Grape Expectations Read Online Free Page A
Author: Caro Feely, Caro
due 200 litres of our wine every year. There were two sales of the property separating us and him. We debated contesting it but decided Monsieur Battistella might prove a useful ally. We didn't want to land up like Jean in Jean de Florette ; thwarted at every step by the locals. We were foreigners planning to settle in rural France and take on a métier that was an icon of France. It could spell trouble.
  I felt like I was in a dream and would wake up at any moment. This was not what a normal person like me did. It was far too risky, it was not rational, but it was also intoxicatingly exciting.
  We moved out of our home. The sale had proceeded even faster than the agent forecast. Ellie slept and Sophia watched packing operations while Sean and I cleaned cupboards.
  'Don't take my chair!' yelled Sophia as her high chair disappeared into the back of the van.
  Before I could explain, she spied her polar bear going the same way and shouted: 'They're putting Floppy on the truck!' I promised we would see the chair and Floppy at our new house in France in a few weeks.
  Sophia was a very composed young lady. I explained what we were doing again and she nodded sagely. We had already talked about the move but she had no frame of reference for it. She was only two and had never known anything but that house. It was our first real home, where both our daughters were born, the place where we felt truly settled for the first time in our married lives. She knew something big was up.
  Sean and I tried not to look too far ahead, focusing on moving to our rental house that would be our home for four weeks while we worked out our notice at our respective jobs, participated in numerous planned farewells with work and friends and held Ellie's christening. Although everything was official with the vineyard purchase, we had read that nothing was certain until the final transaction went through, at which point we would be installed in France with no turning back. A few hours later the moving truck, jam-packed with our belongings, pulled away from the driveway and we locked our house for the last time. We were leaving our friends and familiar comforts. We drove to our furnished weekly rental armed with survival rations of clothes, baby equipment and paperwork. I choked back my sobs. I didn't want to upset the girls but a river of sadness flowed over me. I swallowed hard.
  That evening Sophia looked worried.
  'We forgot my sandpit,' she said, large tears forming in her eyes.
  I assured her it would be delivered to us in France. She looked doubtful. Thinking it would give her something concrete about where we were going, I showed her an ancient map that included our vineyard, Château Haut Garrigue. Then we looked up the meaning of 'garrigue' : herbal scrubland populated with lavender, thyme, rosemary and scrub oak; commonly found in Provence. In old French it also meant chalky hill which must have been the origin of the name since our new home was five hours' drive from Provence.
  The weeks of farewell parties and tying up loose ends flew by. Colleagues and friends were incredulous. Our GP said, 'You're brave⦠or mad⦠or both.' An accounting friend said, 'That's risk with a capital "R".' Both were right. The excitement was mounting but so was the stress. On the eve of our move to France, Sean ignored me, drank too much and watched television instead of packing.
  'How can you watch TV when we are making the most important move of our lives?' I yelled. I had been packing and cleaning non-stop for what seemed like days. 'There is still a mountain to pack!'
  'It's my life. If I want to watch this film I will,' he said, turning back to the TV.
  'It's not only your life,' I screamed. 'It's all our lives. We're moving country in a few hours.'
  It ignited one of the severest fights we had ever had. We yelled stinging insults at each
  I felt like I was in a dream and would wake up at any moment. This was not what a normal person like me did. It was far too risky, it was not rational, but it was also intoxicatingly exciting.
  We moved out of our home. The sale had proceeded even faster than the agent forecast. Ellie slept and Sophia watched packing operations while Sean and I cleaned cupboards.
  'Don't take my chair!' yelled Sophia as her high chair disappeared into the back of the van.
  Before I could explain, she spied her polar bear going the same way and shouted: 'They're putting Floppy on the truck!' I promised we would see the chair and Floppy at our new house in France in a few weeks.
  Sophia was a very composed young lady. I explained what we were doing again and she nodded sagely. We had already talked about the move but she had no frame of reference for it. She was only two and had never known anything but that house. It was our first real home, where both our daughters were born, the place where we felt truly settled for the first time in our married lives. She knew something big was up.
  Sean and I tried not to look too far ahead, focusing on moving to our rental house that would be our home for four weeks while we worked out our notice at our respective jobs, participated in numerous planned farewells with work and friends and held Ellie's christening. Although everything was official with the vineyard purchase, we had read that nothing was certain until the final transaction went through, at which point we would be installed in France with no turning back. A few hours later the moving truck, jam-packed with our belongings, pulled away from the driveway and we locked our house for the last time. We were leaving our friends and familiar comforts. We drove to our furnished weekly rental armed with survival rations of clothes, baby equipment and paperwork. I choked back my sobs. I didn't want to upset the girls but a river of sadness flowed over me. I swallowed hard.
  That evening Sophia looked worried.
  'We forgot my sandpit,' she said, large tears forming in her eyes.
  I assured her it would be delivered to us in France. She looked doubtful. Thinking it would give her something concrete about where we were going, I showed her an ancient map that included our vineyard, Château Haut Garrigue. Then we looked up the meaning of 'garrigue' : herbal scrubland populated with lavender, thyme, rosemary and scrub oak; commonly found in Provence. In old French it also meant chalky hill which must have been the origin of the name since our new home was five hours' drive from Provence.
  The weeks of farewell parties and tying up loose ends flew by. Colleagues and friends were incredulous. Our GP said, 'You're brave⦠or mad⦠or both.' An accounting friend said, 'That's risk with a capital "R".' Both were right. The excitement was mounting but so was the stress. On the eve of our move to France, Sean ignored me, drank too much and watched television instead of packing.
  'How can you watch TV when we are making the most important move of our lives?' I yelled. I had been packing and cleaning non-stop for what seemed like days. 'There is still a mountain to pack!'
  'It's my life. If I want to watch this film I will,' he said, turning back to the TV.
  'It's not only your life,' I screamed. 'It's all our lives. We're moving country in a few hours.'
  It ignited one of the severest fights we had ever had. We yelled stinging insults at each
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