2011 – England??

It was a lovely summer evening with a warm breeze. The sun was just setting over the horizon, creating a field of deep red and mauve. Deion and his family were sitting on the porch of a local restaurant, taking in the view. It was Charlotte’s sixteenth birthday, an exciting time for any teenager. Deion was excited for other reasons, he finally got to share one of his passions with her. 

The captain’s list of a restaurant is one of those simple pleasures of Deions life. Each a little different, with its own unique selections of wines throughout the world. They give a preview of the style and taste of the sommelier. 

He opened the red backed menu and read down the columns. He scrolled through the selections, red, white, rose, finally to sparkling. Ah, that’s what I was looking for. There is no better way to celebrate than with champagne. Charlotte had had some of his own wine at home, as is pretty usual for kids growing up in France. He remembers from his childhood, his grandfather slipping him sips at the age of seven. But this will be the first time she would be able to try something else, and in a public setting, where high quality products are best enjoyed.

He scanned through the list of usual suspects, Moet, Bollinger, Veuve Clicquot, of course the restaurant also carried his own label, Lavigne Vineyards. Then he saw something that made his heart sink. It was categorized as a champagne, but it shouldn’t have been. The last wine on the champagne list read:

Nyetimber Classic – Sussex, England – € 200

He couldn’t fathom it, he simply could not believe a French restaurant would hold an English sparkling wine in the same category as champagne. He had heard rumors of how the English wine scene was improving because of their changing climate, but he refused to believe that it could be held to the same standards of the legendary labels that came from the chalky terroir as Champagne. What had started as a celebratory night, had quickly turned into one marred with confusion and anger.

2013 – Harvest

The barnyard door creaked open, and the morning sun shone onto Deions face. Out beyond the white framed doors was heaven for him, his vines. They were the source of his livelihood, the source of his family tradition. His whole life, his fathers whole life, and grandfathers and great grandfathers and so on and so forth had been about these grapes. He had gathered his small team of farm hands in the barn for the first harvest of the season. He took pride in the fact that he owned one of the last independent vineyards in all of champagne. Over the years the big names like Moet and Krug had all been bought by multinational corporations. Not Lavigne, he had a few offers but he could not bring himself to sell his farm. What would my father say if he was still around, or his father, is what he thought whenever he got the now familiar visit from a team of well dressed lawyers waving papers with outrageous sums of money on them. No, the Lavigne Vineyard was too special to him. Plus it would put the jobs of his crew at risk. Many on his small farm team of ten had been with the farm for at least a decade. He couldn’t put their jobs in jeopardy.

This was normally a familiar time of year for him, his family, and his crew. The hard labor of harvesting grapes for wine was a family tradition for the Lavigne’s, imbedded with a deep sense of history. Deion himself had been toiling these fields for the last fifty years. This year was different though. He organized his crew almost a week earlier than when they would normally start harvesting. His daughter Charlotte had approached him earlier that month about the start of harvest.

“Papa”, she said in a hushed tone. He had been walking through the vineyard when she approached him. Strolling through his hills of wines and grapes was a habit of his right before the harvest season, much like a captain touring his ship. He hadn’t noticed her until she was right behind him.

“What is it my dear.” 

“I was wondering if I could talk to you about this year’s harvest.” Recently she had grown an interest in the farm, a fact that continues to surprise him. He had always hoped his two sons would take after him and assert themselves on the farm. He briefly looked away from her to see what Noel and Jules were doing. Not seeing them on the quick scan he made of the field, he assumed they were engaged in their normal acts of absurdity. Without waiting for him to answer, she continued.

“Have you thought at all about harvesting the grapes earlier this year?” He looked at her quizzically. 

“I was planning on getting started the third week of September.” The third week of September had always been the start of harvest season, it had been that way for decades. 

“I’ve just been hearing that a lot of vineyards nowadays are harvested earlier because of the temperature.” She was right of course, Deion had heard it too, but he didn’t want to believe that it was an actual issue. Since temperatures had been rising over the past few decades, it changed when the grapes would rippen. If they ripen too early, then the wine will miss its characteristic acidity and freshness that is synonymous with Champagne.

So there he stood with the crew and his daughter, ready to start the harvest, two weeks earlier. Once again Noel and Jules were nowhere to be found. Why don’t they take an interest in the vines like Charo does, don’t they realize I am continuing this for them. 

2018 – Mildew

“Ah merde!” Deion exclaimed as he crouched to his grapes. Another one of his vines had the tell tale pastel yellow markings. Downy mildew. It covered the vines and leaves. His grapes will not grow, stifled by the algae that now infects his land. This had become a common sight. Specks of light yellow and brown appear on the vines like the freckles that appear on his face after he spends too much time in the field.

 “You must start taking it easier on yourself,” his wife Elaine would proclaim when he would spend too much time under the sun. If only this problem could get solved by my wife simply nagging. She had always worried about him, and for good reason. He spent too much time with his vines. But why wouldn’t he? He had been working in this field since he was eight years old. It was all he knew how to do. 

It had not always been like this. For a while, production was good, his grapes were healthy. But it hasn’t been like that for a few years. The good old days felt like a distant memory, fading into obscurity. His mind clinging onto those thoughts, much like someone would cling to life. He desperately wanted to fall to his knees and start crying. He is on the verge of losing what had been his whole life, his whole family’s life. But he did not want his daughter to see him, she was about a dozen vines away. He did not want her to know the danger the family tradition was in. Most likely she already knew, she was more on top of it than he was. His family have tended these fields for generations, one of the most famous and well respected vineyards in all of Champagne. The book on that life is in its last chapter, the region is changing, the world is changing. The leaves and vines had wilted in front of him, dried by the plague that infected his country. How could algae destroy me?

“What’s the matter papa?” said his daughter. She now stood over him.

“Hmm… oh nothing nothing, don’t worry about it.” He realized he must have looked distraught. He did not notice her walking over here. He must be more careful, this was his problem not hers. “Here, help me to my feet” he said, extending an arm. He came to his feet to view his land. The rolling hills dotted with curved vibrant green vines had been his playground since he was a boy. He remembered walking the fields with his father and the family dog, observing the vines, making sure they were healthy. He loved the feeling of the chalky soil beneath his feet. It’s this pale dirt that gave his life meaning. Without it there was no vineyard, no wine, no champagne.  He now walks the field with his daughter, but it wasn’t the same. It did not have the same connection, now that the terroir that gave Champagne its reputation has turned on the farmers who live there. Different dog, different land he thought.