There is nothing to winemaking, you just step into a vineyard and bleed.
I know that sounds a little dramatic. But whatever magic it is that makes a man do foolish things, A vineyard seems to be where it grows. I don't know if it is the unknown journey of farming. Or is it just the inherent beauty of the land. Or is it the Order you try to establish amongst the chaos? Is it the smell of turned dirt on your shoes. Is it the effort and the reward. Or maybe it is the tired back of a job well done.
As I sit here and think of the poor examples of what "it" is.
I am struck.
I am in love.
I am in love with a place.
I am in love with the fruits of our labor.
I am in love with sharing our labour with others.
I am in love with what this place has given to our family.
I am in love with getting to relive the past when we open a bottle with you.
I am in love with the struggle, the pain and the passion it takes to bring it to life.
I am foolishly in Love.
find what it is you love.
and then let it kill you.