Life as a winemaker, full of romance?

For people who have never been winemakers, there is an imaginative version of sunlit afternoons among the vines, a glass of something beautiful in hand, the natural rhythm of seasons unfolding at a gentle and civilised pace. It is indeed a warm and romantic image. Parts of it are even true.

But let me tell you about January and February which means earnest pruning in Pinet. Every single vine, by hand, in weather that newcomers don't anticipate from a Mediterranean lifestyle. It is cold and damp with the kind of chill that gets into your joints by mid-morning and stays there until sleep. Eighty thousand vines do not prune themselves. They need to be shaped methodically, row by row, day by day, with a decision for each plant that will directly impact what ends up in the bottle eight months later. A wrong cut today is a weaker harvest in September. This is a serious business.

Then comes the anxiety of spring. The joy of newly of vivid green leaves emerging from the vine and the formation of tiny budding grapes. However late frost is the enemy every wine grower fears most as a single night at the wrong temperature can destroy those budding grapes before the season has properly begun, which is devastating. I watch weather forecasts intently, and am always on standby nights and early mornings to light small fires throughout each vineyard - this is an ancient technique to raise ambient temperature even a degree or two, create air movement to disrupt cold air settling near the ground, and limit the ice crystals forming on delicate shoots - all critical to protect the treasured vines.

Summer brings its own challenges. The vines need constant inspection. Pests and disease do not take holidays. The heat that makes the Languedoc so appealing to visitors makes the physical work of the vineyard gruelling. You rise early, work long, and fall asleep without much effort.

As a small and independent winegrower and winemaker, I am fully exposed to all elements of Mother Nature. Whether she smiles or frowns, she is going to impact the work and wellbeing of myself and my family.

And then, harvest. Assuming the weather conditions are favourable, this part feels more romantic, or at least, it earns that description in retrospect. The moment when everything the season has produced is finally in my hands, when the grapes I have spent a year nurturing are picked and pressed and begin their transformation into wine. There is a satisfaction in that moment that is difficult to put into words. It is physical, emotional, and entirely real. Worth it? Yes. Glamorous? Less so than the photographs and movies suggest. The winemaking itself, the pressing, the fermentation, the blending, the bottling, is meticulous and unforgiving work. Wine does not tolerate carelessness. Every decision in the cellar either supports what the vineyard has given you or undermines it, and you will not know for certain which until the bottle is open and someone is drinking it.

Finally, what nobody talks about is how much of the year is administration, compliance, marketing, logistics, and the hundred small tasks that have nothing to do with vines or wine but are entirely necessary to running a small business. The French agricultural system is thorough in its paperwork requirements and sometimes I think I spend more time with documents than I do with my vines.

So on balance, is it romantic?

On a warm August evening, standing among vines heavy with ripe Piquepoul grapes, the lagoon glinting in the distance, the lights of Sete twinkling on Mont Saint-Clair and the garrigue fragrant in the last of the day's heat, yes. Absolutely and completely yes. On a briskly cool April morning, with the sun rising over the vines and light glinting off the dew on olive tree leaves, yes. Approaching sunset on a late October evening, when vine leaves are in shades of gold, ruby red and burnt orange, and the rabbits are happily hopping about in a peaceful quiet vineyard, yes.

But at 6am on a frozen morning at the start of pruning season, with eighty thousand vines on your mind and rain coming in from the west it can be hard to feel enthused.

I do feel very fortunate to be a vigneron and I'm sure my tolerance comes from having known this life since I was a child. I would not trade it. But I would encourage anyone who romanticises this life to spend at least a month living it before making any decisions to become a vigneron. And for those who make this bold move - I wish you every success and good fortune.

À votre santé!