In the middle of the night, at 3.30 in the morning on 13th May, we were battered by a hailstorm. And when violent winds accompany the sound of hail, we know it’s very bad news. Parts of Bordeaux were hit the night before, on Monday 11th, and we’d had a smattering of peanut-sized hail too. Our vineyard manager Daniel joked yesterday that if we’d been included in that storm, with hailstones the size of new potatoes, we should change our métiers, or jobs. I don’t think he was expecting lightning to literally strike twice.

On close inspection first thing this morning, this is by far the worst we’ve seen here. We lost 50% of the crop on 24 June 2003, and last year we had frost in April that wiped out much of our sauvignon blanc.

This year, as a result of last night’s hailstorm, the amount of white we can make will be far lower still, which is really sad considering the amount of new vines we’ve planted. The merlot has taken a pounding too – around the château we’ve lost perhaps 80% of the potential crop of all varieties, spread over some 16 hectares or 40 acres. Younger vines, which are not yet in production, have also been hit, and have probably been set back a year due to the damage to the young wood.

We are now spraying to try and save what’s left, but it’s not looking good. There certainly won’t be any Les Trois Hectares white in 2009, as every old sémillon vine there has been trashed for this year, and we’re attempting damage limitation for next year’s crop, as the branches of the vines have been peppered.

Judging by the collapse in the price of sauvignon blanc from New Zealand after a bumper 2009 harvest the other side of the world, you might just detect a hint of Marlborough in the Château Bauduc Bordeaux Blanc for 2009. Although I somehow doubt we could get the tanker past the authorities.

Cue ‘Always look on the bright side of life’, from The Life of Brian. And a ‘Sod the Donkey – Adopt a Vine’ appeal to our customers. Buy now before prices rise.

More anon. If I can summon up the enthusiasm, that is.

What’s strange is that I’d planted a little corner of different varieties for test purposes right here – chardonnay, riesling, viognier, chenin blanc, pinot noir, syrah and so on. All completely illegal of course under French appellation law* but the vines are clearly identified, ahem, as being part of the garden, not the vineyard. The huge branch has fallen right across the chardonnay. So there is a God, or at least one who’s on the side of the people who make the rules.

Another cedar has come down on the right hand side of the drive as you head towards the château. The uprooted base is absolutely massive, towering above 5 year-old Tom, and the vulnerability of cedar trees, with their shallow root systems, is clear to see. Once they’ve toppled over, that is.

* We’re only allowed to grow merlot, cabernet franc, cabernet sauvignon, malbec, petit verdot, and carmenère for the reds, and sauvignon blanc, sémillon and muscadelle for the whites. Pinot noir and chardonnay, the red and white varieties respectively in Burgundy, for example, are strictly verboten in Bordeaux. It’s all about typicity and terroir, you see.

Now where’s the chainsaw? And the tractor…

After all, they’ve been bringing in students from Denmark to Chateau Leoville Poyferré in St-Julien for years (left), and although their harvesters are a touch older, and quite a bit blonder, it looks to be a good way of saving a few bob. 

As well as manual harvesting, the kids are helping us to press the grapes. Oh, hello, is that the Inspecteur du travail coming down the drive? Or the bloke from Axa?

Cepes are in season, so these, served with scallops, and the house speciality of foie gras pan-fried with a grape sauce, were the popular choice for starters. And you can’t go wrong with Cote de Boeuf, cooked rare. God knows what the bill would have been if we hadn’t taken along all the red wine.

After gorging ourselves, it was out in the vineyard for me on a fresh sunday morning, tasting grapes with a dodgy palate. Then roast chicken for sunday lunch, which is usually preceded at this time of year by fresh oysters bought from the village. Unbeatable with a glass of chilled Bauduc blanc.

Fun, slightly exhausting, and next time we should consider hiring in some outside help. A flurry of emails though from grateful guests on their return home, including one from Joint MD Caroline Fry saying ‘your hospitality was amazing’, make homespun events like these all the more worthwhile.

“Two things surprised me about Bordeaux,” wrote Paul Shearer in an article in the Financial Times, back in June. “The first was the breathtaking beauty of the place. The second was the warmth of the welcome from the Bordelaises.”

Despite the calls for ‘naming and shaming’ the people who were largely responsible for Barton’s death, we have decided to move on.  (We’re not bitter but they still haven’t been in touch since we saw them driving out of the drive in their 4×4 and large Estate car, just as vineyard manager Daniel and I were lugging the pick-axe and shovels from where we’d dug Barton’s little grave within hours of the attack.) Months later, we felt the only sensible approach was to advise their local RSPCA officer, but that’s it.  

Now for the good news. I emailed Esme Johnstone, former owner of Chateau de Sours nearby, from whom we had got Barton in the first place, to let him know the sad news.  (Ironically, Esme and Sarah have moved back to England to within just a few miles of the Rutland couple who had brought the killer dog with them.)  

Esme kindly put me in touch with the original breeder in Ireland, who had no puppies available from a recent litter.  Then we heard that there had been a ‘cancelled order’ for a little bitch – a first cousin of Barton’s, several times removed. And, after weeks of planning with Penelope near Dublin, wincing at the fares of Air France via Paris, and then stumbling across Colin from pet-couriers.com, here she is.  

