Uniquely French

 The French vendange is a wonderful thing. And decidedly different from anything found in Canada.

1. Someone is always whistling. It’s always a tune sounding sophisticated-ly baroque. But, as no one seems to know beyond two, if lucky three, bars, the truncated refrain gets repeated ad nauseam.

 2. Sandals are often the footwear of choice. Vendangers hate a sock tan.

 3. Wasps don’t attack the grapes. Birds hardly either (I have yet to see netting in France). The occasional wild boar, maybe. But there seems to be little if no concern about wildlife having its way with the harvest. The winery dog is more of a threat.

 4. We are currently harvesting at three tonnes per hectare. I can almost count the number of berries on each vine.

 5. Mildew, oidium, sour rot, etc.—it all goes in. Only in extreme cases, where the grapes are practically disintegrating in your hand from some kind of disease, do we get instructions to be selective. If a bin of what we pick ever made its way to an Okanagan crush pad, I reckon the winemaking staff would panic.

 6. Leaves are removed from the bin more dutifully than are snails.

 7. When equipment gets damaged (here a cracked pail; a split in the bumper of an old Citroen pick-up) it is not replaced. It is mended with string. Clippers look like they are from three generations ago. Same for the tractor.

8. Everyone has cigarettes, but no one has a lighter.