Les Vendanges

I’ve got to admit, there is something a bit mythical about the vendanges.  Perhaps because it is something that I thought I’d never do since I grew up in a region void of vineyards, but the harvesting of grapes, or les vendanges, is quite fun, at least the way we do it.  We help our neighbors who have a small vineyard and with a group of about ten people, the work is done in a day.  If I were a seasonal worker who did this for two months straight, I know I’d feel different about it, but a day is a good dose of what makes it fun without getting a back ache.

Before my first vendanges, I thought the work would be complicated, but it only entails cutting the grapes off the vine and making sure a finger isn’t taken along with it.  Not only would that hurt a lot, but as Monsieur Gousse says, “It will spoil the wine.”  The only other requirement is a good humor.  There is quite a bit of teasing going on along with an occasional smashing of grapes, so perhaps a white t-shirt is best avoided too.

            A long lunch is standard, followed by bringing the collected grapes to the cooperative, where they are weighed and tested for sugar (alcohol) contents.  Just the smell of the place is intoxicating.  It’s not a wine smell, but not fresh fruit smell either.  There must be something in the air because all the people are extremely jovial. 

            It’ll be months before the grapes we collected will be ready to drink, but the wine I had at the end of the day did give me pause to the effort that goes into making it.  Word of caution though, just watch your back if Monsieur Gousse has a handful grapes and a sly smile.  He might have something planned for you.

Our neighbor's truck used for les vendanges, era 1950.

The village fête

Regardless of the overcast weather, the village held its annual fête yesterday.  It’s a block party of sorts where old and new village residents get together, share a drink, and a bite to eat.  It starts with a mass in the centuries old church and then rolls out into the square where fresh peach wine is poured abundantly.  Years ago, inhabitants of nearby villages would take the fading footpaths across the mountain to attend the party and leave at first light to attend to their livestock in the morning.  The fête does not have the mythic proportions it used to, but each year I’ve seen it grown in popularity.  More old residents are coming back to share their stories which is slowly reviving the history of the village. 

I look forward to this event each year because I learn more about this village that I now call home.  I am also given the chance to be part of its history.  I get to be involved in the stories that are retold year after year, like when a farmer parked a tractor full of manure in the square in protest of the party, or when a priest refused to say the mass until the flowers were removed from the alter for fear of wasps.  What I like the most though is the positive energy it gives the village, a rallying point for everyone to get behind so it’s a success and one that gives everyone a happy feeling at the end of the day.  I feel like I’m carving out my place, even though I am a foreigner.  It makes me remember my old neighborhood block parties where everyone pulled up a chair, grabbed a glass, and a plate to eat.  The village fête is the equivalent of that, minus the egg toss.  Which has given me an idea, I might try to introduce it next year and then see if anyone is up for a cake walk.