A Good Year

As soon as this phase was completed the juice was pumped into stainless steel tanks to continue the process, and the fermentation vats were cleaned for the next lot of grapes.

I took Pierre with me to my vineyard, (okay I didn't actually own it, yet, but to Dad and I it was mine) to supervise the start of the picking. These were Shiraz grapes and had come along really well. The weather forecast was for mildish temperatures for the next couple of days before a high pressure system would result in hot northerly winds for the next week or so. We had to get the grapes off the vines before that happened so Pierre and I spent the day with the pickers. The real work of making wine was about to begin.

The grapes were placed into the fermentation vat with the skins floating on top. Every three or four hours the skins had to be pushed down to expose the juice to as much of them as possible, and in order to release the carbon dioxide that was trapped under them, so that the resultant wine would have the right colour. This process went on for two weeks, meaning not a lot of sleep, until the fermentation had dropped right back to almost nothing, and then the juice was pumped off and the skins put through the basket press to extract as much of the remaining juice as possible. Testing showed me that the sugar/acid balance was perfect and the juice was then pumped into the stainless steel tank to finish the fermentation process. This would take a couple of months before it would be transferred into the oak casks for the next phase. It would sit in these casks for at least 18 months before being transferred into new oak casks to soften and take up the vanilla flavour of the new wood. I explained all of this to Pierre as we prepared new oak casks to receive the juice from the vintage of two years ago.

"We can't stop just because my wine is at the stage where we have little input, we have the rest of the harvest to process." I told Pierre as we took a night off to recover from our efforts. We have just made love for the first time in over a week and it was less than perfect. We were both tired and unable to make the heavy physical love that we had experienced in the past, and while I like the slow and gentle style, this was too slow and too gentle, and both of us were in danger of falling asleep in the middle of it. "This would be the main reason that I would give up wine-making. It was okay before you came along, I had no-one to stay awake for, but now I somehow feel that I'm letting you down."

"Cherie, you are not letting me down, I understand that we require the stamina for the work. But let me warn you that when this harvest is finished you and I will make the love so much."

"I'll keep you to that." I told him as I closed my eyes. I was asleep before he could reply, although I did feel his lips on mine.

The next few weeks were hard work. Because of the heat, we began picking at first light, and because, the heat was affecting the berries we could only pick until late morning. Then it was into the relatively cool of the cellars to test juice and pump juice from fermenters to holding tanks to casks as required. The good thing was that we were able to sit down to a proper feed at night, instead of eating on the run as we had been. We still didn't have the stamina to make love properly, but it was better than nothing.

Our picking season lasted six weeks and before we knew it, it was time for the pickers' party. This consisted of a barbecue in the winery grounds with lots, not too much, of wine from previous vintages for the pickers to taste, after all they had picked the grapes.

"Guys." Dad tapped a knife against his wine glass. "Could I have your attention please." Quietness descended. "I know that I say this every year, but thanks for your efforts. I know that it was hard work at times, what with the heat and the need to get the grapes off the vines at the right time, but we did it, you did it." He held his glass up. "This wine is the result of your efforts of three years ago, and if I might say so, it was a good year. But let me tell you, this year looks as if it's going to be an even better year. That will be something to look forward to in three years time. What I'm trying to say is, you guys come back every year, and every year you do a great job. I couldn't ask for better pickers and I want to reward you accordingly." This brought a cheer from the pickers. "Each of you will get a bonus, don't tell the tax man, and a six pack of wine of your choice, except Jenny's wine, all of that has been pre-sold for the next two years, we don't even have enough for tasting at the cellar door. Sorry guys, but not even grovelling to her will get you any, so you'll have to make do with my wine. In fact, I can announce that as soon as she has completed her studies she will be offered a job as a consultant winemaker at Chateau Rombault in France!" Another cheer from the pickers.

"She'll show them Froggies how to make wine." Someone shouted.

