Virgile's Vineyard by Patrick Moon Read Free Book Online Page B

the light switch. ‘The weather’s changed. We need to rack the wine as soon as possible. Can you come straightaway?’
    By the time I arrived, he was already busy with a bucket of soda solution, methodically sterilizing everything that he was about to use, from the empty fermentation
cuve
to his ancient, second-hand pump. Then the whole operation was carefully repeated with citric acid. Finally the tap on the tank that needed to be emptied could be turned. The deep purple liquid gushed out into a large plastic tub. The pump swung into juddery action and the frothing wine surged up a pipe to its new resting-place.
    â€˜Now this is the really vital bit,’ he said, as he dashed over to stir some minutely measured sulphur dioxide into the foaming tub.
    â€˜Not very organic,’ I ventured.
    â€˜But absolutely indispensable,’ he explained. ‘Even the Greeks used it as a preservative. It fights bacteria. Prevents oxidation. Without it, you simply couldn’t make wine. But the big question is …’ He bit his lip as he watched the level rising in the receiving
cuve
. ‘Have I left it all too late? Has the wine already been tainted by the lees? ’
    As soon as the transfer was complete, he opened the big circular door in the now empty tank. He put his head inside, lingered a moment and re-emerged, smiling shyly. The wine was not only sound but … dare he say it … really promising.
    Virgile was happy.
    *
    The whole of the south-facing end of Les Sources’s dining room – from terracotta floor to stone, Romanesque-arched ceiling – is magnificently glazed. An obvious enough idea, perhaps, if you have a view like Uncle Milo’s but the masterstroke here was to project the bare stone walls and vaulting of the interior for a foot or so beyond the glass. It makes the window seem to disappear, as inside and outside worlds merge together. More cleverly still, it isolates the room from the extremes of the elements. It will no doubt offer vital shade in summer but, on winter days like these, it is only the rarest and strongest of southerly winds that ever makes the raindrops obscure the glass. It is, of course, impossible to curtain but even dark February nights feel detached and snug, as the warmth of candlelight is reflected back on itself.
    On a bright February morning, however, there is no escaping the cruelly panoramic view of all the work that is waiting to be done on the land. Throughout my breakfast, for instance, I tried to ignore the remaining black olives that were obstinately, tauntingly clinging to the tree in front of the window. But in the end, I reluctantly accepted the fact that there is nothing like a glistening, ripe black olive to catch the morning sunlight. And nothing more certain to rob me of inner peace until the survivors were finally picked for the table. Whatever Manu said, if the black Lucques make such a good oil, I couldn’t believe they could be altogether bad for eating.
    I took a confident bite to test my theory, gasped with amazement and went straight to the terrace fountain for some water to take away the appallingly acrid taste. Something seemed to be seriously wrong. Perhaps this was what happened when you left them too long on the tree? I needed some advice but I wasn’t going to ask Manu and expose myself to another long-suffering ‘What did I tell you?’ So I nipped down for a quick word with the aged roadside double-act that regular passing pleasantries have revealed to be M. and Mme Vargas.
    They were working as usual on the steeply-banked terraces beside the lane leading to the village. They live, so they tell me, just inside the medieval gateway, in one of the main street’s tall narrow houses, and normally they bring all their tools out here in a wheelbarrow. Today, however, the
brouette
was full of horse manure, so the tools had travelled in Mme Vargas’s two-wheeled shopping trolley.
    â€˜You