Sean smiled when he joined us minutes later.
  After Ãric's visit, Sean remembered how he had cut his arm. He was tightening the bolt on one of the shark's knives when the spanner slipped and the power he was applying drove his arm down onto the knife below. Ãric was right, he was trop musclé . The accident made me starkly aware of how dependent we were on Sean. There was no sick leave at Haut Garrigue and no safety net; if Sean was injured, we were in trouble.
  We had leapt into a business bristling with physical and financial risk.
We hadn't even made our own wine yet, but everyone kept reminding us that the problem wasn't making the wine, it was selling the wine.
  Selling the wine we had bought with the property would help to fill the hole created by the unexpected expenses. Despite the success of our Christmas campaign, Sean was pessimistic. 'The first campaign was supported by a lot of people buying the wine because it was our first offer. Most of them prefer beer.'
  Perhaps he was right but I forged ahead regardless.
  Barry O'Brien, Aideen's husband and one of our best friends back home, forwarded me a special offer for flights. An executive in a large tech multinational by day, he transformed into our unofficial strategy advisor and official representative on the ground by night. He had negotiated the go-ahead for another wine delivery with the customs officials, although we were still waiting for his official appointment as our tax representative. It was part of the long process for making our direct shipping business official and easy to do on a regular basis.
  Barry argued that I needed to be on the ground in Dublin to promote our wines if our second shipment was to be a success and wisely advised me to start promotion of our first vintage, which was still on the vines.
  I booked my flight and Sean launched our second direct sales campaign via email. Miraculously, a diary I had written about our move was published in a newspaper that Saturday with a full-page cover photo. The editor had been promising to print it for months and his timing could not have been better. In less than twenty-four hours we had thirty orders through the website.
  It felt strange going on a business trip after a year of DIY and babies. As I packed my case I felt disconnected and unsure of myself. In my previous life as a consultant I was sometimes on an aeroplane every week. Minutes before I left for the airport an old colleague called to say she had a radio interview for me. I was excited and delighted by the opportunity but also worried about how I would handle being back in a professional environment and being interviewed on national radio.
  Leaving Bordeaux airport, I felt like I was in no-man's-land: not yet a French winegrower but no longer a high-tech city girl. It seemed like a lifetime since we left the city.
  After landing I picked up my hire car. As I drove off, my hand kept reaching for the door instead of the gear shift. The oncoming car stopped dead in its tracks. The fellow inside waved me out, making sure I was well out of range before proceeding. I saw him mouth 'crazy fool' as I drove away and realised I was on the wrong side of the road.
  A few minutes later I felt confident enough to turn on the radio and was transported back into city life. The discussion hadn't changed a lot: traffic, property, football. The cityscape had been transformed. In nine months old familiar streets had morphed into Euro-chic. Down-at-heel chip shops and newsagents had been replaced by coffee shops and up-market grocers. The O'Briens' home, too, had been transformed: from dark and old-fashioned to an open-plan, natural-light haven. We swapped stories over dinner, trying to cram months into one night.
  I arrived for the radio interview the next morning shaking with nerves and praying for a calm voice. The show host put me at ease as the ads
  After Ãric's visit, Sean remembered how he had cut his arm. He was tightening the bolt on one of the shark's knives when the spanner slipped and the power he was applying drove his arm down onto the knife below. Ãric was right, he was trop musclé . The accident made me starkly aware of how dependent we were on Sean. There was no sick leave at Haut Garrigue and no safety net; if Sean was injured, we were in trouble.
  We had leapt into a business bristling with physical and financial risk.
We hadn't even made our own wine yet, but everyone kept reminding us that the problem wasn't making the wine, it was selling the wine.
  Selling the wine we had bought with the property would help to fill the hole created by the unexpected expenses. Despite the success of our Christmas campaign, Sean was pessimistic. 'The first campaign was supported by a lot of people buying the wine because it was our first offer. Most of them prefer beer.'
  Perhaps he was right but I forged ahead regardless.
  Barry O'Brien, Aideen's husband and one of our best friends back home, forwarded me a special offer for flights. An executive in a large tech multinational by day, he transformed into our unofficial strategy advisor and official representative on the ground by night. He had negotiated the go-ahead for another wine delivery with the customs officials, although we were still waiting for his official appointment as our tax representative. It was part of the long process for making our direct shipping business official and easy to do on a regular basis.
  Barry argued that I needed to be on the ground in Dublin to promote our wines if our second shipment was to be a success and wisely advised me to start promotion of our first vintage, which was still on the vines.
  I booked my flight and Sean launched our second direct sales campaign via email. Miraculously, a diary I had written about our move was published in a newspaper that Saturday with a full-page cover photo. The editor had been promising to print it for months and his timing could not have been better. In less than twenty-four hours we had thirty orders through the website.
  It felt strange going on a business trip after a year of DIY and babies. As I packed my case I felt disconnected and unsure of myself. In my previous life as a consultant I was sometimes on an aeroplane every week. Minutes before I left for the airport an old colleague called to say she had a radio interview for me. I was excited and delighted by the opportunity but also worried about how I would handle being back in a professional environment and being interviewed on national radio.
  Leaving Bordeaux airport, I felt like I was in no-man's-land: not yet a French winegrower but no longer a high-tech city girl. It seemed like a lifetime since we left the city.
  After landing I picked up my hire car. As I drove off, my hand kept reaching for the door instead of the gear shift. The oncoming car stopped dead in its tracks. The fellow inside waved me out, making sure I was well out of range before proceeding. I saw him mouth 'crazy fool' as I drove away and realised I was on the wrong side of the road.
  A few minutes later I felt confident enough to turn on the radio and was transported back into city life. The discussion hadn't changed a lot: traffic, property, football. The cityscape had been transformed. In nine months old familiar streets had morphed into Euro-chic. Down-at-heel chip shops and newsagents had been replaced by coffee shops and up-market grocers. The O'Briens' home, too, had been transformed: from dark and old-fashioned to an open-plan, natural-light haven. We swapped stories over dinner, trying to cram months into one night.
  I arrived for the radio interview the next morning shaking with nerves and praying for a calm voice. The show host put me at ease as the ads
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