Your path through life does not always conform to your youth's dreams

Your path through life does not always conform to your youth’s dreams.

There was a loud knock on the door. A voice shouted “Ben there is some foreign woman on the telephone asking for you. I looked at my wrist watch. It was only half past six in the morning.

“Wait a minute while I get dressed.”

I extracted myself from the arms of last night’s conquest. A very pretty Argentinian girl. She rolled over in a state of dreamy slumber. Dressed only in my jeans I open the door.

In a distant sleepy voice I said. “ Morning Mateo, where is the phone?”

“Down stairs in the entrance hall, senor.”

“Hello”, far in the distance I heard my mother’s voice. “Mother”, I shouted, “how did you find this number?”

The sound over the long distant wires seemed to improve.

“I heard two days ago from your friend Andre’s mother She told me he had dinner with you about five days ago and that you were in Buenos Aires staying at the International Youth Center. I phoned because it is urgent. Your father is in the hospital with a broken neck. Two days ago his horse took fright on being attacked by a snake. Poor man, he will be in hospital for two or more months. He begged me to find you and asked me to plead with you to come back as we intend starting the harvest next week.”’

“How is father?”

“It was a nasty fall. But you know your father. In no time he should be fine.”

“Mother dear, let me think about your request. I just found a temporary job here. Why am I so desperately needed?”

“Ben, we nor the generations before us never had a harvest without a male member of the family being present.

“Mum, that's just tradition.”

“Ben, this year is much more than traditional. It’s the first year your father and brother are not here to organize the picking, grading and blending of the graphs. I know you want your freedom and do your own thing but this is a call from the family. Our land, which produces excellent wine, has been handed down from generation to generation. We feel responsible to the next generation. It’s sad to say but with your brother's death and your disinterest I do not know if our family will continue to own the land. Without your father or you I am not capable of organizing the harvest.”

“Mum, I will call you back tomorrow in the late afternoon at six o’clock your time.” The line went dead.

When I got back to the bedroom Sofia was dressed and had already made coffee. She said she was in a hurry to get home and change for work. She gulped down her coffee, kissed me on the cheek. Before leaving she handed me her address and telephone number.

I sat there with the cup of coffee Sofia had made. The first image I saw was an elegant manoir surrounded by acres of vineyards organized as if it was a disciplined, green army marching towards the manoir. In the morning sunlight it was an uplifting sight. Under protective leaves were the bunches of grapes, ripe and ready for harvesting before being turned into wine.This is the place I call home. Then I reheard my mothers soothing diplomatic voice. It's more than tradition, it's family. She always knew how to creep into and influence my inner thoughts. Whereas my father was of a different breed. If he asks you anything he expects a yes or no answer. In his mind a no was not acceptable.

A year ago the family suffered a tragedy that not only deeply upset the family but put a question mark on the future of the vineyard. My older brother had died in a car accident. He was destined to take over the management of the property. I had just finished highschool and before deciding what I wanted to do with my life. I was in the process of planning to try and find a series of temporary jobs while touring the world. I found family life stifling. Always talking about the weather, the soil, the vines and the rumours from the surrounding farms and villages. The world seemed so confined, so petty. My father never considered me capable of managing the vineyard or for that matter interested. It now seemed he only expected me to be there at harvest time. After my brother's death I delayed my plans a couple of months. I spent most of the time in my room playing the guitar. Neither of my parents tried to persuade me not to leave. Instinctively they knew I had to find myself in the wide world away from the confines of the wine growing activity of the Bordeaux region. I left telling them from time to time I would contact them. Now this disturbing phone call. As the coffee left the cup I saw my personal dreams and ambitions disappearing. I pulled myself together, wrote a message for Sofia, told my future employer I had a family crisis and had to turn down his offer, booked a flight to France, and left a message for my mother.

My mother met me at the airport. She embraced me and I felt her body was like a spring that just released all its tension. She said, “It’s wonderful to see you.”

