I was pruning the last of my vines when I decided to march on Brussels. Earlier my sympathy for my fellow vignerons had been eroded when a notice flashed on the large tableau in the railway station at Carcassonne but now I am firmly on their side.
Following a "degradation" to the rail infrastructure between Béziers and Narbonne due to "manifestations" by winegrowers, all trains, the notice declared, were subject to an "indeterminate retard". SNCF, the French railway company, explained that it was "desolated" and went on to thank travellers for their "comprehension".
Translating French directly into English can be an amusing business and when you have to spend four hours in a railway station it can be a good exercise to pass the time. It helps, at least, to avoid the temptation to head for the bar and consume vast amounts of excellent wine at very low prices.
It was those very low wine prices that had the winegrowers on the streets and, in one case apparently, on the railway tracks. A phone call to friends in Béziers elicited the news that all was well and that the odd explosion going off in the background was due simply to demonstrators letting off fireworks.
A call to Narbonne let me know that the fireworks were going off there too, as the demo, or "manif" to the initiated, took over the city. The vignerons were joined not only by the usual local politicians with an eye to the next election but also by the Bishop of Carcassonne, Monseigneur Alain Planet, who obviously had travelled from his cathedral city by car.
Suddenly an announcement on the station's tannoy caused a major stir in the burgeoning crowd in the concourse. The train now standing on platform two was going to Marseille Saint Charles but was not taking on any passengers at Carcassonne and would not be stopping at Narbonne. There was a dash to the train that "wasn't taking on passengers" and soon it was full.
It took on passengers and stopped at Narbonne but how was I to know? I waited until the next official train to Narbonne slouched into the station and glided leisurely onwards to my destination.
On arrival it was explained to me that in France you don't get anywhere unless you break something, preferably the law. There is no tradition of partnership between employers and employees or between government and citizens. Official methods of sorting problems out just don't get under way until one side or other steps out of line and does something dramatic.
But once the demos ended, the vignerons went back to work. In the early morning men and women, often entire families, can be seen bent double in the biting wind as they prune their way through the vines.
I have been doing this myself for the past couple of weeks. The shoots have been cut down to their third bud on the advice on a local professor of philosophy who knows about these things. Six shoots have been left on each vine on the advice of a man from a northern place where vines do not grow.
I did my best to blend into the scenery when the odd white van passed by my remote and tiny vineyard in the hills. I was embarrassed in case the drivers might stop to tell me I was doing it all wrong.
I am, therefore, keeping my fingers crossed that all will turn out right in the end. Keeping one's fingers crossed, by the way, is not all that easy, when your hands are calloused and welted from the continuous use of the secateurs. The callouses and the welts, however, have served to engender a great deal of sympathy for those families toiling for their livelihood from daybreak to dusk on vineyards that in the past year failed dismally to earn them a living.
Outside the village where I spend part of the year there is a makeshift sign reading - "Village Viticole - en Péril". The inscription is in the familiar red-painted scrawl of the Comité d'Action Viticole (CAV) a group whose actions have given it a place in the database of the Memorial Institute for the Prevention of Terrorism in Washington DC, which is funded by the US Department of Homeland Security.
The main "terrorist" weapon of the CAV appears to be red paint and I am pretty sure that even the extremists of the CAV are, as you read this over your breakfast, out amongst their vines pruning away in the hope that things will be better and more profitable next year.
I don't suppose the hands of the majority of vignerons who don't support CAV are as cracked and as broken as mine since they have been at this work since childhood, but if they want me to march on Brussels with them, I'm up for it.
My readiness to rebel may, however, be due to one of the more pleasant aspects of country life in France. Last September, due to a combination of circumstances, most of my white grapes missed the deadline for delivery to the co-op. Chalk-white Irish legs pumped up and down in treading action. A 225-litre barrel was filled with the results. Fermentation bubbled away and finally the wine was left to settle.
Now, six months later, the golden liquid is being bottled and, I have to say, sampled. My neighbour Thierry has declared the wine to be very good, but it should be added that Thierry's expertise runs more to quantity than quality. In my view, Chateau La Feet, as it has been christened, is eminently drinkable. It certainly has the capability to boost one's spirits for the next manifestation.