Page 1 of Wassailing We Will Go
CHAPTER ONE
THERE ARE A LOT OF different kinds of new-year celebrations out there. All over the world, humans have evolved in different ways to signify a fresh start and new beginnings. In North America, for many people, it involves waking up on a freezing January morning in a state of dehydration and varying levels of pain and nausea after a night out, but with a vague determination to turn it all around starting that very day. Some prefer spring as a spiritual reset, planting gardens and watching new life grow. Some people put their faith in the start of a new school year, purchasing fresh notebooks and pens, convinced that those will make all the difference for the upcoming semester’s success.
I’ve been hanging around this place since I was in grade school, and I still find it hard to believe that all of this will be delicious in a few weeks, I say over Charlie’s shoulder. This year’s cider is in the middle of its fermentation, and the cavernous room smells overly sweet and slightly rotten. Right now, this entire room smells like farts.
It’s never let me down yet, Kate. Charlie grins. The fartier the initial fermentation, the better the cider will be.
Charlie, the cider maker at Sparks Cidery, has always sworn by the fall’s apple harvest as his own personal new year, and I’ve since come around to his way of thinking. When the last of the apples has all been picked and pressed, it’s time for Charlie to work his magic. The orchards are being tucked away for the winter, but the vats of juice are brimming with potential.
He measures the yeast nutrients that will go into one of the giant stainless-steel vats behind him, aiding the fermentation along. He’s bent over in a way that can’t be good for his aging back, and it takes everything in me not to comment on his posture. Charlie once saw me barf into a bush after eating six butter tarts and going on a tilt-a-whirl three times in a row at the County Fair, so it’s a strange dynamic for us with me now technically being his boss. Also, just to be clear, I was six at the time when that happened.
Okay, it also happened again when I was twenty-one, but that was the last time.
Charlie radiates the aura of a man who knows all the words to all the tracks ever produced by Led Zeppelin and can also probably tell you where you can buy cannabis, legally and maybe also illegally. He’s a painfully friendly man in his early seventies, with long grey-brown hair and a timeless hippie vibe that has nothing to do with his actual age and everything to do with his life philosophy.
He stands up from his work, and as he does, I hear every single one of his joints creak, an audible reminder to me that this is a man who could and likely should have retired over seven years ago. My aunts, Jenn and Lauren, the owners of Sparks Cidery and his former bosses, brought up retirement to him many times over the past few years, but every time the topic was broached, Charlie would either pretend like he didn’t hear them or just straight up leave the room, mumbling and grumbling about being young at heart and to mind their own business. It technically was their business, but they would always relent and let him stay on for another harvest.
Now, it’s my business, as my aunts are retired on a beach in Santorini, and I’m in charge of Sparks Cidery and all its daily operations. The orchards, the cider-making facilities, and the tasting bar, but also the farm-to-table restaurant and the bottle shop/gift shop. And then, of course, all the employees who work in all of those respective areas—including Charlie and his sometimes-bad back. The business has grown over the years to include all these different facets that are all ultimately my responsibility.
Charlie, can I send Barb in to help you? I suggest gently. I already know the answer. Come on, you like Barb. You know she takes direction well. She can—
All good here, he cuts in. Barb’s got other stuff to do, he says, then turns and shuffles off, an obvious sign that he doesn’t want to go into this. Honestly, I don’t either. The discussion around Charlie’s potential retirement can wait until the season’s end, surely? He’s made it this far, and we’re so close to the finish line. By spring, this year’s cider will be ready to go, and then we’ll talk about bringing on an assistant, at the very least. Someone he can train from the ground up and feel good about leaving his legacy with. Someone to take his place, like I did for my aunts.
Alright, but call me if you want help with anything, I call after him. Anything, okay? He gives me a dismissive wave without so much as turning around.
When I step outside, the air is especially fresh and crisp after being hotboxed in a humid room by rotting apples. Our production facility is tucked away from the areas that are open to the public, and when I’m out here lost in the same orchards I visited as a kid, it’s hard to believe that Sparks Cidery has since become one of the top tourist destinations in Prince Edward County (or the County, once you’ve been here a few times). When I first started wandering these rows of trees, it was a three-person operation, and now, it employs hundreds of people in the peak season. In a way, our cidery mirrors the success of the County itself—in my twenty-seven years, I’ve seen our sleepy little peninsula go from an under-the-radar Lake Ontario camping getaway to being an international tourist destination. Elton John even visits here in the summer sometimes (but you didn’t hear it from me).
