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met briefly the previous year when they stopped in to visit the previous owners, came by
and offered to help us for a few days. They had helped with harvests in the past. Now, mi-
raculously, we had two 'experienced' hands.
Ad, Lijda and I did a pass through the white vineyards to remove bunches with signs of
rot and found less than one bunch per row. It was a good sign for the quality of the white
and laid Lucille's concerns to rest.
Sean and his dad, John, worked deep into the night to get everything ready in the winery.
We ran through our checklist one last time and fell into bed, exhausted. Ellie woke at mid-
night vomiting. I dosed her with paracetamol and changed her sheets and clothes, my mind
racing ahead to our harvest day. After a prayer for her health and a kiss on her little cheek
I fell back into bed. A few hours later, tired but eager, we got up to harvest our sauvign-
on blanc. Despite the clear forecast, it had rained in the night - far from ideal for harvest-
ing as rain dilutes the juice. The harvest team - John, Ad, Sean, Lijda and I - gathered in
the courtyard buzzing with coffee and anticipation. As we discussed methods to blow-dry
the vineyard - in wealthy vineyards helicopters have been known to fly over to create the
blow-drying effect - a strong wind blew in to remove the excess water. It would help signi-
ficantly. Right on time the harvest machine rolled into the courtyard. It was enormous: like
a giant mechanical insect preparing to ingest our white grapes. We introduced ourselves to
the driver and explained what we were planning to pick. Then I ran ahead of the machine
to show him the marked rows.
Wecheckedallthepipeconnectionsandranthroughourflowchartonemoretime.Within
what felt like five minutes, but was actually twenty, the harvest machine had picked the
Hillside sauvignon blanc. Sean drove the tractors into position and I watched in awe as our
first load was poured from harvester to trailer. Then he expertly backed up to the winery
looking like he had been driving tractors all his life, although it had been less than a year.
John, Ad and I lifted the large pipe that connected the trailer to the press but even with
three it was difficult to manoeuvre. While I cursed, Ad and John kept their cool and coaxed
it into position. After checking the connections Sean started the auger that pushes the
grapes from the trailer into the pipe. Nothing came up into the press. I motioned upwards
to Sean and he increased the revs. Still nothing came up. I signed again and Sean increased
some more. We repeated this process several times, panic rising in me with each increase.
Perhaps none of this worked at all.
As I pictured myself manually bucketing grapes from trailer to press, grapes and juice ex-
ploded out of the pipe, overshooting the press and splattering our precious harvest around
the freshly cleaned winery. At my frantic motioning Sean dramatically decreased the revs.
Ad carefully aimed the now manageable harvest into the presses and the rest of the load
went in smoothly. We had got through our first vendanges scare.
As each load arrived there seemed to be a million things to check and do. Carbon dioxide
gas was sprayed over the juice in the press tray and into the receiving vat. Small doses
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