Free Grape Expectations by Caro Feely, Caro

could whip back unexpectedly. Protective eye gear was obligatory.
    Â Â With the pressure of spring's arrival mounting I asked our neighbour, Sonia, to look after Ellie so I could help. Sonia had a son named Alane of a similar age to Ellie and a daughter of a similar age to Sophia, plus she had trained to look after young children. Sonia and her husband Fred's house was the nearest of the new houses on the road that took us into the village, a mere hundred metres away. We could not have wished for a more ideal neighbour. Ellie was two months away from her first birthday. The outing to Sonia would give her some light relief from her usual entertainment of watching me roll paint or sand old wood windows.
    Â Â Donning goggles, winter rain gear and large rubber boots, I waddled out like the Michelin man. After two rows I was exhausted.
    Â Â 'Get on with it or we'll never finish in time!' Sean snapped. He was focused. I never wanted to do vineyard work and now I was out there, an unwilling helping hand.
    Â Â Cécile, our vineyard advisor, inspected Sean's pruning, pronounced it 'très bonne' , and wanted to know where he had done his training. Sean nearly kissed her. He didn't own up to being largely self-taught on two vines in our back garden. I felt bad about my unwilling attitude. Sean was facing the real transformation, responsible for growing our livelihood, learning new skills in a language he was only starting to grasp. Seeing the look on his face at Cécile's compliment, I felt a deep empathy for him and realised his rough attitude since we arrived was partly due to this subtle but intense stress.
    Â Â Cécile convinced Sean to sign up for a two-day course she was running on managing vineyard pests and diseases. At the last minute he decided he wasn't confident enough in his French and asked me to go. I walked into the training room several minutes late after dropping Sophia at school.
    Â Â 'Please give me a brief introduction: your name, the size of your vineyard, how long you have been installed and your viticultural experience,' said Cécile. My heartbeat pounded in my cranium. I hate group introductions and in a room full of local farmers, I felt totally out of my depth.
    Â Â 'Nicolas Demetier, seventy-five acres in Monbazillac, installed since birth, fourth generation viticulteur ,' said the first.
    Â Â I withered into my seat as the rest of the men followed in a similar vein. My turn, the last, came around too fast.
    Â Â 'Caro Feely, twenty-five acres in Saussignac. My husband has been installed since September,' I said, feeling the lack of several generations of vineyard knowledge.
    Â Â A day of rapid-fire French followed. The less I concentrated on the words, the more I understood. The minute I tried to 'understand', the words became a torrent of incomprehensible sounds. Cécile took us through endless slides of photos of pests and diseases and how to combat them. We went for lunch and I tried not to make a fool of myself. Seated beside me was a farmer from Saussignac, Pierre Sadoux, a thin rake of a fellow who smoked rolled cigarettes and had a ready smile. He repeated the name of his property but I didn't recognise it. I could barely say Haut Garrigue, the name of our own farm. Understanding and pronouncing the names of those around us remained impossible.
    Â Â At the end of the first day I was bushwhacked by language difficulties but also terrified by what was lurking in our vineyard. Ravageurs lay around every corner and the sprays required to slay them were more frightening. Even the sprays for organic producers like us weren't too appetising. I spent the evening showing Sean the photos of the monsters resident in our vines, terrifying creatures ranging from red and dragon-like to spotted and horned. Fortunately, most were invisible to the naked eye.
    Â Â I was convinced the following day could bring nothing as gruesome but Cécile distributed an