A recent comment reminded me that I was a vendangeur in 1972; cue for me to ramble on a bit about my “gap year”.
In those pre-internet days the bible for students was a hefty directory that listed holiday jobs. I thought grape-picking would be an enjoyable self-financing holiday. In fact it would have been my lot to live in squalor with the scum of the earth and have a thoroughly miserable time had my sister not come to my rescue. Ten years previously she had been casting around for something to do after she left Hillcourt and Miss Byrne came to her rescue. Miss Byrne had been governess to two generations of the de Vogue family in France and had retired to Castlebellingham in Co Louth. Guillame de Vogue is my age and his parents wanted an au pair to look after him and teach him some English. Miss Byrne recommended Angela. It was a success; she took French lessons and a cooking course and came home full of stories about Paris and speaking fluent French.
Ten years later the de Vogue parents with Guillame came to Ireland and wanted to see Angela again. The pretext for the Irish trip was to stay with a cousin who was the French Ambassador in Dublin. They came to Barmeath and although Angela’s French was a bit rusty it was a happy reunion. I told them about my grape-picking project. They were horrified and said that they would arrange everything and on no account to take up the job advertised.
After a while I received a letter from a monastère in a village called Saint Thierry, not far from Rheims inviting me to stay for the vendange. Two nuns met me at the station in a deux chevaux and I started to learn French. I lived in the guest house at the entrance to the convent and attended Mass once a day. Work started at 7.00 am and there were breaks for breakfast and lunch. The picking was done by the nuns and men from the village collected the full baskets of grapes and took them to be pressed. It is chilly in that part of France in the early morning and I became accustomed to having a nip of marc. The wine provided was so inferior that the boss warned me against drinking it. We picked in pairs so I had daily French conversation classes. The grapes were destined to be made into Veuve Cliquot, in which the de Vogue family had an interest in those days. I suppose it was quite tiring but I chiefly remember the happy atmosphere. When the first pair finished a row they would go and help slower pickers. When a basket was full a cry of “panier” brought a porter along. It was a cushy number being a porter and they got paid more.
The harvest lasted about three weeks and usually there were other guests to keep me company in the guest house. If I was alone I ate in the refectory at Mother Superior’s right hand, an honour, although my slow eating must have been infuriating. Sometimes after work I joined the villagers for a drink or, once, to visit the wine press. At the end the genial boss upgraded me to a porter’s pay and we had a party. I made a short speech and after some explanation sang Paddy McGinty’s Goat. I shouldn’t have but I kept my secateurs which are now as rusty as my French.
This highly enjoyable working holiday had a useful sequel. As part of the Regular Commission Board exam to become an army officer, candidates are asked to speak for about five minutes from a short list of subjects. In my case I was able to talk about grape-picking which was still fresh in my mind. I cannot have been too bad as I passed.
Little has changed since the first of these two pictures of the convent was taken in 1913.
I spent New Year’s Eve circa 2003 with the de Vogues, Chateau La Verriere. I think they are a largish family but wonder if they are the same as Angela’s, and your saviours.
Cousins perhaps. I think Angela’s friends were more closely related to the de Vogues in Burgundy. By the way I have omitted two accents in the name; too hard for me to find on a Mac Book.