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courtyard. Time was of the essence. With the pressings removed we started up the harvest
trailer to refill the press. A third of the way through the load the trailer jammed.
'We'd better unhitch it and empty the other trailer,' said Sean.
'How will we get the grapes out?' I asked.
'We could empty it by hand,' suggested Ad.
'That could take hours. We can't have it sitting around that long.'
We moved the blocked trailer aside and covered the grapes with a layer of carbon dioxide
gas followed by a large canvas sheet then emptied the other trailer.
There were about 2,500 litres of grapes left in the jammed trailer. By hand, that was the
equivalent of about 250 10-litre bucketloads. A quick review of options made it clear that
the manual solution was the only viable one. It was a race against the clock. Ad was like
a machine, bucketing load after load across from one trailer to the other. Sean and I took
turns bucketing, putting carbon dioxide into the tray and watching the press to pump the
free-run juice into the vat.
In thirty minutes we had the harvest trailer emptied of its two and a half tons of grapes.
As the sun crept into the courtyard we transferred them smoothly into the press. While I
monitored the level of juice in the press tray, Ad and Sean carefully removed the back of
the auger from the trailer. Stuck in the screw was a large metal hook, the kind we use to fix
the vineyard trellising. I vowed we would stop using them.
All our whites were safely in the winery and Sean was delighted with the taste. I plugged
the yields into our finance spreadsheet and discovered it was more depressing than I
thought. If the yields of this harvest were the norm there was no way the farm would ever
be able to pay us for our hard work. In fact, we had to pay in for the privilege of working
long hours and getting no holidays. It was gutting. But if we didn't have the wine harvested
and made, the situation would be worse. I closed the spreadsheet and promised I would not
look at it again until the harvest period was over. I could not support the stress of the har-
vest and that spreadsheet at the same time.
A friend, John, arrived for a holiday thinking he would be in time to help us with the reds.
He texted his mum, who had farmed all her life.
'On my way to the wine farm in France. At last, some real farm work!'
'That's not real farming, it's farming for the rich,' came his mother's reply.
The perception was reaffirmed by the wine industry with photos of winemakers seated
in idyllic locations, vines and peaceful oak barrels miraculously tending themselves in the
background. It gave an image of history, tradition and calm, a vision of a peaceful existen-
ce well away from the rush and chaos of modern life, something timeless. We were in the
midst ofthe period ofthe year where this delusional view was most at oddswith the reality:
a period of extremes, of pressurised physical work.
On arrival, John was invited on a bike ride by Ad. Since it looked like we would be wait-
ing another couple of days for the reds he agreed. John was no slouch, he played football
