Alf wanted Henry to go with him to visit a
guy in Palmerston who needed advice about his trees. Henry reluctantly agreed
to go on condition they start early because his diary was already full of commitments
that were hard to break.
Trevor was all set for a yarn and he invited
them into his shed where he had a private museum of the district’s history,
which Henry found interesting but was mentally bouncing from one foot to the
other to get the show on the road! At the rear of Trevor’s shed he had a bar!
With pride, he told the foresters that not only did he make wine he also
blended his own whiskey and fortified his wine by standing it in brandy casks. He
insisted that Alf and Henry sample ‘his best’. They lost an hour or so tippling.
Alf was enjoying himself, smacking his
lips, eyes gleaming with a steady sway on! Trevor became increasingly talkative,
prattling on about his hobby! Henry couldn’t get the hang of this wine tasting
game, none of it was really drinkable, and he couldn’t taste what the others reckoned
they tasted. Some of it made his gums curl up in protest! An old, familiar forestry
refrain buzzed through his head! He lost track of the wine varieties: banana,
peach, apricot, parsnip, raspberry, some fortified after fizzing in brandy casks.
Alf shouldn’t have been driving for the rest of the day, he was so well lit he
didn’t need headlights! The tree advice given at the end of the day wasn’t exactly
textbook either!
When the local, Mill House opened as a restaurant, it became the trendy place for
various functions. The locals were mostly new to the wine drinking malarkey, so
most opted for the cheapest on the list: Cold Duck or Premier Curveé. The more monied,
bought Blue Nun, the most expensive on the list so were therefore entitled to
hold their little finger up as they swigged. All of them swigged, because they
were traditional beer drinkers. Most of them were crook the next day no matter
the price!
A while later along came the days of wine
and cheese evenings! More refined than the beer-swilling aftermatch functions
the forestry boys were used to. But they were at least a good fundraiser for
the school committee. Henry didn’t think much of any of those fancy-named wines.
He enjoyed leaning back in his chair, nibbling cheeses and listening to the
talk of the wannabe connoisseurs trying to taste flavours within the plonk that
the label reckoned were ‘hints of’. Isn’t wine just grape juice? Where do the
spices and other fruits come from? Henry mimed that old refrain.
Years rattled along, as they do, and to
cash in on the opportunity of vineyards being established in Central Otago and
the Waitaki Valley, Henry and Co, decided they should propagate grape plants.
Grapes aren’t difficult to propagate, but there is a science to it so it has to
be done properly for the growers’ long term viability. This was serious
stuff. Most of the important grape
varieties are susceptible to a soil borne virus, so the response has been to
breed rootstocks that don’t have susceptibility to the virus. Most are known only
by a clone number and growers, have their preferred numbered clone. First Henry
propagated a range rootstocks from cuttings to bulk up plants for cutting
material. The scion was grafted onto the
rooted clone cuttings. They kept a range of scions preferred in the target area:
Pinot Noir, Pinot Gris, Shiraz, Sauvignon Blanc and Chardonnay. It was simply
through his work that Henry had any clue about the names of wines.
Through a quirk of fate, some years later,
Henry was touring the Waitaki Valley and trooped into one of the boutique wine
shops. He paid an exorbitant price for a bottle of Pinot Noir, which was the
first vintage from the very plants he had propagated! It was special to Henry
and he shared it with friends on a special occasion. Actually he had no intention
of buying any wine that day, he was with a group and had to tag along. But they
were doing the wine tasting thing in boutique wine shops, sniffing and sipping.
Ha, the old forestry refrain again popped into his head.
Within a month or two, during the biennial
reunion of his forestry cronies, they toured a vineyard in Marlborough. Henry
kept mum about his experience with propagating grapes - an old nurseryman’s
trick to pick up information. The pleasant young woman who was hosting the tour
explained everything very well and accurately. That is until she reckoned
connoisseurs can taste which rootstock the grape variety is grafted on to. Ding,
ding! There’s that old refrain again.
During his travels, Henry visited a
monastery cloistering some German monks near Soni Falls, in the Usambara
Mountains. A very well-run establishment husbanding some of the biggest dairy
cows he had seen! Their standard for everything was so high, he was enticed to
purchase a whole case of their wine. Back at Makumira, he found it to be
miss-labelled! It should have read Paint
Stripper. He sang the forestry refrain aloud in Swahili!
According to Henry, the effect of wine has
a bigger plus than the taste of it! But there’s never one rule. After touring Australia’s Hunter Valley, he
had cause to rethink. He bought a bottle of Botrytis wine. He was fascinated
because botrytis is a fungal disease, a common enemy in the nursery industry.
The sales person referred to it as liquid gold, and Henry’s wan smile hid the
little jingle dancing around in his head. His empty purse was a testament to the
liquid gold rhetoric though! The wine was the colour freshly extracted clover
honey, and mellow. A true nectar, which might just show that you get what you
pay for!
Sure these days Henry enjoys relaxing with
the odd glass of Pinot Gris, Pinot Noir or Shiraz. He’s still not a sniffer or a
swirler, but he’s learned to sip away with a hopeful, contented countenance. Still
it’s just glorified grape juice.
Here’s the refrain. Feel free to target anyone
you (don’t) like with it. It’s loosely to the tune of My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean.
Oh bring me my portable shovel
Oh bring me my potable pick
They’re talking a load of old bullshit
And we’ve got to get rid of it quick!
Bullshit, bullshit,
It all sounds like bullshit
To me to me!
Bullshit, bullshit,
It all sounds like bullshit
To me…
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