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A day of rapid-fire French followed. The less I concentrated on the words, the more I un-
derstood. The minute I tried to 'understand', the words became a torrent of incomprehens-
ible sounds. Cécile took us through endless slides of photos of pests and diseases and how
to combat them. We went for lunch and I tried not to make a fool of myself. Seated be-
side me was a farmer from Saussignac, Pierre Sadoux, a thin rake of a fellow who smoked
rolled cigarettes and had a ready smile. He repeated the name of his property but I didn't
recognise it. I could barely say Haut Garrigue, the name of our own farm. Understanding
and pronouncing the names of those around us remained impossible.
At the end of the first day I was bushwhacked by language difficulties but also terrified
by what was lurking in our vineyard. Ravageurs lay around every corner and the sprays
required to slay them were more frightening. Even the sprays for organic producers like
us weren't too appetising. I spent the evening showing Sean the photos of the monsters
resident in our vines, terrifying creatures ranging from red and dragon-like to spotted and
horned. Fortunately, most were invisible to the naked eye.
I was convinced the following day could bring nothing as gruesome but Cécile distributed
an innocent-looking booklet called 'Risk Evaluation' to take home. Sean and I read it in
horror. The winery was more petrifyingly dangerous than all the ravageurs in the vineyard
put together. It was home to four killers which regularly took their toll on winemakers: car-
bon dioxide asphyxiation, mechanical accidents, falling from height and electrocution.
Jamie warned us that the electricity in the winery was far from robust. We resolved to get
it replaced and to put a security barrier around the top of the vats in the main winery. There
were certain things that, even with security measures, remained dangerous, like carbon di-
oxide and some pieces of machinery. Ellie got her fifth tooth that night and between getting
up to administer paracetamol I had nightmares about winery killers.
In late winter or early spring the trellising posts that have rotted at the base must be re-
placed. Some farmers had moved to metal posts, which lasted longer but had a propensity
to attract and conduct electric and radio waves, creating 'noise' in the vineyard. Regardless
of the type of post, it needed to be bashed into the ground. Sean checked out the prices of
mechanical post-bashers and concluded that, while an attractive idea, it was not an option
for us.
Stephan Ranzato, a 7-foot-tall, solidly built local winegrower who was also a part-time
salesman for trellis posts and accessories, offered to lend us his 50-kilogram manual post-
basher; a massive cloche , or bell, used to bash the trellising posts into the ground. He de-
livered it, unfolding himself awkwardly out of his tiny Renault. I felt he was doing us a
huge favour lending us his equipment when he barely knew us. I leapt forward to grab it.
'Merci beaucoup,' I said. 'Don't worry, I'll take it in.'
'Ah non, non , it's very heavy,' he said picking up the cloche with two fingers as easily as if
it were delicate china. He deposited it in the barn. When he left a few minutes later, I went
to the barn to see if I could pick it up: not a millimetre.
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