The alarm clock stirs me at 4.55, today will be my first day of paid work in New Zealand. It’s a clear, cool morning. The birds are still asleep and I stretch from my slumber bizarrely humming ‘rainy night in Georgia.’ When I step out from the caravan It’s not yet light enough to see the creek, although I can easily make out the outline of a cat stalking sleepy sparrows. I get the toast in and the kettle on, when the toast pops it startles me. For the inexact length of time it takes to blacken bread, I’ve been staring at the handle of the cupboard and its flowery motif. No doubt with the glazed expression and slack jaw of someone gassed during a painful dental procedure. Eventually caffeine and carbs shake me into action, I wash, dress and pack my bag. My stomach turns with that first day knot of anxiety. My interview had only been 18hrs before. I say interview, it was more like the dressing down of a sailor being press ganged into Nelsons navy. My interviewer a well weathered Scotsman, with the trill of a Clyde ship builder and the profile of He-man’s nemesis, Skeletor.
“ya sim oookay,
but thr as one thang…. I duunt lik bluudy anglissh.”
It’s the only interview I’ve had where Braveheart was mentioned three times. I didn’t say that I think Mel Gibson is an utter twat, is yet to make a good film and the ridiculous statue of him at Bannockburn should be melted down and re formed into a replica of Andy Murray. Such a fine replica that tennis commentators would find a solid piece of metal alloy far more interesting and receptive to questions than the man himself.
With this whiff of Anglophobia still fresh in my mind I headed out. Keen to impress. Lets face it, I had thousands of years of English history to be personally responsible for, should I fail to do the job properly!
That was a few weeks back, the Scot has thankfully mellowed. He enjoys my jokes. I’ve softened him with comedy. He appreciates the fact I understand him and his one-liners. Strangely up until this week I was the only natural English speaker there. The team is made up of Spaniards, Chileans, Germans, of course, Czechs and a French Canadian. The absence of Kiwi’s is noticeable and a big problem in this part of the world. Many of the picking gangs are made up of Pacific Islanders, as are most of the packhouse jobs. Backpackers account for most of the others. It’s apparent that there are not enough people in Hawke’s bay to harvest such a crop. Moreover the work is, by its nature seasonal, and hard. I say hard loosely. I’m not calling the New Zealanders lazy, but listening to conversations between managers, locals and the man on the street the problem here is a microcosm of the western world. Why would a man on $500 a week in benefit get up at 5 to work for 6 months of the year? To bring home maybe $150 more. It simply won’t happen. As such the population of Hawke’s bay swells at this time of the year, it becomes a multi national community, working to send fruit overseas. The fruit block I worked on last week was crammed with 50,000 apple trees. Bizarrely the local supermarket still sells Granny Smiths and Royal Gala’s from the USA.
Hawke’s bay’s other main draw is wine. It is one of New Zealand’s premiere wine making areas, it’s loaded with vineyards and cellar doors. Keen to learn, loaded with intrigue and a designated driver, four of us headed out…..
…. to get pissed for nowt!
Essentially, and when it comes to things like this I’m a cynic. I’m no way an expert but Wine tasting’s must account for very little of a vineyards income. All it serves to do is add to the la-di-da drama and romance of wine.
We arrive at Trinity hill it’s a modern building, slightly industrial with a bubbly Brummy pouring the plonk. It’s nice, I feel like buying a hat. The chap is informed and friendly. And for 10 seconds I’m suckered in to all this pomp and circumstance, until I realise, in order to cram even a small selection of wineries in to our itinerary we need to get a move on. I down the Syrah and gather everyone together. We zip between Clearview, Te Awanga, Te Arawa, and Elephant Hill which resembles a tennis centre and sports complex. Needless to say it has won me over to the pleasures of white wine and has lovely embossed labels. Designed by a Dutch man I’m told!
Our final Stop Is Craggy Range a purpose built winery. It’s a magnificent temple to the grape. Modern, luxurious and stinks of wealth. A Man in an Aertex shirt gets in to a big old American car. We enter the huge glass frontage, I half expect to see a sign for a retrospective on Van Gogh it resembles a contemporary museum so closely. We head to the bar where, for the first time, we are charged for the tasting. I (being of Yorkshire heritage) scoff, a $45 million dollar winery and we are being charged for a thimble full. It better be good. The suave looking young man behind the bar is eye candy for the girls. He’s from the Cotswold’s and knows less about wine than me. He reads from a card behind the desk and tells me what I should be getting from this fantastic product. I went on a whisky tour once, the elderly chap taking us round had worked at the distillery his whole life, he knew every barrel by name and number, the product inside out, I believed every thing he told me. I wouldn’t believe this prick as far as I could throw him, he is there because of his award winning smile. And this is where I go back to my original point, why cant he just leave us to it, pour the grog, and shut the fuck up. Wine, and most good things for that matter, should sell themselves.
I have never in my life put a brogue in my gob, therefore have never tasted “Shoe leather” So I can’t give a definitive answer as to whether I can taste it in this wine. Nor can 99% of this room, yet when bloody Tom Cruise behind the bar blurts out a list of Verbal diarrhoea, such as.
“You should be tasting…Shoe Leather, Star Anise, Frangelica, Lemon Peel, Turkish Delight, Tom cat piss, WD40.”
The whole room nods like the Churchill dog..
”mmm Yea I really get a sense of that”
Its complete bull but we aren’t the only ones. An ex girlfriend used to pronounce Châteaux Neuf du Pape, Châteaux Neuf du poirre. Much similar to a New Yorker saying Prawn, because she felt it sounded more refined. Wine snobbery is big business. It keeps these bastards in business and trounces the little guys into submission.
We leave with a thirty dollar bottle of red.
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