Maybe that’s because I no longer drink wine. But the effort it takes to get a crop is such a pain.
But I can’t complain. I have help this year. Malcolm will tend to the crop, if I prepare the vineyard.
And what weeds. Brambles certainly, plus bracken. And also wild clematis, grass and nettles. I found them all. And had to kneel beside each vine to hack away to clear the mess. Carefully.
It’s not too bad when your head is down and you are working away; but then when you stand up to stretch the aching back, you see how many rows there are to go. It’s most dispiriting.
Luckily I had the audio recording of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire to entertain me. That and the surreal thrill of blazing sunshine and hail storms at the same time.
Forget sunshine and showers, this was sunshine and snow. Not for long, but enough to make me wish I had some shelter down in the vineyard.
There was a pause in the early afternoon for a spot of voting over at the village. It’s our mayoral elections this weekend so we needed to attend and take part in our democratic duties.
But there was no rest for the peasants; back to the vines until the sunset reminded me that I was frozen and knackered and ready to stop. I have tamed three quarters of the vineyard.
The good thing about the trip down to the vineyard was I got to admire the hornbeam hedge coming into growth below the house.
And in the early morning I had the delight of seeing how the barn garden is coming along. Flood? What flood?
And on the medical front, Artur must be better, he stalked me as I walked to the potting shed to collect my guantlets and secateurs (and loppers, and saw, and kneelers, and spare gloves). And then just as I was walking through the barn he launched an attack from above.
The warmth of the potting shed and a choice of not one but two wine boxes, lined with soft fleece was too much of a tempation. He snoozed most of the day.