Pierre stood and held up his hand for silence. "My name, for those of you who don't know me, is Pierre Rombault, and I came here this year to see for myself how you make wine in Australie. Jenny has already had an influence on the way that we make wine, and we are looking forward to having her working with us, not only so we can make wine as good as yours, but we see the benefit of selling your wines in France. I have the personal reason for having Jenny with us. I want to marry her so that I can come here every year to be with you all."

"I hope that's not the only reason." I told him. His answer brought more cheers from the pickers, he kissed me, his arms around me, pulling my body into his. I, of course, returned the favour, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling his face harder into mine.

"Get a room why don't you." Someone shouted.

"Drink up guys." Dad told them.

"I think that we're prepared to suffer through this crap." One of the gang leaders held his glass up. "It's not all that bad." I caught a worried look on Pierre's face, how could he be so derogatory about a good wine like this? "Nah, just kidding, we are honoured to be a part of producing the best wines in Australia, the best wines in the world!"

This brought a loud cheer from the rest of the pickers. As the party broke up, Dad and I went from one to another of the pickers, thanking them, and telling them that we would see them again next year. Pierre was with me and he smiled and shook hands with them. He had been cheek kissing them like the true Frenchman that he was, but I put a stop to that. It wasn't a matter of my jealousy getting in the way, I saw that the male pickers were not comfortable with this, on the other hand, the females didn't seem to mind.

The time was rapidly approaching when I would have to say good-bye to Pierre. As soon as the harvest was over, and most of the work done as far as the wine was concerned, it was back to my studies, and this meant that during the week I would be boarding with a winemaker friend of the family in the Barossa, close to the Roseworthy campus, only coming home for the weekends. Pierre would have to go home.

It was a sad time for the both of us, and made even sadder in the knowledge that my University studies would prevent me from travelling to France for their harvest. With luck and financial help from Dad, I might be able to sneak in a week or two during the semester break. "Promise me that you will not be using the mattress until I can get to your Chateau." I whispered to him after our last lovemaking.

"I promise, on my heart I swear that no woman will entice me to make use of it. But you must also promise that you will not make love to any man until we meet."

"I promise, not one of the studs that are studying at Uni will succeed in getting me to share his bed." I felt safe enough in making that promise, even though there was any number of likely candidates, there were plenty of other girls who were willing to fill in for me.

It was a tearful moment when I went through airport security to say good-bye. I don't know what his fellow passengers thought when they saw us clinging to each other and both weeping as I kissed him that last time. A couple of his fellow passengers showed an interest in him, and I was already jealous. Damn, I wish that I was going with him.

"Jenny, how's your new wine looking?" Craig Burroughs, Chief Winemaker of Brown's Creek Wines, family friend and whose house I stayed at during the week, asked as I unpacked my bags.

"It looks like it will be a good one, we got the balance as near to perfect as I can remember, the acid, sugar and Ph are all at the optimum levels. Dad's keeping an eye on it for me."

"That's great. I still have some of your first vintage and let me tell you, it's aging nicely, in 10 years you won't be able to tell much difference between it and say a Grange or Hill of Grace, at least not the hundreds of dollars price difference."

"I wouldn't quite go that far, although the locals are looking on it with almost the same reverence as David's (Noone) 75 Shiraz. That seems to be some sort of local benchmark of perfection, they go weak at the knees at the mere mention of it."

"Yeah, it has a well deserved reputation. What's this I hear about a Frenchman coming over for the harvest, and it wasn't just for the wine harvest I'm told."

"My parents talk too much. I worked at the Chateau Rombault during my gap year and made an impression on the Vigneron and his son, Pierre. They sent Pierre over to see how we do things in our winery."

"And that was all?"

"My lips are sealed." I said with a grin.

"So I can spread the word to the young bucks that they'll be wasting their time chasing you, is that it?"

"If you could, I don't have the time to fend them off."

"Consider it done. Now, tell me what you think of this." He had taken a bottle of his latest release Shiraz and poured us each a tasting sample.

