Hard, cool flagstones supported the weight of presses and barrels. “ Peter’s Basket Press,” exclaimed Paul, lovingly patting its side. “ It’s very old. Peter purchased it from Langhorne Creek and restored it.” Maxine circled the press. She used a stepladder to peer inside. The pungent aroma was overwhelming. The pressing was waiting expectantly for her to decide when the screws could be turned on. No winemaking until she said so, including the pinot. She ran her eye round the barrel until she noticed a piece of cloth attached to the inside of the metal rim that ran around the top. She removed a pair of protective gloves from her pocket and a plastic bag and carefully extracted the beige cloth from the rim. “ Found something?” Paul called. “ Did Peter wear moleskins?” she asked. “ Every day. Let me see.” He took the bag. “ Definitely his. Ripped his knees as he fell in?” “ You’ll do me out of a job soon,” she replied, taking the bag. “ Possibly. Now how do we drain this?”
