Virgile's Vineyard (30 page)

‘Good stuff, this,' he congratulates me between slurps and gurgles.

It is in fact some of the château's ‘house champagne', sent up by Krystina. Presumably she did not want to be embarrassed in front of the handsome young man who seems to be her latest disciple.

‘Greek God,' insisted Babette, when she tipped me off last week. ‘But it'll never last. Only history he's interested in is the history of Krystina's alimony.'

‘He makes even me feel old,' admitted Virgile, when the golden youth made his first public appearance on Krystina's arm this evening. ‘But then, Versace jackets never did suit me,' he added as the boy dropped one of Krystina's Christmas presents casually in a corner.

I feel rather less casual about my own present from Krystina. Heaven knows how she managed it but she found me a bottle of Fine de Faugères dating from the nineteenth century. The exact date was unfortunately obscured by the thick black marker pen, with which she had written ‘Thanx – It was Fun – Luv K' across the label. I have hidden it where Manu will never find it on any of his ‘caretaker' visits next year.

‘Are they planted?' Virgile whispers theatrically, already briefed by me that the same degree of secrecy is desirable for his own gift.

I know it will be several years before any of the three tiny truffle oaks in his Christmas Eve parcel yields its hoped-for riches – by which time, I hope to have found a way to live here full time. But I would still rather Manu remained ignorant of their location.

‘I'm still dithering about where to put them,' I reply no less furtively, ‘and I‘ve only tomorrow to decide.'

Normally, I would have asked Manu's advice on these things, but in the circumstances I had to fall back on the nature book. Somewhere well drained, it said. But then again, not too dry. Shaded, but then again not dark. I ended up completely confused.

‘I'd better come up to help before you go,' Virgile offers. ‘But I brought you this …'

He is drowned by the courageous attempt of Mme Gros at his elbow to engage M. Mas in a polite discussion of the Christmas truffle crisis.

‘Enormous!' she shouts above his ever-screeching hearing aid.

‘
Enormous!
' she repeats at ear-splitting volume, having shrewdly assumed his toothless response to be the usual confession of failure to hear.

The extra decibels assure her the attention of most of the gathering, as she broadcasts her privileged enjoyment of what sounds like the largest example of truffle life reported in the whole of the Languedoc.

‘My husband has his sources,' she informs us all smugly.

‘I brought you this as well,' Virgile tries again.

He allows me a covert glimpse of a bottle in a carrier bag, which I am clearly meant to hide along with Krystina's brandy. It is unlabelled but he tells me it is a hand-bottled, advance sample of his superior, barrel-aged Coteaux du Languedoc from last year.

‘We ran out of time on Christmas Eve and you'll not be here for the bottling.'

He looks at his feet.

‘I'm going to miss you,' he says, embarrassed. ‘I'll miss your feedback,' he adds. ‘No really. Especially now that Olivier … Well, anyway, I'm really pleased with that,' he continues more chirpily, with a gesture towards the wine in the bag. ‘I'm convinced it's one for long keeping. Ten years maybe to show its best.'

‘Perhaps I should take it back to England – as a reminder,' I say and then I look at my own feet. ‘I'll miss you too,' I mutter. ‘I'll miss your
cave
almost as much as this house …'

‘Are you two getting maudlin?' asks Sarah, from behind the tray of
canapés
that took her most of the day to prepare. ‘You've been monopolizing this boy for long enough,' she rebukes me, as her arm slides under Virgile's and she leads him away to a quieter corner, leaving me alone for a moment with the carrier bag. But only for a moment, because Manu's infallible antennae have already detected its bottle-shaped contents and he is limping over in the hope of investigating.

‘Tried them yet, have you?' he mumbles, as ebulliently as the facial dressings allow. ‘You've given them pride of place, I see.'

It is fortunate that my present from him was the one that needed no concealing. Its length rather precludes concealment. Indeed, as Manu has proudly noticed, it tends to dominate even this, my longest room. I have always thought these long-handled fruit-picking devices measured a couple of metres at the most. But with Manu's newfound fear of ladders, I suppose the outsized model was only to be expected – especially with even more of the picking burden falling on him next year.

