Not many wine drinkers and probably fewer wine merchants have taken the trouble to discover the toil that goes into making a bottle of wine. For over three thousand years the making and imbibation of wine has been undertaken and enjoyed. Many talk of the climate, the vinification process and the technology involved, but few go to find out what happens in the beginning. It is a constant source of amazement to me that wine making must be one of the most ancient industries in history and although methods have progressed the basic requirements of planting, pruning and picking have changed very little. O.K. we have tractors and trailers, sharper blades and rubber gloves to aid us in our work yet there are certain jobs that can only be done by hand and carried out in the same manner as they would have been thousands of years ago. September 1998 - “La Vendange” Having travelled down through France to Beaujolais I was escorted from Macon Ige station to a rather beautiful rustic Chateau nestling in the hillside, surrounded by hectares and hectares of vines resembling a patchwork of green. “What on earth do your want to do this for?” - I was asked. “What had I let myself in for?” - I asked myself. I had been told that I would be well fed (no cooking, no washing up! – a bonus), that I would be expected to drink copious quantities of wine (home from home), and I had been advised to bring my oldest clothes which could be discarded when the job was finished! I woke in the dark the following morning, dressed, breakfasted and donned a large green “impermeable”. Armed with a black bucket, a pair of secateurs and rubber gloves I followed a group of similarly attired “grape pickers” out into the rain only then did I begin to wonder what I was doing! The atmosphere was, however, reminiscent of the mountains, the fresh air, freedom and a promising day ahead mixed with the feeling of duty and direction overrode. I saw what needed doing, found a row of grapes and started to snip. “Pas feuilles – no leaves” I was told as I wended my way along my first row of vines. The rain continued and my anxieties grew. My family was cosily ensconced at home in England probably still in their beds drinking tea and eating biscuits and I had chosen to come here and do this.