As we left the airport we saw a few people we knew and acknowledged their waves. I thought to myself I am back to the tightly knit world of folks attached to this precious land that has been cultivated and defended for centuries. In the car on the way home I asked about my father. Mother told me in a few weeks he would be fine but presently he was grumbling and making a nuisance of himself at the hospital. As we drove up the drive I could sense an air excitement as the harvesting would start in a few days. Mother told me the crew from Portugal had arrived and were installed in one of the back barns. They were looking forward to seeing you. They had known me as a toddler picking grapes with my brother. When I got out of the car and looked over the well kept lands I realized the work, thought and love these vines had been blessed with.

The vineyard forman came to lunch and I joined in all the discussion about decisions that had to still be made about the harvesting. I was slowly being embroiled in a wine maker's world. Then the inevitable question was what the weather was going to like. At this point there seemed to be a great discussion about the possibilities of storms coming over in the next two days. Today was cloudy but mild with the sun occasionally showing its head through the clouds. I knew from previous harvests that suffered from a few storms. Generally they were a matter of a couple of hours when picking stopped. But this year there were reports that a storm might be unusually big and damaging. We spent half an hour discussing the measures of protection we had taken or could take in the event of a big storm. Wine making is for the brave; they live under stressful conditions continually worrying about weather conditions. In the winter months, ice and cold, the spring, winds and hail, the summer, temperature and rain. A whole year's effort can be destroyed by serious adverse weather conditions. The luncheon closed with us all raising our glasses to the forthcoming harvest.

At three o'clock that night I suddenly woke up, unusual for me. It must be jet lag. I was amazed that the temperature seemed to have dropped a few degrees. I looked out of the window only to barely see a pitch black sky. I heard the wind pick up. Then the storm hit us with its full force. First the wind was now blowing at impressive force followed by a deluvian rain storm which must have lasted a good twenty minutes followed by the noise of violent damaging hail falling. As it hit I rushed to the kitchen and heard the dramatic and destructive sound of hail hitting all the property roofs. From my knowledge we had never experienced a storm of this nature. Mother came into the kitchen devastated by the violence of the storm and the damage it was causing. I took her in my arms and promised I would stay and start rebuilding the vineyards. Giving that promise I had closed the door on any dreams or ambitions I had to seek another career path.

In all this noise and chaos I heard a knock on the kitchen door. It was the head of the Portuguese crew, the foreman and a couple of workers. Not only did they look frightened but completely soaked. They held protections above their head against the hail.

“Thank you for coming. Quick come in.”

“We will have to wait for the morning before we assess the damage. I have never experienced a storm like this. What would you all like to drink coffee or tea or something stronger?.”

We sat around until dawn drinking our choice of beverage.

The storm had passed and slowly the morning light creeped across the vines. We all went outside to stand on the terrace, each of us assessing the damage. It had been a brutal storm never seen in this part of France. In its wake it had left behind grapes destroyed, vines uprooted, and gaping holes in several roofs. There would be no harvest, just an enormous amount of work clearing up.

Three years later we had the first joyful harvest that we had known before the great storm. This year my father retired and in a short ceremony handed over the reins to me. The night after the ceremony I could not sleep. My thoughts went back to the period before the storm. I was free. Wandering the world searching for the kind of life I want to lead. Now the cards had been dealt I just sat at the table hoping my cards would bring me contentment and happiness. I was now responsible for a vineyard. It certainly had its pleasurable side, creating a drink that gave pleasure to people. To achieve this required knowledge of weather patterns, soil conditions and blending technique. Most of these skills I had acquired over the last three years. This side of wine making I enjoyed but I always feel a dark cloud over my head that all our efforts were subject to the kind graces of the weather and nature.The vines are like looking after thousands of children,requiring careful pruning in the autumn, protection from the winter frosts, tasting the grapes in the late spring, harvesting in the late summer. This was the life handed out to me by the consequences and power of a unique and unforeseen catastrophic storm.

Life……..is simply a mauvais quart d’heure made up of exquisite moments. Oscar Wilde

David Nutt December 2025