‘Been talking to that Virgile fellow,' Manu changes the subject. ‘He's got some very interesting ideas, you know. Surprised you haven't picked up a bit more from him, given how much time you've been spending down there. I mean, he tells me for instance … Well, this is maybe a bit technical for you … But he says that, if I worked with lower yields, I'd get higher
alcohol
. Never thought of it like that but it certainly bears thinking about. Always willing to learn,' he chuckles, as he hobbles away in pursuit of more of Krystina's free-flowing champagne.

‘Do they give you a lot of holiday?' Mme Gros accosts me animatedly, her steely grey hair tonight somehow radiant with optimism. ‘It must be breaking your heart,' she adds cheerfully, her own cardiac condition remaining conspicuously sound, as she accepts an unaccustomed, celebratory second Noilly Prat. ‘Leaving your lovely house. Leaving all of us to our own devices. Of course, we'll do all we can to keep an eye on things. Pop a bag of your fruit in your deep freeze, when you can't be there at picking time. Anything along those lines,' she assures me and she wafts herself exultantly away to monitor her husband's consumption levels.

‘Such a shame,' agree the Vargases in reedy unison, as they struggle to juggle glasses, plates and walking sticks between two pairs of hands. ‘Letting go of the land again, just when you were beginning to get on top of it. We'd offer to help, at least with the olive trees,' their frail duet assures me warmly. ‘But the truth is, we're finding our own a bit of a struggle these days.'

‘You can leave the vines to me,' says Virgile, joining us. ‘It's the least I can do.'

‘But they're right,' I acknowledge glumly, as the Vargases excuse themselves to totter away to a sofa. ‘I can never make sense of this place in a few weeks a year.'

‘Then stay for another fifty-two,' Virgile dares me. ‘Stay for ever.'

‘Be realistic!' I laugh, unsettled by the intensity of the challenge in his stare. ‘I've got to go back to work. I need the money.'

‘I am being realistic. Remember my Che Guevara postcard?'

‘ “Demand the impossible”?'

‘Why not? I mean, how much money do you need to live here?' he presses. ‘You can let your English house again. Or sell it. You can be practically self-sufficient here.'

‘I can't.'

‘Think of the new fruit trees. Think of your truffle oaks.'

‘I just can't.'

‘Think of all you've learned. Especially after what the Vargases have just been telling me. Apparently half your land here is
Appellation Contrôlée
. You didn't know that, did you? You should stay and make wine.'

‘Don't be daft. I couldn't possibly.'

‘You could,' says Virgile with another of his challenging stares. ‘
Si tu veux, tu peux
.'

If you were to seek out Virgile in the Languedoc today, you would find that much has changed.

Not the least important difference is the fact that Saint Saturnin is no longer, as Virgile once lamented, a ‘village of bachelors'. Magda, one of the two Polish
vendangeuses,
returned for another season in 2002 and this time she stayed on to marry Virgile! They now have two sons, César and Alexandre, born in 2004 and 2007. And, as Virgile is anxious to stress, Magda has become very much an equal player in the business, focussing specially on developing a Polish market for their wines, but closely involved in all that they now undertake.

The chalked legend above the peeling double doors opposite Le Pressoir is still there: ‘
Virgile Joly – Cave Particulière – Depuis 2000'.
However, the tiny
cave
that lies behind is now used only for the storage of bottles that are ready for sale. The wines are currently made and matured in a large agricultural building on the edge of the neighbouring village of Arboras. ‘Large' but not nearly large enough, as you'll find an almost equally large canvas extension parked alongside it, and almost every square metre of both packed with concrete and fibre-glass
cuves
, wooden barrels and all manner of sophisticated machinery.

The state-of-the-art equipment reflects a kind of partnership with another
domaine
, Cinq Vents, in Montpeyroux and owned by a former London solicitor (another!), Christopher Johnson-Gilbert. When they first started working together in 2008, it was probably fair to say that Virgile had more time and expertise than money, and Christopher rather the opposite; and their continuing sharing of labour and materials offers Virgile both valuable economies of scale and access to gadgetry that he might never have afforded on his own.