Looking out at the empty orchards, it’s hard to believe that another season is nearly done. It’s early November, and the autumn rush is over. The beautiful leaves that draw visitors from every corner of Ontario are nearly all spent after a recent thunderstorm, and I almost, almost wish it would snow just to add a little character back to the place. Grey skies and cold, wet weather don’t make for high-traffic weekends, nor particularly nice promotional photos for our social media feed.
We’re only open on Wednesdays through Sundays from November to April, as the low weekday traffic doesn’t justify the cost of staffing the place full-time outside of the high tourist season. But even in the off-season, and even with the weather, it seems like there should be more cars in the parking lot on a Sunday afternoon. We’re only a fifteen-minute drive outside of Picton, the biggest town in Prince Edward County, and usually, we have a steady flow of people coming out for our upscale-casual restaurant, if not the cidery itself. My aunts have many friends in town who own tourist-facing businesses, and they always send visitors our way when asked what they should check out next.
I trudge through the muddy orchards in my wellies, and soon, the bare apple trees disperse, and the towering red barn that makes up the core of the cidery comes into view. The structure is over a hundred years old and has been lovingly tended over the years. It once housed the entirety of the business when it first opened over twenty years ago, but now, there are more modern additions and additional outbuildings all over the grounds. The front of the barn has a large rustic wooden sign emblazoned with Sparks Cidery, and on the side, a giant wooden barn quilt commissioned by a local artist with the Sparks Cidery logo: a split apple with stars instead of pips in the centre.
It’s a warm, inviting building—at least, I’ve always thought so. However, right now, it doesn’t appear to be inviting in all that many guests. The parking lot is sparse, and there doesn’t seem to be much foot traffic for midday on a Sunday. Only a few weeks ago, the place was filled with families taking photos in the orchards, couples having romantic dinners, tour buses of foreign visitors, and vans full of bachelorette parties.
I open the heavy door into the tasting room and see Wendy, the manager of both the tasting bar and the gift shop, sitting alone at the empty bar. She’s polishing the small tasting glasses for what I imagine is the third or fourth time. They are the most spotless glasses anyone has ever seen. I kick off my wellies and change into flats I keep near the door before she comes at me for trailing mud through her spotlessly clean shop. Boss or no, this is her domain.
Has it been like this all day? I ask, nodding toward the empty bar stools. She sighs and brushes her silky black bangs out of her eyes.
I sent Liz home, she says. She had to study for exams, anyway. We’ve had a few couples come in, but it’s not going to be a banner day. There’s a family and an older couple in the restaurant, though.
You guys know why it’s so quiet, though, right?
I turn as Daniel, our young restaurant manager, walks in. If he has the free time to come into the tasting bar to annoy Wendy, that means that the restaurant isn’t having a particularly lucrative day, either.
It’s November and it’s gross out? I offer.
He holds up his phone. It shows a post on a social media feed of a looping video of a rowdy group of cheerful revellers toasting and partying, and behind them is a big banner that says Cold hands / Warm hearts / November drizzle party above the logo for bitter&sweet, the County’s newest cidery. The County’s newest cidery that opened their location exactly 978 metres down the road from Sparks Cidery. I tap to the next video, and then the next, and it becomes increasingly clear that whatever visitors braved the bad weather for a visit to the County this weekend all ended up over there instead of here at Sparks.
The marketing was everywhere, says Daniel sheepishly. They really blew this thing up.
It’s a good idea, concedes Wendy. There’s nothing to do in November until the Christmas festival starts at the end of the month, and they’re giving folks a reason to come.
I groan. It’s a great idea. The marketing and execution are flawless. The videos make it seem like if you’re not there, you are absolutely missing out. I look over back to Daniel, and he looks like he has FOMO as we speak.
It’s not weird for it to be quiet in November, I say. Maybe next year, we’ll think of some things to extend the shoulder season, too, but for now, we focus on Christmas and the Wassail festival, alright? And I’ll see if Barb and her team can get the rest of the decorations up sooner than later. I think a little festive cheer might help around here.
They both nod their agreement, and I head back to the office. On the way, I fire off a text to Barb, our facilities manager, who oversees all aspects of the grounds and orchards, and she confirms that her team can start getting all the Christmas decor up ASAP. I sit at my desk, and despite every rational brain cell telling me not to, I open Instagram. There are about three million other things I should be doing right now other than scrolling through bitter&sweet’s feed, but that’s where I land.
