We drove back from the winery last night with the sea and sky like mother of pearl as we pass the Côte Vermeille sign on the way into Collioure. The greys became silver and the mirror water reflected them both as well as the pastel pinks and purples and blues in every shade that held the promise of night. I couldn't take my eyes of it for much of the drive. I grabbed my camera when we got to the house but failed to do it any real justice.
I steal time to write while I'm here and making wine. I could try and make some sort of connection between the two, to create some cheap reason why the two are similar, but they're not. They're very different. And yet often in the winery an idea will come. It will come at an awkward time, in the midst of organised chaos, and I'll need somehow to remember it, hold it fresh, for when there's a split second to scribble or type it or carve it into stone.
It's been a busy harvest this year, but somehow we seem to know what we're doing. The mornings are cold but the sun soon warms things up. I've lost count of all the places I've hurt myself. The fruit's good, though, and that's the important thing.
I've been keeping my vintage diary reasonably up-to-date. You can read it here.
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