He now farms 14 hectares of vines, comprising Grenache Blanc and Rouge, Roussanne, Syrah, Carignan, Cinsault and some young Mourvèdre, all tended organically. Of these he owns a third and rents the remainder, partly from locals and partly from ‘investor friends', who are fans of the
domaine
and enjoy this degree of involvement in the business. But remarkably, not one of the vines is the same as those he was using in 2000. The gradual ‘regrouping' over the years has been partly a matter of seeking the best possible sites (he thinks he has one of only four or five
parcelles
in the area that is suited to Mourvèdre), but also one of sheer practicality. Where once he had 21
parcelles
scattered up to 30 kilometres apart, now he has 12 with a maximum distance of 6 kilometres between them. Sadly, this means that the wonderful, almost port-like, sweet Cinsault made from the Nébian grapes in 2001 and sold in limited quantities as Carmen No.1 will never be repeated.

The ‘mainstream' production now consists of three whites and three reds, plus his beloved Carthagène, with an annual production of around 80,000 bottles in total. Alongside the prestige
cuvées
, these now include an easy-drinking, early-drinking ‘Le Joly Blanc' and ‘Le Joly Rouge', to which Virgile – ever ready to adapt – originally gave screw-top capsules, until his more traditional French customers complained. Needless to say, from the bottom to the top of the range, all of Virgile's wines are produced with the same perfectionism and the same overarching concern for the customer's enjoyment. ‘I've never made wines to
impress
',
Virgile insists. ‘For me, it's all about elegance, freshness and
pleasure
.'

He loves getting feedback from all his customers, especially those who make the trip to Saint Saturnin, and often organises special events there for small groups. But some reactions are especially treasured. He tells me, for instance, with understandable pride how the head sommelier at the illustrious Paris restaurant, Guy Savoy, once telephoned him out of the blue to tell him that a tasting of the Virgile Joly wines had finally ‘
reconciled
him to the wines of the Languedoc'. The Domaine Joly wines have been on their list ever since. They can also now be found in wine shops and other restaurants throughout much of Europe and as far afield as China, Japan and the United States.

As certificates in his untidy office above the old
cave
attest, many of the individual wines have won prizes and medals, but he's particularly proud to have won a national award given by the Ministry of Agriculture for the best ‘young' agricultural (not just viticultural) enterprise in the country in 2007.

Virgile has come a very long way since I first knocked on his door in January 2001, when this book was written.

But not content with all this, he is also active in numerous national and regional associations and committees, especially those concerned with organic farming, and some of these he finds time to chair. He has even been working closely with the Saint Saturnin co-operative (yes, times have changed!) in an effort to win a separate
appellation
for the village's wines, of which there are now eight producers, including the co-op. ‘He's got a talent for getting people who wouldn't normally sit in the same room to work together,' Magda emphasises loyally. So, diplomatic skills on top of all the others...

There came a point though, when all these ancillary activities, coming on top of the many and various administrative chores that plague all
vignerons
, were leaving him a little dissatisfied, feeling too cut off from the thing that really makes him tick: the making of wines to give pleasure to wine-lovers.

Happily, a recent collaboration with a UK internet-based business called Naked Wines has played a significant role in rekindling this primary enthusiasm. Their unusual arrangement encourages customers to subscribe on a monthly basis, effectively sponsoring the making of special, limited edition
cuvées,
which they are then able to purchase using the investment which they have accumulated.
(They call them ‘angels', like theatrical angels.)

Meanwhile, for Virgile, like other wine-makers, this sponsorship allows him an outlet for his creativity, which is entirely separate from his own
domaine
, creating wines which he would never normally be able to contemplate. While some of the wines that he has made for his angels use grapes from his own vines, the arrangement also allows him to operate effectively as a ‘flying wine-maker' (albeit without the glamour of the flights!), producing wines with grapes that are grown and picked by other landowners, under
his
supervision, but using
their
cellar facilities.

This has, for instance, given him the opportunity to make several wines in the Ventoux in the Rhône Valley, using partly the grapes grown on his late grandfather's land – something he had never previously permitted himself to dream of doing. It has also allowed him to try his hand at a Merlot and a Sauvignon Blanc (taking him back to his early experiences in Chile) without the need to replant or invest in additional
parcelles
which offer those varieties, or indeed to
commit
himself to these particular wines in the long term at all. To all of these he brings the same essential values and philosophy: above all, wines made for the pleasure of drinking them. And the proof of his success must be the fact that one of his Naked Wines offers sold all of its 3,000 six-bottle cases in just three days and another exhausted a 500 case supply in a mere three hours! Small wonder that he looks so rejuvenated.

