The Birds

Lynsore Bottom. Michaelmas term lately begun, and several thousand bunches of grapes ripening in a Kentish field. Settled, calm but rather chilly September weather. Placable, you might say. Three weeks until harvest day.

Autumn brings with it stronger signs of the small variations and weaknesses in the soil. Vines at the far end of field 2, deep in the block of Meunier, their early season vigour sputtering out. Thin canes and small leaves, veins discoloured, and still smaller bunches of miniature grapes.

In the opposite corner, up in the chalky scree of field 1, another developing wasteland. Crisp-edged vine leaves and the odd plant undercut and killed by the tunnelling of rabbits. All attempts at further growth postponed to next year. Gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the summer sun.

In between, the healthy but unkempt rows of still-green vines with their plumper bunches lowering down from the fruiting wire.

With each day the sugars silently build inside the berries, and the acids fall. At the end of September we are at a modest but growing 16 Brix in the reds and 15 in the Melon. Three weeks to go, and another 2 or 3 more Brix to rise. And so far, apart from those canes that have collapsed into the rows and trailed their grapes on the grass, very little sign of disease.

Three more weeks, but this is a nervous time. The birds have begun their work. In 2023 they took every berry on the site in a 2 week stretch in late October. That didn’t matter, because it wasn’t supposed to be a producing year. In 2024 they ate every berry in the Pinot Noir and had started in earnest on the Meunier with a few pecks evident on the Melon by the time we picked, watched over in sad impotence by the flapping, sagging decoy kites that fooled nobody. That didn't matter so much because it was only a practice harvest, destined for homebrew.

This year it matters. I accepted the inevitable and ordered some bird netting. Ordering bird netting is an effective reminder of just how long is the trellising of even a small vineyard. I have 90 rows, each around 100 metres long. Each row needs netting on both sides. That’s many kilometres of nets. Each one costs a lot of money, and takes a long time to hang. So I chickened out and only bought 3,000 metres to cover the ripest, juiciest and reddest rows of Pinot Noir and Meunier.  The rest remains exposed.

Until a week ago there was no damage. The odd pigeon would rise up startled as I walked the rows. One or two pheasants in the woods over the fence, but they seemed to be leaving the bunches alone.

Now they’ve begun. Just like a good vigneron they waited patiently until the sugars rose and the acids fell. It starts with the odd berry here or there. They peck at them like little red eyeballs, leaving a mess and heralding rot. Once they get going it becomes a more comprehensive operation. One whole unprotected row at the edge of field 2 is stripped entirely. Skinny little rachis stick out from the canes like grape skeletons. In the deeper rows they are still at the snacking stage, a few bits and bobs here and there. But I know where this goes next, because there are now birds everywhere.

Birds up the valley, where they hide out in green coppices and meadows; birds down the valley, where it curves along fields newly sown with the tasty seeds of winter crops; birds on the Kentish heights. My Kentish heights. You get the picture. The sharp croaks of Pheasants suddenly seem ubiquitous.

Why are they here? Just a short walk down the valley at Gorsley Vineyard juicy bunches hang in their thousands from beautifully clipped, unmolested vines. Across the wine lands of France, vineyards as far as the eye can see and not a bird net in sight. But here in this quiet corner of the downs, my two little fields lie helpless in the face of the onslaught.

Three weeks. How much can a handful of ground dwelling pheasants consume in that period? What will be left by the time I and my band of volunteers turn up on the 18^th of October? It’s already a small crop. Will only the netted bunches and a few lucky stragglers remain?

Nest year I’m hanging the expense and netting the whole damn vineyard.