It was late March. The vines, some of them, had only just started to bud. Tiny pinky-green leaves, like baby fingers stretching tentatively to the sky, were covered in down, as if to protect them from cold nights. The sleepy varieties (Roussanne, Marsanne, Mourvèdre) were still crouched. You had to kneel in close, really scrutinise the trunk, to find their minute, red-pink pearls of almost buds.
Spring, however, was in full...
