In the soul of the wine
Thoughts gathered on walks through the vineyards
Every morning I walk past the vineyards and every day I see someone toiling, even in midwinter.
The work!! On every walk I am always left thinking, that it’s so much more work than you’d think!
This time of year there are no grapes in sight,
Leaves are long gone.
The earth between has been lifted, sifted, ploughed
There are gnarled old vines tween tile-red lines.
Then there’s the new,
Hundreds and hundreds of new.
Saplings and oldies,
It’s a patchwork of earth and vines in lines
Curving up, along, away, down and round.
Then above steel pylons and heavy, matt grey cables that arch and drape across in a dull winter sky, deaf to the pattern of the striped earth below.
Mile upon mile of vines
Every one of them is trimmed,
Cut back to a trunk, two shoulders, one arm
Naked and modest, praying to the sky.
The guys who work in their wool scarves and hats
Balaclavas and gloves to seal out the cold.
Voices in languages I don’t understand
Hide their faces.
Only eyes. All eyes and hands.
The mood is head down,
Work work work
Smiles are hidden, laughter seems forbidden.
Black, fast fingers in cut off gloves
They buzz around the tractor with its tubular hydraulic claws
Every vine is unique
Every cut has never been seen.
The finest snow-like flowers that cradled in rows are gone, ruthlessly turned upside down by a gleaming steel blade. Today though, one older guy is all alone, quietly working on a smaller field.
I can see his bright red jacket.
He has his back to me.
His neck and back are stooped to the vine
He’s cutting each one by hand
No tractor
No hydraulic cheats
No bees, no team of ants, no buzz
The patience he has, deftly, silently pruning each plant
I see this field has much older vines
Decades of wisdom hiding in bark,
Shredded and dark, short spirals and curls
Nurtured and grown with love,
Tweaked by the owner, grandfather of vines, the master who knows how to tend to the oldest of fruit, the most delicate of vines, to make the wisest of wine.
So when we pull the cork
And when we taste the fruit
Do we know the hours, the weeks the months, the bees, the ants the hands the toes the work that went to make it?
Do we know it?
Can we tell in the smooth, elegant glass,
The intense heat of the summer sun?
The work in the icy cold of winter or the raw wind that selfishly beats about?
Can we taste it though we love it?
The beauty of its colour
The art of growing, picking, fermenting;
It’s care and devotion, knowledge and patience,
Knowing the land and the sky,
The soil and the rain.
The hours, the work and the cut,
A story that doesn’t sleep in winter and born for September.
This story stands mute and tall in a bottle of wine.
When we sip humble fruit from this earth, it’s good to remember all the heart that went to make it! And I hope we’re grateful. In its body we taste it all; the beauty of the landscape, the sun, the fruit, the stories of soil and toil. Its soul is deep in history,
Which is why we smile for a while when we breathe the soul of the wine because we are all one.
