TOMATOES & HALF DAYS

The whites comes in first – they’re pressed straight away and, if we’re lucky, they’re happily fermenting while the reds come in. The reds come in and go straight into their tanks, and if we’re lucky, they kick off their ferments with little hassle. Throughout it all we’re cleaning, tasting, testing, fortifying, cleaning again, moving equipment and making sure nothing’s going terribly wrong. That’s harvest. Cleaning, lifting and making sure nothing’s going wrong.

And then there are Sundays.

Sundays tend to be half days. Pickers don’t pick, but winemakers still have to mind the juice. There may be some cooling down to do, and no doubt there will be remontage on the reds. Sometimes I have the winery to myself on a Sunday. I work slowly, deliberately, on these lonely Sundays. Bungee cords act in place of another person to help out, securing both hoses and ladders whilst I switch on or off the pumps and chillers. We don’t have temperature-controlled tanks, and so we use a great big cooling box that attaches to the pump called a group that cools the wine down as it runs through it. Lowering the temperature of a 5,000 litre tank by ten degrees can take a few hours and ties up a pump for that time. One year, the group broke at Mas Cristine. And then the refrigerated container packed it in as well. This was while we were harvesting the whites, where temperature control is at its most essential. We were racking the fermenting white and rosé into old refrigerated milk vats to cool them down. We used a great deal of CO2 to protect the wine from oxygenation during the constant racking and re-racking. A few of the whites at Mas Cristine kicked off their ferments wild-style as well (most likely due to the warmer temperature), which normally would be a nice thing, but that particular year just meant far more racking and cooling than two pumps and two milk tanks are able to cope with.

Coume del Mas is a bit nicer to work in by yourself. At Mas Cristine, the co-op workers don’t come in on a Sunday, so it feels as though you’re working in an abandoned factory. One that might be haunted. At Coume del Mas, it’s not quite so unsettling. It’s a pretty place and suits the quiet. The echoes aren’t quite as ominous.

You take the temperature and density readings, hoping that nothing’s hot. If something’s hot, it slows everything down, and your half day might as well be a day as you wait on the group to cool down the wine. You taste on your own, that bubbling juice, and maybe give it a bit more thought than when you’re in the rush of the week, knowing how much there is to do. Maybe you’ll turn on the radio, and hope that it isn’t too appalling (French radio is the pits). One Sunday, I’d just given up on the pigeage on the Mourvèdre tank. I hadn’t been able to budge it; it was impenetrable. So I got the pump set up and made sure that I had a couple of strong bungie cords. The Mourvèdre tank stands next to the big, new oak fermenter, which has a convenient ledge that you can sit on while pumping over. It’s a rare change from clinging to the top of a ladder. I was double-checking the pump sockets when the Petit Forestier refrigerated van arrived. Out of it popped Philippe and his eldest daughter, Fanny. We exchanged bonjours – Fanny was in her mid-teens then, and still had that lingering shyness around those older than her. A friend of Philippe’s had some Muscat vines to pick, and Philippe volunteered his day off to help out. I mentioned the intransigence of the Mourvèdre and he backed my decision to do remontage rather than break my back attempting to punch it down. He said he was bringing the Muscat back here to press it with Fanny later in the afternoon, and told me where to leave the key when I left. He looked entirely content with the day as it was, picking and making wine with his daughter on an overcast Sunday. I watched as he grabbed a few things from the winery and jumped back into the cab of the truck with Fanny.

I finished pumping over the Mourvèdre and moved over to the small tank that held a mix of Syrah and Grenache in the corner of the winery just behind the south door. Small tanks make it hard to secure the hose when you have to work the pump, and there was a bit of kick back. As I turned on the pump, the hose leapt out from the top of the tank and managed to knock out a huge mound of grapes, and their juice, all over the floor and under Tank 1 (which holds the juice that will become Schistes). I continued the remontage, after a considerable barrage of swearing to cut through the peaceful calm of the winery. When I was done, I climbed down the ladder set about tidying my mess. I was annoyed at myself, in part because I’d not secured the hose well enough, but also because of the extra time added to my part day’s work. I cleaned the mess, crawling under Tank 1 to get the clumps that had lodged themselves as inconveniently as possible. I put the ladder and the pump away, coiled the hoses and electrical cables and triple checked all the tanks to make sure all was in order. It was, and so I shut the barn doors and then locked the little one. It had clouded over while I worked, and the sky was grey out to the dark sea. There was no Tramontane wind that day, just the occasional whisper of breeze. It was not yet lunch time. I had the rest of the day ahead, and as I stared out to the horizon, the only thing on my mind was a long nap.

