Gap Year

In late September 1972 I arrived by train at Rheims. It was the beginning of an eventful gap year.

The rules were simple: I had to pay for myself. There was another snag: I did not have a university place so the gap might go on for ever but I had some money – not much.

Chapter One. I was met by a nun who had casually parked the monastère’s 2 cv on a pedestrian crossing. I took this in my stride because I was totally confused – I was going to a monastère and expected a monk. The convent is on a hill with a fine view of Rheims cathedral. I was given a room in the gate house and ate with the other guests – usually  priests. If I had to be on my 18-year-old self alone Mother Superior invited me to the refectory where I sat beside her gulping wine out of Duralex tumblers and keeping quiet while something improving was read by a Sister. I am a slow eater and it was agony for the nuns to wait for me to finish. I use a Duralex tumbler as a tooth mug today to remind me of this formative experience.

I arrived before the vendange started so helped out in the garden with an Irish nun who helped me out when I couldn’t express myself clearly. The walls of the monastery were pock-marked from WW I shells and later I found where there had been trenches. There were wild tomatoes because the troops had eaten tomatoes.

Work started at 7.00 am when the vendage began. The nuns and I did the picking and men from the village were the “paniers” and transporters of the grapes. There was ad lib red wine so, when I saw the men drinking, I had a gulp to warm me up. There was frost every morning. We took a break at 9.00 for breakfast and had another longer break in the middle of the day. Work finished at about 6.00.

Before work, during work breaks and after work the nuns attended Divine Service. An emissary, the Irish nun, wanted me to to join them at the evening service. It transpired they were aware I was (am) a member of the Church of Ireland so I could hardly refuse. It was moving to be with a congregation of nuns and they then encouraged me to take Communion with them. I did.

Meanwhile a couple from London arrived to join the vendage. They were absurdly cool and glamorous. They lived in a flat in Notting Hill – where? He had been a miner and was into media as far as I remember. My family were wildly anxious when I went to stay in their one room flat in Notting Hall later that year. They were druggy, beautiful, kind people who never, never made even a suggestion that we might do anything naughty. They were definitely curious about a spotty, Irish, Old Etonian and treated me like a puppy.

We picked the grapes in pairs. I was paired with a different nun every day and my French improved. We often chatted about French history because there did not seem anything else appropriate. I think one of the postulants gave up her vocation after a few sessions with me; my spots must have given her impure thoughts.

The men from the village eventually accepted me and advised against drinking the Algerian red. I accepted their nips of marc at 7.00 am. There was a party after the vendage at which I sang Paddy McGinty’s Goat with an inept French translation. My stay was cut short by a telegram to my mother in Ireland. “Send boy, bring dinner jacket”. Nuns are just slightly snobbish and were delighted when I told them- “envoyez garçon avec le smoking”.

If you’d like to know more about my first gap year job read this.