After the crush I returned to the vineyard with the stems and potpourri of matter discarded at the sorting table. They will be composted and returned to the soil. The sun was slipping down behind the ridge, sending golden and orange and pink rays into the gathering clouds. A chilly breeze tickled the leaves of the now fruitless vines and I was struck by how different it is already. Like when the kids have first climbed onto the bus and the house feels empty and changed with the missing of them, the vineyard drew similar feelings from me. The energy had fully changed from outward to inward, from the exuberance of summer to the contemplation of autumn, all in a matter of hours.
That lone kangaroo was back, having a feast amongst the grapes that had dropped, and I opened the gates to welcome in any and sundry that wanted to glean. I stood there in the fading light gazing at this lovely spot where I spend so much of my days. The Cabernet’s leaves were dark and green in contrast to the fading yellow of the Chardonnay. Seasonal rains will soon be knocking the leaves down and the vines will be heading into dormancy. Everything moves.
The last of the sun reflected on the tops of the Marris as I headed back to the winery. The sun had equinoxed northward a week ago. The moon, which crossed the equator today, would be rising, virtually full, within the hour to bathe these emptied vines with its silver. And those lovely crushed grapes were resting in an open fermenter, gathering themselves for their alchemical transition.
There were eleven of us bent over the sorting table as the grape bunches hit the destemmer and began their vibrating dance towards the pump. Twenty-two sharp eyes and twenty-two vigilant hands, with one aim - to insure that only perfect grapes made it into the ferment. Our careful handpick assured that a minimum of leaves and foreign material made it to the winery mixed in with the grapes, but the sorting table takes that careful attention to the next level. This is the final chance to discover and remove anything that shouldn’t go into the wine that might have slipped past our scrutiny during the handpick.
We were mainly targeting anything green. Nothing escaped our watchful eyes and quick hands darting in to cull the odd stem that had evaded the destemmer, random petioles, a stray leaf, unripe berry, a snippet of cane. We removed anything but sound ripe grapes. Without foreign material, nothing interferes with the perfect expression of our incredibly healthy Cabernet Sauvignon fruit. It's painstaking work and costly, but the elegant end result makes it well worth it.
After passing across the sorting table, the juice and skins and seeds were then gently pumped into a large open steel fermenter, which had been thoroughly scoured and rinsed and inspected. Over the next several hours the precious liquid gurgled in and rose slowly towards the top. As it did, the faintest of smells greeted my curious sniffs –a clean and unpretentious odor of fresh fruit – not too sweet, not too green, just a simple pure smell. It was the smell of beginnings, the smell of promise, the smell of a miraculous transformation about to commence...
With cool weather and potentially wet grapes, I scheduled the harvest a bit later than our customary sunrise pick, anticipating a possible need for things to dry out first. At sunrise patches of blue sparkled through the lifted cloud cover. Sure enough, the wind had dried things so thoroughly that it was as though the downpour had never occurred. What a relief! It was exhilarating to be out in the autumn morning with the light changing and clouds moving dramatically.
Our crew jumped to the tasks of preparing the vineyard in anticipation of the picking team,which would be arriving a bit later. The nets came off easily and my son headed off to pick what he could before leaving for school. The sky was opening now with drifts of clouds and the sun valiantly peeking through.
Soon everyone was bending to the task – literally, because our cordon is at a half-meter height, and the fruit was coming off quickly and easily. It was a lighthearted and celebratory time, with great energy going into the grapes on a lovely fall morning. We finished as the clouds broke apart completely and we could feel the sun. With great gratitude we ferried a most gorgeous collection of grapes up to the winery for the crush.
What a pretty restless time it was after canceling the pick! It was Monday morning and I became the classic Monday morning quarterback. Cloud after cloud rolled in from the Indian Ocean carrying drizzle, followed by a low grey blanket of clouds that tucked the region in with a denseness in the air. Repeat, drizzle, denseness, drizzle, denseness. Repeat elation at having not picked, despair, elation, despair. Yoyoville.
I squish through the fields to the vines for the third time and notice that the grapes are still dry beneath the canopy despite the downpour. Silvereyes are massed in the trees. A huge male kangaroo lopes lazily away at my approach. He’s harvested a little snack for himself, I notice as I readjust the bird net. I don’t remember his signing up for an allocation, but I’m delighted to share with him. We kept the fruit on an extra day just for him.