I looked at it, the colour was a deep, almost purple, red, it stuck to the sides of the glass nicely. So far, so good. I nosed it and found it fruity with the hint of vanilla that I would expect from a wine that had been aged in new oak. I took a sip and my centre palate welcomed its full fruitiness. "It's early days but I can see it developing into a nice drop."

"I like it, it's probably the best that I've produced. I was working at something of a disadvantage with this one, we got a massive heatwave right when we were about to pick. I had to make the decision of whether to stick to hand picking and lose some because we couldn't get them off the vines quickly enough, or go with machine picking where we could pick during the night when it was cooler."

"You went with the machine, right?"

"How did you guess?"

"That's what I would have chosen. We're lucky, we don't have as many really hot days as you have up here."

"I was even tempted to ring your father to see if he had any spare juice that I could blend in with mine to soften it."

"You could have rung, but Dad has every berry accounted for, we're having to limit our allocations to our traditional resellers because we can't keep up with the demand."

"I should be so lucky."

"It's the future of wine marketing, build a reputation for a high quality product, limit production to create a demand for that product, and you can ask a higher price. It has worked for Penfold's Grange and Henschke's Hill of Grace, they have become investment wines, people buy them for the sake of being able to boast to their friends that they have them, but few actually drink them. At over $120 a glass it would have to be a very important occasion to crack open a bottle."

We discussed the factors involved in wine production for another hour before tiredness dictated that I should go to bed. These discussions further enhanced the information that I gained from my lecturers, I was able to share what I learned with Dad during the occasional lull in festivities at our Cellar Door on my weekend visits home.

"Jen, I have a suggestion."

"Oh yeah, what is it this time?" Dad's suggestions usually revolved around our wines and what we wanted to do with them.

"You have your semester break coming up, and we thought that you might like to spend it at Chateau Rombault, what do you say to that?"

Just as I launched myself at him and hugged him, a couple of customers came through the door. They stopped and stared at us, trying to decide whether they were intruding on a personal matter and should leave, or wait to see what happened next. They waited, and when Dad explained what it was all about they were suitably impressed, especially when he told them that his daughter (me) was going to France to act as a consultant to the Chateau Rombault, one of the premier wine producers. They were even more impressed when Dad opened a bottle of my Shiraz to taste. They were so impressed that they asked for a dozen, they were disappointed but understanding when they were sold only two bottles.

"I think that we'll have to put POA instead of the price on our list, we could have doubled, trebled even, the price that we ask and got it."

"Don't you dare do that. I don't want to get a reputation for being greedy, we look at our production costs and add a reasonable amount as mark-up, and that's it. I want people to buy my wine to drink and enjoy, not to stick in their cellars to gather dust."

"We'll see if you still think that way in five years time. Now, you didn't answer me, do we book a flight for you to France?"

"Why do you even have to ask that question, of course you book it."

"That's good." He took an envelope from under the counter and handed it to me. "Because I already have."

I tore the envelope open and drew out the tickets. I glanced at the time and date of the outbound journey before launching myself at him again. This time we were not interrupted.

"You seem to be happier than I have ever seen you." Joe, a fellow winemaking student said as we walked to class.

"Yeah, I just found out that I'm going to France over the semester break, I have a job as a consultant at Chateau Rombault, I'm going there to check on the progress of their latest vintage."

"You, a consultant? Getting a little ahead of yourself aren't you, you haven't even finished your degree."

"It came from some work that I did during my gap year. The winemaker was impressed with the sample of my first vintage that I took over there with me. He asked for some help with the vintage that was happening while I was there, and the last that I heard was that he reckons that it is the best vintage for years, so he has offered me a job consulting on future vintages. It would seem that, once I qualify, I'll be spending half my time here and half in France."

"Lucky bitch, the best that I can look forward to is working for my father in his winery."

