Irish (and Moroccan) hands, French soil
Moroccans, Irish, French; catholic, prodestant, muslim
This photograph was taken at the end of September, I’m second from the right. We have just finished picking a small parcel of vines not far from the winery of Les Deux Cols. This is a rather extraordinary project owned and run by three friends of mine. All live in Dublin where I am from. Which you could say makes me biased. But I am happy to declare.
I have been trying to get these wines on to the list at No. 34 since we opened. It has proved difficult for a number of reasons but I am hopeful that by the time you read this a pallet will be on its way from France.
This is my seventh harvest and I’ve done a few trips to prune and dig up weeds. Susan thinks I am mad, and my son Tom, who once came with me, is convinced I am bonkers. It is hard, sweaty work and by the end of the day you are often covered in sticky grape juice. Why do I do it?
Making wine is incredibly hard work. It is difficult and challenging juggling so many factors both in the vineyard and the winery. The days are long - starting at 6.30 - and unpredictable. There is rarely certainty which means the decision makers are constantly on their toes. It is part science, part craft. When to harvest, when not to, how long to do a pour-over, when to destem, when to crush and indeed what to crush. LDC is a collection of parcels of land, not one domain, so the decision making is made even harder as each location, planted with different grapes, brings its own character to the party.
So for a few days I immerse myself in this chaos and watch my friends Simon, Charles and Gerard bring order and sense to one of life’s true pleasures, a glass of wine. I am in awe, it really is magical. On my last day we crushed the grapes from a parcel of land and pumped the juice into a stainless steel container (see photo). It is cloudy and beige, about as unpromising as a vat of liquid can be, except the smell is sweet and grapey, it is like spring; bright and hopeful.
So this is what picking grapes is all about. Backbreaking, hot, dusty but oddly satisfying.
When I return it will have moved into a barrel, or perhaps another tank, none of the wine seems to stay very long in one vessel or place in what is a compact cellar. And Simon will offer me a taste and explain - he is a phenomenal teacher and hugely generous with information - what is going on. It can be difficult to see anything to write home about as the sample is often tart, ungiving and decidedly unappealing but slowly I am learning to seek our the fruit, look for the balance, understand the journey.
One this trip I got to taste all the 2023 wines (and some from another project of which more in another article). Sticking your nose into a glass in the very place it has been made is a rather special experience heightened in my case by knowing that somewhere in there is a grape I harvested, probably. I definitely lifted a bucket of grapes - I lifted rather a lot to be honest, and racked and poured over and hosed down. I bent over the vines and snipped bunches of grapes till my back ached. And listened to the endless chatter from my fellow pickers, most of whom are from Morocco and speak not a word of English but talk and sing constantly, when they are not praying to Allah.
What I taste in the glass is different for each wine - both grape and parcel are unique - but there is a universality to these wines and in a word it is balance. There is fruit, tannin in the reds, acidity and structure, there is brightness and energy. You could say brambles, or talk about berries, or cedar, or perhaps even smoke. But I prefer to stick to the architecture.
These may look just like vines, but in some strange way I have developed a degree of fondness and, dare I say it, ownership.
The reason I kneel in the Rhone soil and pick grapes here is it grounds me in some real and profound way. I keep learning but I want to feel. Its like an annual pilgrimage reminding me in some ridiculous way that among the clutter and noise of life, here is something humble and special that has fundamentally not changed in centuries. Special in that these wines are bright and alive, giving and challenging in equal measure.
Each evening I drive back to our inevitable hearty supper through the vineyards and the long shadows of late summer. I am exhausted and dusty, properly humbled and in need of a glass of wine. And you know what? It is the best glass ever.
Hugo