“Eternal gratitude from the wine gods,” promised a poster calling for harvest help. There were photos of a sunny vineyard and a fat bunch of pinot noir grapes, misted purple against golden leaves. I was beguiled.
The realities of agricultural work have always been at odds with its depiction. This year, winemakers in south-west England , culminating in a sodden autumn. September was the in 1871, and October offered no respite.
Picking chardonnay, the results were evident. Fruit that should have formed in tight green clusters, abundant as bubbled spawn, was sparse. Dark, damp conditions during the flowering season in May and June hindered pollination, and some shoots bore only three or four small beads.
Even when fuller bunches formed, many of the grapelets were shrunken and brown, already rotting on the canes. Less than three miles from the coast, has a maritime climate, already prone to low cloud and salty fogs. The vines grow on a steep, seaward-facing scapula of chalk, and the highest sections are frequently pearled in mist.
In the block where I was harvesting, the fruit was best in the lowest and driest end. The middle was passable, but the top third, where the cloud settles, was largely unpickable, bloomed with mould and alive with snails. Poor as it was, at least the crop was viable, unlike the second field of chardonnay, which had failed entirely.
We picked as fast as we could, working in pairs, one on each side of a row, snipping clusters into black plastic buckets.
