completed your registration and have your tax representative approved.'
  I danced a jig around our rustic temporary office in the boiler room, while the customs official explained the concept of a tax representative: an administrative project for another day.
Overnight the weather changed to freezing. The 1,800 bottles had to be lovingly washed in icy water before being 'dressed'. With frozen fingers we revelled in the exhilaration of our first order and the rich aromas of wine and oak that surrounded us in our ancient barn.
  After washing, the wine moved to capsuling, fixing the metal cap over the top of the bottle to cover the cork. To seal the capsule, the bottle is fed into an exceptionally noisy, rocket-shaped apparatus, called a capsuleuse . The right amount of pressure must be applied: too little pressure and the capsule comes out like a skirt, frilly and ruffled at the base; too much pressure and the top of the capsule is pierced. After a few hours of practice Sean was an expert and the capsules were smooth. Ellie was remarkably good-natured despite the noise, wrapped in five layers of blankets in her buggy, calmly watching the progress.
  For days we listened to U2 and labelled cases with familiar addresses feeling cold, happy and homesick at the same time. The order represented a critical start for our wine business. When the transporter collected we felt inordinately proud; we hadn't made the wine but it came from our vineyard.
The vines changed colour. Their leaves fell. At night we froze despite still being huddled together in one room. I struggled on with the renovations, learning to wield a screwdriver and a paint roller like a pro. The local building supplies man greeted me with glee whenever I appeared. My hands were calloused. I wore the same paint-splattered working clothes for weeks on end. It was a shock change from our city lives of business suits, cappuccinos and heated offices.
  Early December we were wracked with coughing, vomiting and fevers. I could barely drag myself out of bed to attend to Sean and our sick daughters. There was a mountain of washing and we didn't have a tumble dryer. Phil Collins' lyrics about the roof leaking and the wind howling kept rolling around in my head. After doing another round of nursing I went to see our local doctor in desperation. I needed to be well to care for everyone.
  'There is a mild chest infection but you can fight it off yourself with a week of rest,' he said.
  'I want an antibiotic. Someone has to look after the sick children.'
  'Isn't there someone who can help you? Your belle-mère ?'
  I explained that there was no mother-in-law and there would be no rest.
  Minutes later I walked into the pharmacy armed with my prescription. With two young children, I was already well known to them. A large promotion stand at the entrance announced the launch of a new deodorant with 48-hour effectiveness. I giggled despite my throbbing headache. Who would advertise not washing every day? To my 'cleanliness next to Godliness' upbringing it was incomprehensible. Little did I know that a week later, when the real cold of winter set in, I would be back for some of my own. Our erratic heating system couldn't match the deep freeze. Bathing every two days was as much as I could stand. I left the pharmacy armed with my medicine and returned to my sick household.
  Just when it seemed it would never end, we woke up feeling well, the sun was shining and a huge rainbow hung over the Dordogne valley. We ate our favourite lunch of baguette and Brie and stared at the view. Ellie smiled benevolently from her high chair and Sophia tucked in with relish. Food never tasted so good and we revelled in the magic of feeling well.
  I could not fault our new community. People were generous and warm. Bernard Barse did the electrical work for our new kitchen as a gift. Even the notorious French civil
  I danced a jig around our rustic temporary office in the boiler room, while the customs official explained the concept of a tax representative: an administrative project for another day.
Overnight the weather changed to freezing. The 1,800 bottles had to be lovingly washed in icy water before being 'dressed'. With frozen fingers we revelled in the exhilaration of our first order and the rich aromas of wine and oak that surrounded us in our ancient barn.
  After washing, the wine moved to capsuling, fixing the metal cap over the top of the bottle to cover the cork. To seal the capsule, the bottle is fed into an exceptionally noisy, rocket-shaped apparatus, called a capsuleuse . The right amount of pressure must be applied: too little pressure and the capsule comes out like a skirt, frilly and ruffled at the base; too much pressure and the top of the capsule is pierced. After a few hours of practice Sean was an expert and the capsules were smooth. Ellie was remarkably good-natured despite the noise, wrapped in five layers of blankets in her buggy, calmly watching the progress.
  For days we listened to U2 and labelled cases with familiar addresses feeling cold, happy and homesick at the same time. The order represented a critical start for our wine business. When the transporter collected we felt inordinately proud; we hadn't made the wine but it came from our vineyard.
The vines changed colour. Their leaves fell. At night we froze despite still being huddled together in one room. I struggled on with the renovations, learning to wield a screwdriver and a paint roller like a pro. The local building supplies man greeted me with glee whenever I appeared. My hands were calloused. I wore the same paint-splattered working clothes for weeks on end. It was a shock change from our city lives of business suits, cappuccinos and heated offices.
  Early December we were wracked with coughing, vomiting and fevers. I could barely drag myself out of bed to attend to Sean and our sick daughters. There was a mountain of washing and we didn't have a tumble dryer. Phil Collins' lyrics about the roof leaking and the wind howling kept rolling around in my head. After doing another round of nursing I went to see our local doctor in desperation. I needed to be well to care for everyone.
  'There is a mild chest infection but you can fight it off yourself with a week of rest,' he said.
  'I want an antibiotic. Someone has to look after the sick children.'
  'Isn't there someone who can help you? Your belle-mère ?'
  I explained that there was no mother-in-law and there would be no rest.
  Minutes later I walked into the pharmacy armed with my prescription. With two young children, I was already well known to them. A large promotion stand at the entrance announced the launch of a new deodorant with 48-hour effectiveness. I giggled despite my throbbing headache. Who would advertise not washing every day? To my 'cleanliness next to Godliness' upbringing it was incomprehensible. Little did I know that a week later, when the real cold of winter set in, I would be back for some of my own. Our erratic heating system couldn't match the deep freeze. Bathing every two days was as much as I could stand. I left the pharmacy armed with my medicine and returned to my sick household.
  Just when it seemed it would never end, we woke up feeling well, the sun was shining and a huge rainbow hung over the Dordogne valley. We ate our favourite lunch of baguette and Brie and stared at the view. Ellie smiled benevolently from her high chair and Sophia tucked in with relish. Food never tasted so good and we revelled in the magic of feeling well.
  I could not fault our new community. People were generous and warm. Bernard Barse did the electrical work for our new kitchen as a gift. Even the notorious French civil
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