before my back goes. We start at 8. By 8.30 bending is a real pain. Grapes hang only a foot above ground here.  So it’s squat - at my age? Or kneel. On ground full of rocks. These pads are going to save my bloody life.

Ah ha! Someone has started. Away to my left as I sit writing this with my beer and Alfie dog I can hear a harvester in the vines. That's the first in our valley. This morning was silent as we took our constitutional. Apart the bangs. They shoot Sundays here. Shoot anything. Me and Alfie take care to ensure we don't look anything like 'gibier'. The eyesight of those old fools is appalling.

Anyway, cautious optimism is the mood. Helped by a good lunch: a takeaway; bought at Libourne market this morning. Archachon oysters, small roasted chickens and potatoes. Got to build up our strength.