Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog by Jamie Ivey Read Free Book Online Page A

5–0 at football, in Rio de Janeiro with a Brazilian referee, and with the Faroe goalkeeper having been sent off in the first minute. According to the French mindset, the second coming of Christ was more probable than their best wines being judged inferior to foreign muck. And yet it happened.
    Â Â The tasting became known as the Judgement of Paris and at the time caused outrage in the wine industry. Steven was temporarily ostracised by major vineyards, who criticised the methodology employed, and such was the legacy of the event that there are now two Hollywood films in production on the subject.
    Â Â Much of the rest of the lunch with Steven had been spent discussing the nascent English wine industry. Steven's new project was the creation of a vineyard in Dorset. He'd had experts over from Champagne and Chablis to examine the soil and they'd pronounced his prospects to be good. Global warming had led to longer hotter summers and the UK climate was now similar to that of northern France a decade ago. The same band of chalky soil that gave rise to the steely whites of Chablis and lent the finesse to champagnes resurfaced in the UK as the North, South and Dorset Downs. Technically there were no obstacles to the UK beginning to produce fizz, whites and even reds of the highest quality and Steven was determined to be one of the new generation of growers.
    Â Â These memories returned as I regarded the box of Wiltshire rosé. I needed an event to create a buzz and it would be fun to find out whether Steven was right about English wines. Why not organise a mini Judgement of Paris and see whether in a blind tasting the locals preferred English or French pink? At the very least the tasting would garner some much needed publicity for my business and gain me a few new customers.
    Â Â As always, it was best to check any new idea with a local.
    Â Â Born in the house we lived in, Manu, our landlord, was a typical Provençal peasant: dark hair, dark eyes, and arms like anvils. I'd watched him labour for hours unaided by machine, picking olives in the bitter December cold, or harvesting lavender in the heat of July. His body had the durability of an ox and he used his vast bulk to eke money from the land in whatever way possible. Deeply distrustful of strangers, he'd at first refused to allow us to rent the other half of his farmhouse. Our worlds were just too different. To him we were effete intellectuals selling a luxury product (bottled as opposed to pumped wine) to the region's second homeowners. Such people, in Manu's eyes, had the social status of leeches and he would love to have stuck a lighter up their Parisian derrières.
    Â Â However, once the estate agent had suggested doubling the deposit, Manu's moral stance weakened and finally he relented. Now, after three years living next door to each other, we'd developed a mutual friendship, sharing occasional drinks of the moonshine liquor he produced and talking about politics. Manu was the archetypal French socialist: an ardent advocate of the poor, supporter of strikes, of working shorter hours, retiring early and higher taxes for the rich. In his eyes Tanya and I were the political enemy, capitalists whose belief in profit would bring the world to its knees. A hundred or so years ago he would probably happily have seen us guillotined; these days he had to be content with the occasional dramatic gesture of disgust and some more shared moonshine.
    Â Â As well as being a reliable barometer of local opinion, Manu was also a vigneron. He'd reclaimed the field of old untended vines outside our kitchen window. The rows now stretched neatly towards the horizon. French winemakers have a saying, 'the wine speaks of the people', implying that the most important element in a wine is the love and care of the person who makes it. By dedicating himself to the land, the winemaker becomes at one with his terroir. I'd never fully understood the concept until I