TRAILBLAZERS: In the name of Oliver
When Don walks through the vines the memories rise up to meet him, as real as sights and smells. In the block where the old Clydesdales stable once stood, Don remembers the horses’ warm breath and their strong, gentle presence. ‘When I was a little tacker we had two Clydies left,’ Don tells me. ‘We’d get off the school bus and race down to the vineyard and there the horses would be pulling the burner.’ Back then, vine cuttings were burned. It wasn’t environmentally friendly but it meant no disease. ‘Dad would grab us and throw us on top of the Clydies and we’d ride them home to the stable and then slide off down the back of them.’
Don is
