Virgile's Vineyard by Patrick Moon Read Free Book Online

‘St Vincent’s Day.’
    â€˜Don’t believe all you read!’ laughs Virgile. ‘It can start whenever the leaves have fallen in the first frosts, usually some time in December. The only thing that really matters is that you’re finished by the end of March, when the buds start bursting.’
    But this is an objective that seems distressingly unattainable as we finish our labours for today, with only two rows, out of I hate to think how many, completed.
    *
    Marseillan is another attractive little port, slightly west of Bouzigues on the Bassin de Thau and, according to Krystina, once another sub-colony of Marseille, as its name suggests. But its major claim to modern fame must surely be the production of one of the few alcoholic beverages that have ever – on the rarest of high days and holidays – been known to pass the lips of Mme Gros: the distinctive vermouth, Noilly Prat. So for once, it is she who has urged the expedition upon me.
    â€˜Your car, I think,’ she announced decisively, when the idea was first mooted. ‘My husband will be quite happy in the back. Then we can arrive with a bit of style for once.’
    My ancient three-door Renault may not be quite the celebrity limousine of my neighbour’s dreams but at least it is not a little red van. Unfortunately, however, the car’s designer knew nothing of Mme Gros’s taste in millinery. Otherwise, he might have raised the ceiling several centimetres and found a different location for the rear-view mirror. For despite the return of the torrential storms, Mme Gros has graced the occasion with an enormous and unseasonably flowery hat that makes driving extremely hazardous.
    In fact, the whole of Mme Gros’s outfit is incongruously summery, from the billowing, floral-patterned dress to the unaccustomed pink high heels. The entire effect looks as if she were expecting to open the vermouth factory, instead of merely visiting it. Even Manu has been pressed into a tie. And the fact that he has somehow arranged a private tour in the middle of the normal fermeture annuelle (another hunting contact?) accentuates the general air of visiting royalty. Or it would have done, if Manu had succeeded in finding the out-of-season entrance before the silken herbaceous border festooning his spouse’s headgear was irretrievably sodden.
    She is therefore in no mood to be amused by the rapt attention that he is paying to the vivacious young blonde who has been deputed to act as our guide. After all, who would have expected him to be so fascinated by the fact that a vermouth starts its life as ordinary table wine (in this case, a blend of Picpoul de Pinet and something I have yet to investigate, called Clairette du Languedoc)? Or so enthralled by the addition of fruit-flavoured spirits and a long list of herbs and spices (in a recipe curiously reminiscent of the ancient Greek cocktails that Krystina spoke about but omitting, I trust, the ground-up marble)?
    â€˜Pay no attention to my husband,’ snaps Mme Gros – a strategy that has clearly commended itself to her over nearly fifty years of marriage. ‘A man who manages to forget my umbrella on a day like this.’
    The lack of waterproofing is suddenly uppermost in everyone’s minds because the blonde has steered us outside again to a rain-drenched courtyard filled with hundreds of ancient-looking barrels.
    â€˜Here we observe the special process that makes Joseph Noilly’s 1813 invention unique,’ says her impeccably memorized script. ‘A year’s exposure to Marseillan’s special combination of blazing sunshine and refreshing sea breezes.’
    The irony may be lost on our guide but not on Mme Gros. She glowers first at the heavy black clouds that have so thoroughly soaked her and then at the feckless incompetent whom she holds responsible.
    â€˜The heat evaporates six to eight per cent of the wine in every barrel,’ the script