Reflections of Sunflowers by Ruth Silvestre Read Free Book Online Page A

days, going for walks to gaze at the view was a rare luxury, so much needed doing in the house. Now, after twenty-five years, there are changes even in the view. Then, the lower half of this long slope was still a meadow, bright with buttercups. A dozen of the large cream-coloured cows,
les Blondes d’Aquitaine
, would graze quietly here before trailing down at regular intervals to drink at the pond, and the wood itself extended further down towards Bel-Air. Over the years the lower half of the wood has been gradually cleared and the top section of the land ploughed, leaving a smaller but adequate pasture for the cows, who still come down to gaze at us solemnly when we first arrive. One glorious summer this top field was planted with sunflowers, and with
le grand champ
, as Raymond always calls it,on the other side of our house also a blaze of gold, we were, indeed, ‘a house in the sunflowers’.
    Plans for planting this new vineyard took a long time to come to fruition. The first we knew about Raymond’s intentions was when, one spring, several years ago, he asked Mike to help him measure out the field for vines. Sunflowers seemed to be temporarily out of favour with Brussels and the thought of having a vineyard that we would be able to see from our front door was appealing. Back and forth the two of them trudged with canes three metres long. When they finally returned, exhausted, to sit and drink, Raymond appeared slightly alarmed to find that there was space for over 3,000 vines, which would also need the same number of stakes to support them.
     
    Mike had sometimes been on stake-choosing expeditions with him in the past, and the cutting and trimming of the small acacias, the favoured tree, was quite arduous. They had never needed anything like 3,000!
    There was also, it seemed, unlimited bureaucracy attached to the purchase of new vines. After permission actually to plant a new vineyard was finally obtained from
Le Bureau de Viticulture
in Bordeaux, Raymond learnt that no new licences to buy vines were being issued. All he had succeeded in obtaining was permission to buy up old licences. To plant even a single vine, never mind 3,000, he hadto find growers who still had unused licences, usually because their vines had been uprooted and the land cleared. Raymond spent many months buying a few at a time, a licence for 50 vines here, another for 200 somewhere else. He would set off, confident of a bargain, having spoken to an elderly proprietor on the phone, only to find that by the time he got there the farmer had had second thoughts, or had discussed it with his sons, and the price had risen. The best deals were to be done when an old person had forgotten all about his licence, only valid for seven years, and had almost, but not quite, let it expire, which would have made it worthless. This lengthy process entailed many carefully planned visits around the region and Raymond enjoyed his quest.
    When we returned that summer of ’95 the sight of the great expanse of bare earth studded with strong, newly cut stakes was brutal. Each row of stakes was hammered through a wide strip of black plastic to prevent any weeds overwhelming the tender new vines, which could not be treated for the first three years. We had arrived just in time, for planting was to begin the following day. We were part of a willing but somewhat inexpert team on that sultry morning, as a co-opted pastry cook, a technical college lecturer, a Portugese welder, and Mike and I followed Raymond’s instructions and carefully placed the small plants into the holes, turning the slender stems to curve towardsthe stake. As we worked, Jean-Michel roared up and down in the van, keeping us supplied with ever more plants.
     
    Now those same vines are eight years old, strong and lush. We can see this year’s grapes, still fairly small, already tightly packed on twisting stems. In the early morning light the long, neatly trimmed rows make dark tunnels. As the sun