Virgile's Vineyard by Patrick Moon Page B

in the village and we’ll see how our “Terrasses Grillées” ’96 is getting on.’
    Manu’s face brightens as rapidly as it fell. He even turns politely conversational in the back seat of Pascal’s car, asking who does what in the family business.
    â€˜I concentrate on the
cave
and shop and my father and brother look after the vines,’ Pascal explains. ‘They’re the important guys. It’s the work in the vineyard that makes the difference. Much more than anything I might do in the cellar.’ He stops outside the shop and dashes in for the wine. ‘I thought maybe two bottles,’ he says as he returns, having clearly got my companion’s measure.
    Pascal’s exaggerated pantomime of wiping the mud from his shoes at the door succeeds in extracting laughter from the theatrically pursed lips of what must surely be the region’s most formidable-looking restaurant proprietress – her broad, powerful shoulders undoubtedly the envy of the village rugby team.
    â€˜My father had no training at all,’ Pascal continues, as soon as the prop-forward has taken our order and offered to decant the wine. ‘But travelling round the country for the Customs gave him an open mind, especially for grape varieties. I mean, everyone thought he was completely mad – planting Grenache, Mourvèdre and Syrah and refusing to touch Carignan. I suppose two years of study in Burgundy had much the same effect on me. Took the famous regions off their pedestals.’
    The first course arrives, and with it the decanter, but Pascal makes no move to pour. Manu is so transfixed by the sight of it that he can hardly focus on his salad but it is clearly unthinkable to sample the top Moulinier
cuvée
before it has breathed a little. Pascal offers water but Manu signals with a shudder that this would be one mortification of the flesh too far.
    â€˜For a couple of years, we took our grapes to the co-operative,’ continues Pascal. ‘But all they seemed to care about was weight. There was no real incentive for low yields or high quality. So although we were signed up for twenty-five years, we broke away. We’re still getting the writs but we just couldn’t work that way. We wanted yields as low as fifteen for the wine we’re drinking now.’
    The use of the present tense is almost too much for Manu. He half chokes on his lettuce and mops a fevered brow. However, finally, with the arrival of our steaks, the glasses are filled. And in Manu’s case, rapidly emptied again. As Pascal worries that his pride and joy is still not showing its best, Manu can restrain himself no longer and helps himself to a second generous pouring.
    â€˜People ask how long this should be kept,’ says Pascal. ‘But it’s the one question I can’t answer. We’ve nothing older than ’94. It’s too early to say. We’ll just have to wait and see.’
    One of our number, of course, has no intention of waiting another moment. He is already wondering whatever can have happened to the second bottle.
    *
    Virgile’s remotest vineyard, down at Nébian, must surely be his most beautiful. It lies high on a hillside to the south of Clermont l’Hérault, overlooking picturesquely patchworked vines and fruit trees. Its sheltered situation has encouraged a few of the buds to burst already, washing just the palest hint of green across the vines, while the edges of the field are exuberantly carpeted in deep purple and pale lemon by hundreds of heavy-headed, stumpy-stalked irises.
    There is, however, nothing very picturesque about the afternoon’s activity. As always, Virgile the fastidious pruner has made neat piles of his cuttings but these, he has decided, will have to be gathered up and burnt. Too many of the vines were diseased to mince them up as fertilizer.
    â€˜Only a tiny vineyard,’ he assured me on the drive from Saint Saturnin, but it