Harvest memories

One could say that nostalgia is often a beautiful feeling, a bittersweet aftertaste, a pang that pierces and sets the
heart racing, a feeling close to the surface that I personally experience in general, in moments of longing and regret.

The grape harvest is, without a doubt, one of these moments, because it takes me back to a very hidden and distant corner of myself, full of memories, family experiences and ways of doing things in our home. The beginning of the harvest brought nerves and excitement in equal measure: we were gathering the fruit of a whole year’s work and, faced with the need to look to the sky and wish for good weather, prayer was present even among those of us who did not usually confess our sins.

The first step was to prepare the oufit for the whole week: four old, worn-out rags that made us look like
scarecrows, hoping never to run into that person who made us laugh, because whenever they did, they forced us to dive into the grapes in an attempt to blend in with them and disappear. The afternoon before, Father would get the baskets and scissors ready for everyone at home. Old, young and little, we all prepared ourselves for the harvest, a job that excluded no one; not even the family pets could escape it! Grandma prepared the basket for breakfast and lunch. That said, there was never any shortage of food. Breakfast would be a proper fork-and-knife
affair and, with a bit of luck, we would enjoy a good clotxa, with “sardina de casco” or herring, grilled tomato, garlic and a generous drizzle of olive oil. Mmmm... just remembering it makes my mouth water! The wine flask or porró was also essential. Well, let’s have a little sip, because after the sardine it tastes like heaven! Lunch would be another story, but for the time being, all of this was what lay ahead of us.

At first light, having woken to the sound of the church bells, we would set off towards the vineyard with the cars
loaded up. The house was left completely empty and silent. The boys and girls preferred to ride with our great-uncle, who had a Pascuali: a little tractor that seemed more suited to our size. We loved travelling on that
little vehicle, whose clatter along the rough tracks would wake us up with a start! The farmers had different plots of land that they had mostly inherited and that had belonged to their families for generations. This meant that every day we would head to a different plot within the area. In those days, the decision to harvest one estate or another was determined by the alcohol level, although traditionally it was already known which vineyards ripened earliest. When there were several options, we would start with those furthest away, the valleys, which were the ones most at risk of becoming inaccessible when it rained. That said, getting grapes out of a soaking-wet plot, for the little ones at home, also had its charm, especially when someone got stuck in the mud.

Throughout the day, we all cut bunches of grapes and there was usually one person whose job was to empty them. They wore the mark of the land engraved on their shoulder, where they would rest the basket in order to unload it into the trailer. It was hard work, but it made things easier for the others. And then one basket
after another, until the trailer was full. Once it was full and after having pressed it down, the tractor driver would take the harvested grapes to the winery and, while they were away, we would make a pile of grapes on the ground, on top of a borraza, waiting for the tractor to return after unloading the first trailer load. The idea was to make the most of the time. Farmers always keep an eye on the sky, just in case things turned sour, it started to rain and we had to run.

As a child, I experienced the harvest in a festive way, always surrounded by the jokes of my cousins who teased me and the laughter of the grown-ups when they saw my angry face. The songs and games of the little girls at home were constant; we entertained ourselves by cutting grape leaves instead of grapes, running after a praying mantis or making little mud pies with water and earth.

Memories of a happy childhood, memories that anchor us to the land that has seen us born and that strengthen this deep feeling of belonging that gives us dignity, like a vine when it takes root, grows strong and healthy, and it is in that very soil where it will endure and leave its seed.