I got here Thursday but this is the first chance I've had to write. I've been trying to keep mental notes as the days go by, bits and pieces that I think would be nice to mention on here, but it's to little avail. It's all sort of blending into one. It's the whites and rosé that we're making at the moment, pressing and chilling and racking. The fruit's good and so's the juice. The Roussanne's started fermenting. I tasted it yesterday and it was cool with just a hint of tea leaves. There's hardly any fruit in yet - just huge tanks sitting empty. It gives the winery a lonely echo.
Yesterday morning I looked out at the quiet as the sun rose. A mist clung to the Muscat vines behind the winery, its lingering whispy tendrils caressing the fruit. Everything was so still. A bat swooped silently and disappeared. I tried to absorb the calm; to cherish it before it disappeared in the shrieks of machinery as we loaded the press with grapes for rosé.
If you could support my new book while I make wine, that would be brilliant.
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