Sinead here, making my annual appearance on the blog. I was close to giving it a miss this year since I didn't get to harvest our grapes or start the process of managing fermentation.
After two weeks in Slovenia I boarded the plane back to Ireland feeling like an expectant mother who had been sent home from the delivery ward having presented with false labour. I had learnt much and had great fun being involved in the harvests of others but felt lonely for my ‘baby’. It seemed everyone else had a new arrival in the winery, someone to coo over and nurture. Even Liam’s gentle nudges to blog something, anything, of my thoughts while out there failed to move me towards the keyboard.
Luckily, writer's block took a jolt as the Aerlingus flight left the tarmac and I realised that my harvest blog should take the form of a poem. Inspired by Brian Millar's take on the John Cooper Clarke song 'Bloody Chickentown', (see previous blog). I had the masterpiece done and dusted by the time we landed in Dublin. Avert your eyes Granny...
After two weeks in Slovenia I boarded the plane back to Ireland feeling like an expectant mother who had been sent home from the delivery ward having presented with false labour. I had learnt much and had great fun being involved in the harvests of others but felt lonely for my ‘baby’. It seemed everyone else had a new arrival in the winery, someone to coo over and nurture. Even Liam’s gentle nudges to blog something, anything, of my thoughts while out there failed to move me towards the keyboard.
Luckily, writer's block took a jolt as the Aerlingus flight left the tarmac and I realised that my harvest blog should take the form of a poem. Inspired by Brian Millar's take on the John Cooper Clarke song 'Bloody Chickentown', (see previous blog). I had the masterpiece done and dusted by the time we landed in Dublin. Avert your eyes Granny...
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| Am I in labour? Sugar levels are only half the story |
Definitely not Picking Time
By Sinead Cabot
The fucking dates were fucking wrong
Miro is a fucking nong
The fucking sugar’s fucking high
The fucking ground was fucking dry
The fucking pips won’t fucking brown
The fucking rain’s now coming down
The fucking Sipon’s fucking split
The fucking Sipon’s fucking shit
The fucking MF’s fucking slow
Pick - fucking yes or fucking no?
Fucking vintage is passing me by
Think I’m gonna fucking cry
Samo fucking hurt his head
I picked his sauvignon instead
Lela was my picking mate
Humming songs that were x-rate
Fucking acid’s fucking low
Acidify – yes? No, fucking NO!
“Fucking milk by fucking March”
(Samo, that’s a little harsh)
Thank you to my Slovene friends
Fun fucking vintage in the end!
With due respect to John Cooper Clarke and Brian Miller. "Evidently Chickentown" is a poem by the English performance poet John Cooper Clarke. The poem uses repeated profanity to convey a sense of futility and exasperation ... - Wikipedia.
MF in the poem is the black grape variety Modra Frankinja, (Austria's Blaufrankish and Hungary's Kekfrankos. Sipon is the Slovene name for the white grape variety, Furmint.
Continuing my journey home I dropped in to Easons at Heuston Station and the first book I saw was “F**k it: The Ultimate Spiritual Way” by John C Parkin. Coincidence? I bought it, of course, and had it finished by the time the train pulled in at Westport. A great read and I felt so much f**king better. You should buy it. Now F**k off!
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