Days in the vineyard are punctuated by long lunches of goats cheese on crusty bread bought each morning from the little epicerie in Villespassans and nights of wine, whisky and strange dreams. Each day I weigh the bunches of firm grapes in my hands and think of T., and A., wondering... I understand now why grapes are such a universal and persistent symbol of fertility, their weight and potency, the clear juices bursting through thick purple skins... We scatter the weak, the unripe and the diseased between the trellised lines, and move on, thousands of purple, marbled globes rotting in our wake...

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