Thirty-one seasons of apples, then this
What the packing shed was, what we changed, what we deliberately left bolted to the floor.
What was still in here when we got the keys
A grader, three tonnes of it, seized solid. Two pallets of unused case labels. A chalked tally of the 1996 crop on the back wall, which is now behind glass and stays exactly where it is.
The hall itself needed almost nothing. Sawtooth windows face south, so the light is even all afternoon and there is no glare on a bench, which is a happier accident than any design we could have paid for.
The cool store under the dock was the argument. Keeping it cold costs money and it seats twelve. We kept it, and the tasting hour down there turned out to be the thing people talk about.
Five on the crew
Kitchen and floor, most of them from the district.
Forty-four covers
The dining side, over two sittings.
Six benches
The old sorting line, working at a different job.
Four positions we have not moved off
A game here is a game. No stake goes on a bench, no prize comes off one, and nobody settles up afterwards.
Local first on the board and on the wine list, even when it is dearer and harder to get.
Fifty people and no more, because a full shed is loud and a loud shed ruins both halves of the evening.
Nobody drives home from a long night without being offered a cab first, and we mean offered twice.