I am a self-proclaimed vineyard guy. The vineyard is my religion and my temple. I call it therapy. My idea of a relaxing afternoon is spent in the vineyard pruning. Turn off the phone. Listen to nature…. And stuff.
Perhaps that is why I carry around my pruners everywhere. They are the rod and the staff of my trade. The hammer and nails…. Not only are they handy for effectively trimming a vine down to five buds per linear foot, but they can be used to tighten screws, open cans of beans, and dispatch mosquitoes. My pruners are the tool I cannot live without. For some it’s a cell phone. For me it’s a worn pair of Felco #8s.
I embark on this quest with a suitcase of clothes and my trusty pruners. Hoping that somewhere along the way I shall find a vine or rusty can of beans that needs help. I quickly find that many of the vineyards in Burgundy are already pruned. I am told this is because “the winters in France are long and most vignerons can only stand to be shut up with their wives for so long.” I am also told that “you need a license to prune” in France, but I’m skeptical. I think this is something they tell les tourists.
In the village of St. Pere near Vezelay there is a small winery near the church. The proprietaire, I call him Jean-Something because everyone here is Jean-Something-or-Other, leads us to his cave for a tasting.
We sample from old barrels. The wines are young and interesting. Then almost in passing he declares his wife needs help pruning the vineyard. She stands in the corner of the cellar holding the corkscrew. She’s wearing a skirt, leather boots, and a jean jacket, and looks like she’s dressed for May…it’s March. I have six layers of crap on, and my teeth are chattering. Despite the Burgundy sorbet pumping through my veins, I spot my chance and volunteer.
Before I know it I am careening up a dusty road to god knows where. We pass some Charolais cattle grazing in a field, and a sign for a gite down a goat path. We round a bend and drive past what looks like a cemetery for appliances and broken down Peugeots. Chickens scatter. We stop on a hill South of Vezelay, and admire the neat rows of un-pruned vines. Waiting….
I recognize the system, and set to work as my friends watch. I make a cut. I go to make another cut. Then I am told I am doing it wrong.
Jean-Something groans and stops. “My children must eat, and I must pay the bank,” he says. I am slightly amused but play along.
He begins telling me that I can only leave so many buds, and the cut must be so many millimeters this way or that. I make another cut. I ask him to explain. I make another cut. There is no explanation…only groans.
By now it becomes clear to me that if he pruned the way I do he would have been done back in December. It also becomes clear to me that if I want to grow grapes the way the French do I don’t need a license. I need to be French. Alors…I give up.
The wife in the skirt stoops down with boots, skirt, and cigarette in hand to prune the vine next to me…as only a true French man or woman could.