In the night the wind picks up and the rain pounds so hard, my heart pounds along. I go out into it, connect with its intensity and wonder whether the harvest will proceed in the morning. Sleep is utterly banished by the howling winds and the thought that maybe I’ve misjudged it. Have I jeopardized the entire season’s work by cancelling the pick? I pore over the radar and a stew of weather reports and go back and forth about it all. It looks like we will have a brief window in the midmorning, but will it be dry enough?
Soon enough the light comes up and the clouds have lifted. I’m noticing patches of sky! I rush out barefoot into grass that has been dried by the wind. It’s looking like a particularly perfect autumn day. A kookaburra has a good laugh and so do I. The grapes needed another day. They needed to taste the first autumn rains and a little bit of chilliness so that that could be in the wine along with everything else.
With a lifted heart I head down to the harvest.
The rain is here and I welcome it, but it is the morning of the Cabernet harvest, so I’m hoping it blows over. We trudge through the drizzle to the vines by flashlight. The ocean is pounding. The cars of the vineyard crew are shushing in through the drizzle.
We set about removing the nets, getting soaked in the process. Miraculously the canopy of our close planting has kept the grapes dry. We distribute picking buckets face down so that no water gets in. As the light comes up the pickers arrive. And so does the rain, with force. With no air pollution, nor radiation, this is one of the cleanest rains on the planet. And we are Cloudburst, after all. But even so, do I want to risk diluting the wine?
My phone is ringing and texts are flying around the shire. Virtually every vineyard has canceled their pick today. But the clouds are lifting and we are ready to go! The nets are off, the light is up, and listen - the Silvereyes are massing expectantly in the trees. And suddenly the rain is pelting us and it’s clear that we aren’t picking today. We hurry to put the nets back in place and head off for dry clothes and a cup of tea.
There’s a change in the air and the light has gone pewter today. The Silvereyes (Zosteropslateralis) and Western Ringneck Parrots (Bernardius zonarius) have returned and their song drove me to the vineyard early. Like truck drivers parked outside a roadside café, their presence alerts me to the fact that the grapes are nearing peak ripeness. I am facing the crucial decision of when to pick the Cabernet, which is continues to gather flavor in the autumn air.
There’s much to consider, as I taste my way through the vines. It’s really a critical stretch of intuition – a test of how connected I am with this special patch of ground. I must call it correctly. Not only am I tasting and weighing the balance of ripeness and acidity in the grapes, the effect of the now tangible change of season, the weather (there’s rain coming), the biodynamic calendar, but also the very energy of the place, this moment in time, the entire cycle of the year. What energy do I want to carry forth in the wine?
What is the vineyard saying? The Cabernet’s leaves are beginning to show some autumn yellow but the canopy is largely green, in good balance and health, and could probably carry on for a bit longer. The grapes taste sublime, though, and I wonder can it get any better than this? If I wait too long, they’ll go flabby resulting in an ordinary wine.. The seeds are mostly ripe. The flavor is terrific and fresh, but some acidity is dropping out. Are they nearing the peak of their life force?
As I get deeper into the vines I have the impression that the grapes have actually changed overnight – the sweetness has taken an exquisite turn with remarkable shadings of flavor. I’m tasting an intricate blend of fruit and earth and time. And suddenly I’m in the zone, as one extraordinary taste follows another. I’m convinced withe I realize how I'd like to be drinking a blend of all of the characters that are showing now, so I schedule the pick.
If you are patient, in 2015 you’ll have a chance to taste this magic moment....
I peeked in on the Chardonnay again today. The ferment is pretty much completed. When I pulled the bung and put my ear to the hole I heard that lovely fizzing song – one of my very favorite sounds in vintage. There’s also a deep slow resonating bass reverberation that rises out of the barrel. It’s a sound of strength and endurance and is one of the most heartening vibrations I know.
The working winery is a noisy place resounding with the music of organized chaos. I find a harmony in the cacophony of the focused energies of the crush. The chug of the pump sounds the heartbeat as it sends the gorgeous liquids splashing through the hoses, the blood vessels, of the winery. Everywhere at once comes the sound of vintage – the ubiquitous forklift driving, backing, humming; the sorting table vibrating, the precious juice swishing from the depths of the press into the catch-pan, the dulled splash of the pumpover, the whoosh of water sprayed in the endless course of cleaning, the deep bass of the power washer kicking in its subwoofer authoritative refrain.
And then of a sudden the activity shifts, the noise level drops out and the sound and feel of the outside moves in. The birds are yakking it up in the Marri blossoms and there’s the slightest chill in the air. And summer is just a memory singing in the wine.
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