Column: vendemia

It's Thursday morning when my phone rings and I see the name of a good friend of mine on the display. 'Antonio, buongiorno, come va?' I call to him cheerfully as I pick up the phone. 'Reinout, yes all is well here, listen, I have a question… De harvest starts next weekend and my father is seriously short of hands this year. Would you like to help pick grapes next weekend?'

Well I have to say that it has been on my list to participate in the grape harvest for a few years now. Probably because over the years a rather romantic picture has been painted by advertisements in which you walk down the tendrils in the beautiful autumn sun with your basket and your knife, enjoy a delicious lunch with a glass of wine at noon and then work until sunset.

And meanwhile you think: it's like a movie, what is Tuscany beautiful and idyllic and the winemaker's daughter continues to smile and wink so kindly… You think you have pledged your heart and do your work in peace and with the greatest of ease. Laughing through the day.

Nothing is less true

The reality is somewhat different there. At six o'clock in the morning Antonio is at the door, so that we can start picking at his father's estate around seven thirty. As I sustain myself on two strong cups of coffee (note to self: giving a concert the night before is not conducive), the basket is pressed into my hands and we walk towards the tractor with trailer that transports us to the vines.

My heart sinks slightly when I see the miles of fields loom before me. 'This is going to be a hell of a job,' I mumble to myself softly as I notice the tractor slowing down. We receive the instructions on how to cut the grapes and check whether the bunches are good or not. 'Eaten trusses are not really conducive to wine production,' says Antonio's father. 

Idyllic lunch?

After a morning of sweating and slogging (I really don't understand how they laugh so much in the commercials without sweating, while I'm starting to become a grease stain in the meantime), it's time for lunch. I'm already looking forward to a glass of wine and a relaxed get-together of two or three hours, including a little afternoon nap (after all, that's what the man from the commercial does too).

I arrive at the barn that has been transformed into a lunch place and see a few pans with steaming pasta with tomato sauce. There are bottled water instead of wine and after seeing the enthusiasm and weighty attitude of Antonio's father, I bet the afternoon nap will be skipped today.

And indeed, after consuming the necessary coffee after dinner (yes, carry on with that double and extra strong espresso), we go back into the field. It is hard to pick as many bunches as possible before sunset. We have had the hottest part of the day, but it is still a good 31 degrees and with red and sweaty heads we frantically continue picking.

An intermediate standings

Do I still like it? Ehm, well, I'm not averse to hard work, but this was a bit disappointing. Of course, you know that this is the man's bread and I know better than anyone how important it is that this work is done quickly and efficiently, because during the harvest it's all about time.

Anyone who has ever watched a Netflix series about Burgundy wine or champagne knows that it almost comes down to the minute when you pick the grape and what that means for the fermentation and fermentation. So excitement and sensation all around. For Antonio's father then. To me it felt more like a gladiatorial contest in which I fight against the amount of grapes.

A little opera

The 'no mercy' policy applies until sunset. I make the best of it for myself. Everyone works concentrated and often I get into a picking trance in which I am only busy with my own tendrils and perhaps a bit with music on my phone.

With the concert of the night before still in the back of my mind, I decide to put on my own sing-a-long between the tendrils. And before I realize it we are all together Libiamo neilateni calici to hum. Creates a nice atmosphere anyway.

We keep picking until the sun has disappeared behind the vines and empty the last baskets into the trailer. The harvest is done for today. Tomorrow others will continue.

As a thank you, Antonio's father invites us to dinner on the estate. At the very least, there will be a good and extensive meal tonight! "Reinout, you have yet to taste my wine." (It's still in there, luckily, I was already thirsty!)

Still!

We freshen up and then walk into the dining room, where the delicious smells of the food are already hanging. As in a movie (still), we are seated at a nicely set table and we wait for dinner to be served.

Then Antonio's mother comes in with a large pan in her hand. She smiles at us when she sees our tired heads. 'Nice picking, boys?' she says with a wink. 'You must be hungry. Grandma and I prepared some things.' When Antonio's 88-year-old grandmother shuffles out of the kitchen and sits down at the table, I feel completely back in XNUMXs Italy.

The moment we want to brag, we hear a 'Wait for me!' get out of the way. Anontio's sister enters, panting. "Sorry everyone, it just took a little longer." She plops down diagonally across from me and looks at me in surprise. "Are the pickers also blond with a northern accent these days?" she smiles at me and winks (still that smile and that wink).

Grateful there is a delicious and long table. The harvest is hard work, blood, sweat and tears, but ultimately a piece of Italian tradition that you wouldn't want to miss for anything.