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May 26
   Vintage! This is a random post. The year was 2009...

I read about it in my youth. It is mentioned in the works of Balzac, Beaudelaire and Alexandre Dumas. Some even whisper it could have been the vector by which Napoleon was arsenic poisoned. Et après tout, with such a French name, I had always assumed Vin de Constance came from France herself. I was wrong. It’s South African.

The wonderfully sweet wine’s origins go back  to the late 17th century when the Constantia estate was created by Simon van der Stel, second Governor of the Cape. Around a hundred years later, a man named Hendrik Cloete bought the estate and he is credited for having raised Vin de Constance to international fame. It is said that the great figures of that time, Kings, Queens, Emperors and their assassins, drank more of it than any other wine, despite - or maybe because of - its exorbitant price. Among them was Napoleon.

Towards the end of the nineteenth century, the vineyards were decimated by a type of pest called phylloxera and the sweet wine’s production came to a grinding halt along with bankruptcy. The estate was bought by the South African government for nothing.

But Vin de Constance was to survive after all. Much closer to us, in the nineteen eighties, Klein Constantia was rehabilitated and production resumed. A new Vin de Constance was born from the old traditions, made with Muscat Blanc à Petits Grains.

Constantia, nested right against the inland flank of majestic Table Mountain, is a prime vineyard valley. Green is the predominant colour and beautiful wine estates are scattered around as if sprinkled by a mighty hand, most of them quite old and of Cape Dutch tradition, my favourite architectural style if I ever had one.

Last February, Marie, her mom and I went on a tour of the wine route. We visited the Klein Constantia and Groot Constantia estates which share most of the famous wine’s history. The facilities are modern, spotless and very impressive but the old buildings remain and this is where my focus and imagination were drawn.

Here are some photos of Groot Constantia’s old cellar, long replaced by a hangar-like room with shiny machines, but of such beautiful curves and still smelling of wine...




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2009-05-26 22:26 • Posted in Photoblogs: & South Africa:

7 Comments

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  • 1 - dinahmow says:

    « Sipping a Cabernet Shiraz and nibbling crackers and double Brie...I chance upon this. sigh...the vineyard was one of my most favourite jobs.
    Wouldn’t those Cape Colonial buildings make a great studio! »

  • 1.1 - Vince answers:

    « They would indeed! »

  • 2 - Marie says:

    « Jane Austen, too: Constantia for « its healing powers on a disappointed heart. »

    - Did it work? :-)

    Baudelaire: « je prefere au constance, a l’opium, aux nuits, L’elixir de ta bouche ou l’amour se pavane. » »

  • 2.1 - Vince answers:

    « Hmm, this blog is going down the drain. I was recently quoting Beaudelaire http://www.vincentmounier.com/blog2/archives/463-Immortal.html and now it’s your turn. Why not Kipling while we’re at it? ;-)

    Ok, seriously now, did you know that the two alexandrins as you wrote them are a common misconception and that Beaudelaire in fact spelled it « au nuits », the nuits being a wine too (a bourgogne, Google tells me, which I’ve never heard of: Nuits Saint Georges.) »

  • 3 - Marie says:

    « eeeep?

    what are Alexandrins :-(

    You’re such a funny Frenchman. »

  • 3.1 - Vince answers:

    « Oh, sorry! It’s a French thing, you couldn’t have known. Alexandrines are a poetry style, I guess - they are 12 syllable verses, usually 6+6. Try to read it out loud, you’ll feel the rhythm. Da-da-da da-da-da, da-da-da da-da-da. It’s quite well balanced. LOL :-)

    Here’s an example from the (brilliant) French translation of Kipling’s (brilliant) « If »:

    Si tu peux rencontrer Triomphe après Défaite
    Et recevoir ces deux menteurs d’un même front,
    Si tu peux conserver ton courage et ta tête
    Quand tous les autres les perdront,

    Alors les Rois, les Dieux, la Chance et la Victoire
    Seront à tout jamais tes esclaves soumis
    Et, ce qui vaut mieux que les Rois et la Gloire,
    Tu seras un homme, mon fils »

  • 3.1.1 - Vince answers:

    « A bad example now that I think of it since the fourth and eighth are not alexandrines... »

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We now go back to current chronological entries:
Nov 18

I left early this morning, after literally falling out of bed. The dream I had been having before the fall was about skydiving and I left home with a big bruise on my forehead, having leaped out of the plane and immediately assumed the Delta position for maximum horizontal speed in freefall. My bedside table has a very sharp corner.

I then followed a rather disorganized wandering pattern as I could not decide where I wanted to take pictures. The fact that I had forgotten to bring the camera might have had something to do with it. It’s funny how the greatest opportunities always appear out of an impossibility.

Some things we plan, we sit and we invent and we plot and cook up; others are works of inspiration, of poetry; and it was this genius hand that pushed me up the* Burnaby hill and around the campus and down to the tracks by the Inlet. I wanted to see some trains.

So I walked for hours along the old train tracks, not noticing that vegetation had overgrown them and hence the only train that would ever come my way on those was the phantom train of my wildest dreams. Before I was a skydiver.

I could no longer tell how long I had been out there. It somehow seemed like days had gone by, with their nights and chilly sunrises; with their long, lonely hours of gray skies and no one around. Surprised and a little dazed, I looked down at my pants and wondered why the mud on my knees was so dry. And why I was so thirsty that I could have drank for an hour from a waterfall of iced water without even catching a breath.

But at least I must have finally found my camera because I had it in my hand. It was a strange camera with a huge spotlight on top of it but that didn’t phase me. I would come in handy to better record the train approaching. Because at last, there is a train headed my way.

I can hear it blowing its whistle repeatedly, a long and whining cry in the night that has fallen, insistent and threatening. The tracks are as cold as the icy water I won’t drink, leading from here to infinity where they seem to bond, as all things in life eventually become one.

When I stepped over the second track, long ago it seems now, I wasn’t paying attention to anything else but filming the moon that shone through a thick layer of clouds. So my foot went down the gap between the metal rail and the rocks without even a hesitation, locking itself underneath the structure with the help of my whole body weight. Then the ankle probably broke and a sharp, nearly unbearable pain made it clear I wouldn’t pry my leg out of the trap’s iron grip.

It’s been a long text message I know, and I am grateful for the emailing capability of my portable phone. But now I am going to send this because the battery is dying and so will I soon, for the train’s headlight is growing brighter...

[* Inspired by Boris Vian’s « Les fourmis »
and with the brief help of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – « (I’ll Love You) Till the End of the World »]

 

2006-11-18 13:41 • Posted in Schtroumpfissime:

2 Comments

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  • 1 - Anonymous says:

    « Imagination, fantasy, drama, mingled with words full of music
    and the surrealist world of Boris.
    He would have loved it. »

  • 2 - Sigrid says:

    « Hmmm...ça te prend souvent? Je vois que tu as suivi mes conseils en ce qui a trait à ce qu’il faut faire quand on manque d’eau... »

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