Occasionally, there really is a day off. A day when you don’t go into the winery at all, when you can sleep past 5.30a.m. and feel no guilt.

The first harvest I worked was a big one, and there was only one stagaire to help out. It meant Andy and I got a day off only once in three weeks. We drove out to the beach at Argelès Plage with plans for a day of swimming, frisbee, beer and maybe a nice bite at one of the places that wasn’t too touristy. Kirsten was pregnant with Theo, and had gone to Scotland during vintage, so it was just the two of us. We found a spot near the water and lay out the towels. I muttered something about having a quick nap first. Sunscreen liberally applied and Sox hat pulled low over my eyes, à la Indiana Jones, I lay back, closed my eyes and slowly the sounds of the crashing waves and the folks playing in them faded into silence.

I didn’t dream. The volume rose again and I lifted my hat to find Andy towelling off from a swim.

‘How long was I out for?’

‘At least an hour. I fell asleep too. Needed to dive into the water to wake up a bit.’

‘An hour? Am I burnt to a crisp?’ I sat up and poked my legs and chest to see if there were any of the signs of burning, but couldn’t really tell. The idea of working in the winery with severe sunburn filled me with dread.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Can’t believe I slept that long. Best get in the water.’ I ran down and dove straight in, hoping it would wake me up a bit. It’s one thing being exhausted at work, it’s entirely another to be exhausted on your day off.

The water gets quite deep quite quickly at Argelès. It’s not like Collioure, where you can walk out 20 metres or so without slipping under.

I got out and Andy was packing up. I didn’t blame him. The swim had given a jolt, but falling asleep in the midday sun doesn’t make you especially keen to stay out in it. I was annoyed. I think we both were. Wasting a precious day off to nap. Nap in style, perhaps, on a beautiful white sand beach in the bright and burning Mediterranean sun, but nap nonetheless.

Since then I’ve taken more care about my days off during harvest.

They can be lonely mornings, because those that you’re not working, someone else has to. If I’m in Collioure, I’ll walk over to the Sola and sit in front in the morning sun, order an espresso and a petit déjeuner. It’s nice to eat and sip and see the people in their morning routine – it makes a nice change from shuffling through the streets in the dark, munching on a pain au chocolat as you go, all while everyone else is sleeping. The Sola’s a bit of a different place in the morning. It has free wifi, so it becomes a bit of a Babel, with multiple nationalities tapping away at their laptops or Skyping loved ones. And you’ll always get the hardcore sports fans, sitting inside in the main bar, watching either the highlights from the day before or rugby live from the other side of the world, depending on the time.

I like petit déjeuner. It’s simple. A nice strip of baguette with butter and jam, some yoghurt, hopefully with fruit compote, a croissant with more butter and jam, a glass of orange juice and perhaps some fizzy water. Moving in and out of the winery on most days, you can forget just how bright and clear the sun can be in this part of the world. Breakfast at the Sola serves as a good reminder. If I’m out for the day, I put some sunscreen on my arms, legs, face and the tops of my feet. You only have to burn the tops of your feet once to never forget to put sunscreen there ever again.

If it’s a Wednesday or Sunday, the market will be on in the square next to the Sola. It’s a good market, with a superb fromagerie and a brilliant tomato farmer. In the States they’d call them ‘heirloom’ tomatoes and in the UK they might be referred to as ‘heritage’. All manner of colour and shape, they look like nothing you’d find in the supermarket and taste of such concentrated juiciness, that you don’t really need to do anything to them other than eat them. If the tomato guy has enough, that’s the salad for dinner sorted. Little bit of salt, olive oil and good vinegar and it’s one of the tastiest things in the known universe.

So I wander around the market and nibble some samples from the pretty girl selling cheese. I stare for a while at the paella dishes, a metre and a half in diameter, filled with rice, seafood, spices and a cornucopia of vegetables. I’m always somewhat fearful of these dishes, wondering just how much they can sell in a day, and how much of the old gets blended into the new. Probably none, but I still can’t shake the thought.

Cured meats of all shapes and forms, bread stalls with towers of loaves whose crusts are still crackling as they settle. Tables laden with local honeys next to ones with all pickle or preserves. In the far corner of the square is the ‘stuff’ section, where all manner of crafts and trinkets can be purchased. I tend to give this area merely a glance. The sights, tastes and smells of the victuals are far too much too ignore for long. The market is one of those brilliant things that brings everyone one out: local, expat and tourist all mill around doing their shopping, nodding and saying bonjour. A couple of wineries sometimes ply their wares, but you’re better off checking out the vinegars, olive oils and other bits and pieces.

