Winter has well and truly descended on the farm. Frost has set in, rain lashes down so hard it leaves bullet holes in the soil, and the sun has apparently decided to abandon Earth and shine in another galaxy. Consequently, our beloved vines have slumbered into dormancy, which means it’s pruning time. Our first in the vineyard!
The eventual plan is to sculpt these vines into something resembling images you see on wine labels. Rows and rows of leafy, organised lines. However, that level of perfection takes time to arrive. The early years are all about nurturing a sturdy trunk, with offshoots stretching towards those fruiting wires like fans at the front row of a rock gig. But here's where it gets personal. After a year of watching my stick-like vines transform into slightly less stick-like vines, I’m now expected to play the merciless professional and chop them back. Feels a bit like throwing away a painting just because you've run out of blue. “Isn’t it brilliant that they’ve grown this far? Can’t we celebrate?” Apparently not.
But, as in any garden, not all plants are created equal. Some of my vine-babies are more 'twig' than 'mighty oak', barely peeping over their protective tubes. The professional in me says, 'Rip them out! Feed them to the rabbits!' But, alas, my heart bleeds for these underachievers. They've soldiered through a scorching summer and been buffeted by too many storms with names I can barely pronounce.
So, in a move that might shock the hardened viticulturists, I'm setting up a vine orphanage. These botanical underdogs are getting a second chance in the prime real estate of the farm, with the best soil I can muster and a recovery plan better than anything the Priory offers “exhausted” pop stars. But let’s be clear, this is their final roll of the dice, their last shot at glory – no more do overs. Unless they need another chance next year of course. I’m just too soft for this game.