In The Afternoon The Young Doctor Drove Me, In His Little Gig-Cart
And Pair (The Lightest And Swiftest Of Conveyances), To See A Wine-
Farm.
The people were not at work, but we saw the tubs and vats,
and drank 'most'.
The grapes are simply trodden by a Hottentot, in
a tub with a sort of strainer at the bottom, and then thrown -
skins, stalks, and all - into vats, where the juice ferments for
twice twenty-four hours; after which it is run into casks, which
are left with the bung out for eight days; then the wine is drawn
off into another cask, a little sulphur and brandy are added to it,
and it is bunged down. Nothing can be conceived so barbarous. I
have promised Mr. M- to procure and send him an exact account of
the process in Spain. It might be a real service to a most worthy
and amiable man. Dr. M- also would be glad of a copy. They
literally know nothing about wine-making here, and with such
matchless grapes I am sure it ought to be good. Altogether, 'der
alte Schlendrian' prevails at the Cape to an incredible degree.
If two 'Heeren M-' call on you, please be civil to them. I don't
know them personally, but their brother is the doctor here, and the
most good-natured young fellow I ever saw. If I were returning by
Somerset instead of Worcester, I might put up at their parents'
house and be sure of a welcome; and I can tell you civility to
strangers is by no means of course here.
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