"Luck didn't have anything to do with this. My first vintage from my shiraz grapes was a good one, and I can thank Dad for that. It came from grapes that he planted the year that I was born, and that he always intended for me to use to make my own wine. The result was better than I expected, and I put that down to his new techniques in the vineyard and his advice to me when I was making the wine."

"Are you going to expand your vineyard?"

"Possibly, probably actually. Dad has already planted more vines using his new technique and they will be ready for harvesting as a stand alone crop next vintage, up until now they've been used in blends, but they're mature enough now to be included in my next vintage."

"I still say that you're lucky. Lucky to have a father who has come up with this magical new technique that you're always banging on about, but won't tell anyone what it is. Lucky that your father has the confidence in you to let you make your own wines. Lucky that you got it right the first time."

"Like I said, luck didn't have anything to do with it, it was as a result of hard work, a lot of trial and error before Dad got it right in the vineyard, and a lot of money in the development stage. We're nowhere near recouping our establishment costs."

The next few weeks were busy, what with assignments to hand up to be graded and practical work with the university's own winemaking programme as part of my assessment. And then there was packing in readiness for my mad dash to France. I spoke with Pierre and he told me that he would meet me at Orly and would book a hotel room for the night so that we could do some catch-up lovemaking before going home to the Chateau. I got all moist in anticipation.

Almost before I knew it I was being swept off my feet by an exuberant Pierre. "Cherie, I have missed you so very much, come, I cannot wait a second longer." He grabbed my bag and literally dragged me from the terminal to a waiting cab. "Hotel Bretonne M'sieur, vite, vite." He shouted in response to the driver's asking our destination. I was covered with kisses and in one brief moment I looked into the rear view mirror to catch the smiling eyes of the driver. I signalled that he maybe should be concentrating on his driving. It made little difference to his driving, I got the impression that there were only two controls on this vehicle, the accelerator and steering wheel, brakes appeared not to enter into his method of driving.

We arrived at the hotel and there were bemused looks from the staff as Pierre ushered me through the foyer and into the lift. The bed was inviting, it was prepared, the covers drawn down and a single red rose had been placed on a pillow. Pierre picked it up and formally presented it to me. "For you Cherie, to show my love." He then took me in his arms and lowered me to the bed. The layers of clothing were slowly peeled from my trembling body, to be replaced by his lips, his exploration took forever, and by the time he had reached my sopping wet pussy, I was begging for his cock inside me. The bastard kept me waiting in anticipation for ages while he, and his tongue, worked their magic down there. Eleventy-seven orgasms later (okay I exaggerate) I felt his cock enter me, and all hell broke loose, if it hadn't been for the pillow that I clenched between my teeth, I would have screamed loud enough for the staff to call the Gendarmes. And to think it was only 3:00 in the afternoon, there was still the night ahead of us. Could I survive this pleasure? I resolved to either survive or die trying.

Morning brought with it a resumption of our lovemaking. I can't believe that I actually begged with to stop, but after 9 hours of almost non-stop loving my body decided that too much was too much. My mind was still up for it but fatigue had set in big time. The fact that Pierre didn't protest at my wanting to stop suggested to me that he too was feeling the need for sleep. I don't know about him, but I fell asleep instantly and didn't wake until I heard him get out of bed to admit the room service waiter. The large pot of welcome coffee was emptied quickly and we had to use the jug to make coffee from the provisions provided. The breakfast of croissants did little to fill the gaps in our bellies left by the fact that we had forgotten completely about food last night.

We checked out, we attracted attention as we staggered through the foyer, arms around each other, laughing our stupid heads off, and into Pierre's car that had been brought around by the valet guy from the hotel car park.

We stopped just outside Paris for a more substantial meal, and arrived at Chateau Rombault mid afternoon. I was greeted warmly by Pierre's parents and shown to our room (it had obviously been assumed that he and I would sleep in the same bed) before joining M'sieur Rombault in the cellar.

"I want you to taste this wine that you helped us make. It is still too young to bottle yet but it is showing a great deal of promise." He extracted some wine from the cask and placed a small amount in three glasses.