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could fall onto the switch and turn it on mistakenly. Unplugged there was no risk. John
gave him a look that said 'unplug the pump' and he did. We changed places - clambering
awkwardly over the must beast.
The wine from the Upper Garrigue grapes was pressed by late afternoon and the ton of
leftover skinsandpipsmovedfromthepresstotheentrance toourproperty.Leftover grape
skins and wine sediments are given to state-owned distilleries for production of industrial
alcohol. This 'forced gifting' is an ancient tax on French winegrowers. The distillery would
collect the marc from the entrance to our property with a truck equipped with a small crane.
We had done a full day's work but we still had to press Hillside; waiting was not an option
now that the wine was run off.
It was in an underground
cuve
- the one I had nightmares about. We had to move the must
pump down to the horror cavern. The harvest pipe had to be moved too, and now it was
gorged with grapes the weight was immense. We couldn't move it.
'This can't be right,' I said.
'Stop complaining and pull,' snapped Sean.
We all heaved again but the Serpent would not budge. I pictured us working all night.
'What about pumping water through to push the grapes out?'
Sean glowered at me.
'It's worth a try,' said John.
Severallitresofwaterandafewminuteslaterwehadanemptypipe.Myideahadworked.
Sean harrumphed and I marked up a small winery success.
Grunting with exertion we got the pump onto the tractor forks and Sean took it down to
the cavern. The harvest pipe was attached to the pump then pushed up to John who was
waiting at the trapdoor, tied on for safety. As soon as he had the top of the pipe I ran up to
help him pull it up while Sean struggled to keep it in position below. We lifted it up over
the press and tied it securely. John received a tap on the head, a gentle reminder from the
pipe about who was boss.
It was dark when we started the second dig. Strangely, after the nightmares I had had
about it, I now found the underground vat cosy and comforting. Our lantern hung down,
providing a warm yellow glow on the beautiful red walls. The smell of Christmas pudding
was delicious and the exertion of the digging combined with the low-oxygen air was elat-
ing. I wanted to stay longer but Sean made me get out since it was unadvisable to work in
that environment for more than ten minutes. We took turns digging while John handled the
Serpent on high.
At about ten that night we finished the dig and started pressing. Sitting on old plastic
crates watching the press do its work, we paused for a glass of Saussignac dessert wine and
an ice cream. The endorphins from hard physical work, the successful pressing of our first
vintage of red wine and the divine taste created a moment of elation that helped to ease the
difficult parts of the day. Peta-Lynne, who had brought us our dinner to eat on the run a