      Barton and Palmer                                                   Palmer and Margaux

(Colin provided a great service and was far better value than Air France.)  We’ve called her Margaux (sorry, couldn’t resist it) and she is already ruling the roost, chasing the cat and charming all the family – and a fairly steady stream of visitors to boot. Meanwhile Palmer, our black labrador, can’t quite figure it out but is very pleased to have a new friend.

My favourite is ‘I don’t know how we’re going to manage without you, but we’re going to give it a try’, which is quite a satisfying line to deliver but it’s a bit glib and disrespectful to the listener.  On a different tack a few years ago, when we had to part company with a vineyard worker called Jacques, I had to resort to the only other area of common ground between us, which was football.  ’Jacky’, I said, ‘I’ve given you the yellow card, and now, with regret (a touch of Sir Alan there), I’m afraid it’s the carte rouge‘.  I thought of that conversation when Jacky and I bumped into each other again in the local supermarket last week. We talked about vines, and football.

Of course, our accountant doesn’t actually work for us, he’s an external resource, but after nine years of working together, a delicate touch was required and there was to be no reprieve.  As it turned out, my resolve was strengthened on the way to his new pad because the ‘directions’ on his email simply linked to google maps.  That’s fine as far as getting to the industrial estate is concerned, but I went around in circles trying to find the small, unmarked office block.  Whatever happened to (a) company signs, (b) street numbers or (c) helpful hints like ‘when you get to the big building marked Gem Distribution, we’re next on the right’?  (You could say that I’m a bit obsessed about making it simple for visitors to find our place, given that we’ve got a dozen little claret-coloured arrows marked Chateau Bauduc around our local town, Créon).  

In the end, because the answerphone at his office had the standard French message of everyone being on holiday for the entire month of August, he had to come out and spot my car after a text to his mobile.

After the usual pleasantries, I found myself setting the scene. ‘This is a difficult meeting, as we have worked together for a long time,’ I said in sombre tones, sticking to the script.  ’Imagine, if you can, that we’ve been married to each other these past nine years’, I ventured, veering off-piste. ‘Well, I’ve been seeing someone else’.  

Yes, it’s true, I’ve been seeing another accountant on the side.  And now that my new beau and his assistant have proved themselves as being rather more attractive – quicker to respond, more helpful on the day-to-day stuff, less snooty to our assistant Monique and, let’s not forget, quite a lot cheaper – a change is long overdue.  

I parried any questions from him winning back my affections quite well – firm but fair – and, in the end, he was gracious in defeat.  (I say ‘defeat’, although by now he’s probably skipping merrily off on his annuals at the beach, without caring a figue.)  He consoled himself by saying that he was perhaps a bit too intellectual for us, and I thought it better to acquiesce on that one by nodding sagely.  I think he meant that he wasn’t hands on enough.

I am told that individuals stay loyal to their banks far more than they probably should, despite poor levels of service, and I imagine small firms do the same with their accountants.  There are occasions when we’d like to do the same with the two banks we use, (one of whom, Credit Agricole, is the biggest owner of vineyards in France, no doubt thanks to defaulted loans). Trouble is, we wouldn’t be much of a catch and, as for my punchline, I wouldn’t be able to do much better than the old classic, ‘You leave me no alternative but to take my overdraft eleshwere’. 

Let’s hope the new accountant can help us get to a point where we have a choice.

I didn’t get a chance to go and see Bob Lindo at his Camel Valley vineyard, but I can’t imagine he was too thrilled either. It felt more like March, with chilly walks and strong winds, and we didn’t manage to get the children to a sandy beach, not even once.  

When the weather broke, the mackerel fishing was fun though and, as well as an overdose of delicious fresh mackerel, we seized the chance to gorge on English breakfasts every day: cumberland sausages, smoked back bacon, baked beans – all the things that are tricky to get in France and would somehow seem out of place at home. And if we ate like this each day, along with all the Cadbury’s and the crisps, we’d all be the size of small chateaux.

We’d stayed at the same delightful house on the Helford River two years ago, having done a ‘house swap’ with some customers who have bought our wine for many years.  

With this arrangement, both parties can enjoy each other’s homes without feeling too anxious about everything being perfect.  If there’s a leaky tap, it’s not the end of the world, but you wouldn’t want to find one in a holiday house – like our farmhouse – for which you pay a handsome fee.  We felt quite at home in borrowing some wellies, waterproof jackets, plenty of firewood, the Scrabble and the Monopoly set.  Every day.

For anyone based in the West Country, we’d recommend the Plymouth to Roscoff route with Brittany Ferries to get to western France by car.  We travelled on the flagship, the Pont Aven – overnight on the trip to England (8 hours), and by day on the return.  The Commodore cabins are first class, and the smarter restaurant is excellent, and good value.  

We also made good use of the small cinemas and the children’s play groups. With the 11.30am ferry from Plymouth, arriving 6 hours later or so in Brittany, we were back in Bordeaux by 2am after a 7 hour drive, with stops. Painless, apart from the constant replays of Abba smash hits. (No, I can’t wait for the film, either.)  Incidentally, St Malo and Caen, both reached more quickly from Portsmouth, are around 5 to 6 hours from Bordeaux, respectively.  

There are no guarantees with the weather, but I would rather grow grapes here. But we’ll stock up on the wellies, the Monopoly and the Scrabble in the farmhouse at Bauduc, just in case.