It’s great to have a day off at the market because it means as well as that you can really spend some time on your dinner. Dinner at vintage is frequently as simple as lunch at vintage: bread, cheese and meat with a bit of salad. There’s not much time or energy to do anything else.

Laden with cheese, tomatoes, rare cured meats and whatever else has taken my fancy (later in the harvest you start getting some incredible mushrooms at the market), I’ll drop the shopping off at Kirsten and Andy’s place and head back out. Collioure’s a lovely town to not have to go anywhere in particular in. Usually I’ll trace the line of the harbour, first by heading out to the end of the pier.

To get to the pier you pass the main church with its iconic steeple and the small chapel on the beach. If I were in the UK or back in the States for this sort of walk, I would pop my headphones in and wander about to my own soundtrack. But I like the noise and the bustle here. I don’t speak the language very well, but I love to hear it. I can’t bear to block out the sounds of the sea, either. So I walk with my eyes and ears open, sometimes with my big camera, hoping to see something I haven’t seen before.

The view of Collioure from the end of the pier gives a great sense of how dwarfed the town is by the hills that surround it. The church, the fort, the windmill and the mysterious castle that sits high above the town, owned apparently by a Parisian millionaire, are all in view, jutting out on their various ridges, hills and peninsulas. You can see down the coast as well, towards Cap Bear and Port-Vendres, though it’s just cliffs and rock that meets the eye.

I take it in for a few minutes at the pier’s end. Having lived in St Andrews for almost two decades, I’ve grown fond of stone piers, and cannot see one without the desire to travel out to the end of it, its furthest stretching point, and look out to what sits further.

There will be a steady stream of people doing much the same, though they don’t tend to linger as long. They get to the end, tick the box of ‘done that’ and head back. Sometimes I’ll look up to the hills and the vines at Le Rimbau, wondering if anyone’s picking up there.

From the pier I’ll head back into town at a slow pace. I’m not in a rush, and I know where I’m going. I walk along in front of the touristy tapas bars on the stony beach, serving the hungry and thirsty in their hundreds, dodging children loose on school holiday, marvelling at the French habit of taking tiny dogs for a walk by carrying them, instead of walking them. Depending on the day, I’ll walk up by the Templiers and back towards the Sola to see who’s about. If I’m hungry, I’ll just cut across the bridge by the fort, and take the walk along the water, past the fishermen and painters and the stand that takes bookings for boat trips.

By this point it isn’t just the sun that’s hot, it’s the light bouncing off the water, and the heat reflecting off the stones and sand. Everything is warm.

This path takes me to the other side of town, to the good beach and the carousel. I pass them all, and wander instead all the way around, towards the SCUBA school, and to the steps of Les Voiles.

Les Voiles is the bistro of the Neptune, once the Michelin Star flag-bearing restaurant for Collioure. It sits on a short cliffside about eight metres above the harbour. You sit outside, but are protected by ‘sails’, strips of cloth that serve to keep the most ferocious of the sun at bay. It’s the only tourist-y place that I like going to in Collioure because it’s got the best view, the kitchen is better than the others and because it’s not on the main strip, it never seems as crowded as the others (even though it’s always full). And the service is good, and friendly, even. Sadly though, in spite of much pleading on my part, there’s no access to the Neptune’s far superior wine list from here.

I get a table with a view out to the pier and order a pichet of rosé and some fizzy water. The menu is much like the others around here, but I don’t mind. I get something fishy and then something meaty. Or something meaty and then something fishy. The cured boudin noir is particularly good here. They’ve got groovy wine glasses, and I like picking mine up by the stem and holding it out to the coastline, looking at the world turned upside down through a vinous filter. Looking at the cracked, cut, calloused and tannin-stained fingers of my vintage hands as they grip the perfectly formed vessel that holds a liquid, the making of which no doubt caused someone else’s fingers to look exactly like mine do.

I’ll take my notebook out and do some writing, taking my time with my lunch. Sometimes I’ll pick up my camera and snap a shot of an interesting boat making its way into the harbour. Mostly I just try to be there. To listen, see and feel my surroundings, set in that perfect small spot. To taste as the wine scrapes the food from my palate, amplifying it and being amplified by it.

I don’t usually get cheese or dessert. Just the bill and a coffee. Then maybe a walk up to the moulin above the gardens that sit behind the museum, the one that I’ve never seen open.

Around six, I’ll head over to the Sola again, to meet Andy and Kirsten and the boys. We’ll have a beer and then turn the fruits of the market into some manner of a meal.

It’s nice to be drinking a beer and to be clean, fresh and not in too much pain.