Before the Storm
by JeanPierre · 18 June 2026 · Travel & Nature
Jean-Pierre describes the smell that comes forty minutes before a storm reaches the vineyard. He walks the rows then — not to do anything, but because it seems polite to be there.
There is a smell that comes about forty minutes before a serious storm reaches the vineyard, when the pressure drops and the air becomes something you can almost hold. I can't tell you the chemistry of it. I know it's ozone, I know it's whatever the soil releases when it anticipates water, but those words don't capture what it actually is, which is something closer to an announcement.
My father could smell it an hour out. He said it was practice, and I believe him because I've gotten better at it over the decades, though I've never matched him. My daughters think this is superstition, which is the word people use for the skills they haven't acquired yet.
When that smell comes I walk the rows once. Not to do anything — there's nothing to do at that point, you've either prepared for the rain or you haven't. I walk them because it seems like the right thing, the same way you might sit with someone who is about to go through something difficult. The vineyard will manage. It always has. But it seems polite to be there.
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