On second thoughts, it
is
a wonder. I simply don't know how he finds the time, let alone the energy.

Not that everything is plain sailing. His biggest problem is the accommodation in Arboras. Not only is it too small, but access is difficult for larger vehicles so that only one of the various bottling companies in the region can make it up the narrow country lane – and that one lorry has to come all the way from Perpignan.

So digging deep in his pocket, Virgile bought some land on the outskirts of the neighbouring commune of Saint Guiraud and applied to the
Mairie
for planning permission to build a new
cave
, which was promptly refused. Five years and nine court actions later, after a succession of hearings have dismissed the Mayor's arguments, Virgile's lawyer tells him that he finally has an implied permission to build, yet he is still being refused a connection to either the electricity network or the village water supply.

So our hero is stoically looking into the feasibility of solar power and drilling for water. Where most of us would be having sleepless nights, Virgile seems quietly confident of winning through in some fashion or another, as he often has before.

As he has mentioned once or twice, ‘
Si tu veux, tu peux.'

*

Meanwhile, life for me goes on at Les Sources.

I did plant some vines, a modest forty-five of them at first, opting in the end for conventional varieties, not the special hybrids that Virgile had suggested as a possible strategy to reduce the spraying burden while I was away. However, they were all simply table
cépages
, intended purely for the grape dish, definitely not for the wine bottle. I told myself, I could never make a wine that I'd be willing to drink, so why even think about it?

But one of my chosen
cépages,
a small row of Cinsault, was of course also a wine grape and it proved to be the one that first started producing grapes in significant quantities – far more than I and my friends could collectively eat. I bought a wine press and made juice, filling my freezer with plastic bottles to preserve the surplus. And every time I drank it, I couldn't help thinking it had some of the qualities that might make an attractive wine. So, without really knowing why, I planted some more. And I added some Syrah, Grenache and a handful of Carignans.

When these started producing grapes, I had an even bigger problem. I couldn't cope with extra juice, but I still didn't want to drink something worse than I was used to. So I made a Carthagène, foregoing the partial fermentation of the authentic process and simply adding pure, flavourless
eau de vie
(sold in the supermarkets for bottling fruits) to the freshly pressed grape juice in sufficient quantity to end up with sixteen degrees of alcohol, thus precluding any fermentation. All I had to do then was wait a few months for the particles in the juice to settle and ‘rack' it off a few times before bottling. And friends seemed to like it, sometimes as an
apéritif
, sometimes in lieu of a dessert wine.

‘So what does Virgile think?' they kept asking.

I remembered his ruthless appraisal of wines made by many illustrious local names. ‘I see all its qualities and all its faults,' he said of one such. But eventually I risked it, apologising for the cutting of the corner on the partial fermentation. He took a thoughtful sip.

‘If I were you, I wouldn't change the “recipe”,' he said in the closest I was likely to get to praise. So I continued making Carthagène for a couple of years. But the wine-like taste in the fruit juice continued to bug me. Maybe, if I just drank it in secret, without exposing myself to ridicule?...

In 2011 I finally took the plunge and bought myself a
minute
thirty-litre fermentation tank. I selected my best bunches with infinite care, de-stemmed them all by hand and fermented them whole in the closest I could get to a
macération carbonique.
For days, I behaved like a first-time parent, slipping anxiously into my
cave
in fear of a ‘cot death'. But the first fermentation worked and the malolactic followed. And finally it was ready for racking and bottling – just twenty-five precious bottles by the time the lees had been discarded.

I waited a few months. I invited some wine-loving friends. No one too abrasive, too likely to choke on their glass. And they liked it. I made another equally small
millésime
in 2012 and again friends were complimentary. Some of them even asked for more, but I told them that, on this scale of production, it was strictly one bottle per evening.

‘So what does Virgile think?' they all wanted to know.

‘Ah...' A long pause... ‘Well, I haven't... as it were... actually
told
him about this.'

The Languedoc,

July 2013