On the Shores of the Mediterranean. Eric Newby
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the great Roman roads to Rome, which sell barrels, hods, grape crushers and presses, have them prominently displayed outside their premises.
The actual festa begins to assemble itself early in the morning, long before dawn, when a procession of vans, lorries and motor cars starts groaning up the hill to the town loaded with merchandise which will later be displayed on the stalls in the open-air market place under the plane trees below the village. It is mostly cheap stuff, but some products of the pre-plastic age still persist: copper cauldrons, earthenware casseroles, mousetraps made of wood that look like lock-up garages, thick woollen socks and vests and the bed-warmers known as preti, priests, wooden frameworks which you put between the bedsheets on cold winter nights with an iron pot full of hot ashes inside them and which warm a bed in a way that no other kind of warmer can. Also on sale will be pack-mules, pigs and cattle. The animals are sold on the same patch of ground that has been used for this purpose as long as anyone can remember, although it has now been turned into a children’s playground and is full of plastic gnomes. And there is plenty to eat. In the market you can also buy panini, big, crusty sandwiches filled with delicious slices of pork cut from a young pig that has been roasted on a spit. And there is also plenty to drink. Until recently there were open-air drinking booths under the plane trees at which you could sit and eat panini and drink last year’s wine at tables with white cloths on them. Now, if you want to eat and drink you have to do it indoors because it is very rare, almost unknown, for it not to pour with rain on the festa of San Remigio. Last year was an exception. This is the day, too, when Wanda, and she did it for more than fifteen years, worked in one of the two hotels as a waitress, to help out with the farmers’ lunches, invariably receiving an offer of marriage from one of them who had become a widower in his fifties.
This year we have arrived too early for San Remigio, but not too early to harvest our grapes and make our wine, or help others with their vendemmia, the harvesting and the wine-making. We always help four families with the vendemmia. The harvesting of the grapes usually takes one or two days; the fermentation takes about ten days. To be asked to help is an honour because it means that we are regarded as hard workers, and therefore earn the prodigious quantities of wine and food that are served throughout the vendemmia.
It takes several days to get ready for our own vendemmia. All the barrels have first to be washed and scrubbed and then kept standing upright with a hose running water into them until the seams swell and close and they no longer leak. So on the first morning when the vendemmia begins we start work with the family which owns the farm across the road from where the track leads down to our house. We have known them ever since we first came here. Their children have come to England and stayed with us and we have seen them grow up, get married and themselves have children.
Tomorrow, around seven-thirty, dressed in our oldest clothes, we will turn up at the big modern farmhouse they have built to replace the old, more beautiful one, armed with baskets with iron hooks on them so that we can hang them from the pergole, the horizontal wires on which vines are trained, while we cut the grapes with scissors, secateurs, or just sharp knives, all of which become equally painful to handle when you use them day after day.
If the family is an efficient one, and this one is highly efficient, there should be about a dozen people waiting outside, and the tractor should be warmed up and the trailer attached to it, already filled with the heavy hods called bigonci, sometimes made of plastic now and much lighter, in which the grapes are brought back to the house and poured into the macchina da macinare, the grape crusher. If they are an inefficient lot and no one else has turned up, which often means they have forgotten to ask them, a lot of screaming across valleys to other houses takes place – ‘Maariaaa! Ahmaaandoh! Doveee seei?’ (‘Maria! Armando! Where are you?’) – just as they had screamed at one another across similar expanses up in the nearby Apennines when I was hiding from the Germans. Or they could still be scrubbing the barrels or even waiting for the barrel staves to swell sufficiently to stop the barrels leaking, which should have been done long before, or perhaps the man with the tractor hasn’t arrived, in any of which cases we hang about and get cheesed off. The most inefficient people we know are the P.… s, who are never ready. One year the bottom literally fell out of their biggest barrel, which was really enormous, after we had quarter filled it with crushed grapes. Yet in spite of being highly inefficient, they make some of the best wine in the district.
We always start at the most distant vineyard, which may be a mile or more away from the house, up or down the hillside, often separated from it by other people’s properties and usually only reached by the roughest and steepest of tracks.
In some of the vineyards the grapes are still trained on pergole, trellises, some of them extended out over steep banks which are anything up to eight feet high. Pergole are picturesque and shade you from the midday sun, but they no longer accord with modern wine-making theory. No more trellises are being constructed, and new vineyards are planted in regular, widely-spaced parallel rows in fields bulldozed out of the hillside, and the pretty terraced fields one above the other will soon be no more. It is difficult to cut the bunches of grapes under a pergola. If they are very high you have to use triangular, home-made step ladders, which everyone keeps for this purpose and for harvesting the olives later in the year, but often, when the ground underneath is too bumpy to set them up, I find myself swinging from the pergola, like one of the larger primates trying to reach some far-out bunches.
If it rains it is hell. If it rains heavily you have to stop work, because you get too much water with the grapes when you squash them in the press. A sack is the best thing to wear over the head and shoulders when it rains, cooler and less constricting than a waterproof. If the grapes are more or less a write-off, as they were in 1972, and it rains as well, it is indeed lugubrious, but whatever the conditions, the day passes in constant gossip, which seems to become more and more lubricious as the day goes on; some of the more hair-raising stories being recounted by respectable-looking ladies dressed in the deepest black. From time to time, gusts of laughter sweep through the vineyard as a result of some particularly coarse remark. Some of the time I don’t harvest the grapes. Instead I am given the job of heaving the bigonci, filled with grapes, on to the trailer which will take them back to the press. This is because I am one of the few grown men here who haven’t yet had a hernia from lifting enormous weights.
At about ten o’clock, after we have worked for a couple of hours or more, we have a merenda, a picnic, in whichever field we happen to be in, brought there by the farmer’s wife; a very un-English breakfast spread out on a white cloth on the grass, with lots of fresh pecorino, cheese made with ewe’s milk, prosciutto, and what is here called mortadella but which is nothing like real mortadella di Bologna – more like salami – bread baked in the outside wood oven which every house possesses, and wine. We go on having swigs of wine throughout the day, to keep us going, not much but enough, always white.
At about a quarter to one we go back to the house for the midday meal, by which time we have, temporarily at least, had enough. All the morning a band of women have been sorting the bunches that they take from the baskets at tables set up in the various fields, cutting off long stalks, removing leaves which would give the wine a bad taste and rejecting unripe grapes or those covered with mildew, before putting the rest into the bigonci. Sometimes, if it is hot, we eat at a long table outside in the yard, but usually we are in the parlour with great black and white photographs of ancestors on the walls. We never drink before the meal, apart from the occasional swig we have already had in the fields, and we never mix white with red, because drinking on an empty stomach and mixing white with red is thought to be injurious to health.
We eat brodo, broth, made with beef or chicken stock, with pasta in it, followed by manzo bollito, boiled beef, stuffed with a mixture of spinach, egg, parmigiano cheese and mortadella; and also roast or boiled chicken chopped up with a chopper and the bones broken, the chickens being the best sort that have scratched a living in the yard, roast potatoes, the bitter green salad called radici, mixed with home-produced olive oil and vinegar, and plates of delicious tomatoes eaten with oil, salt and pepper.
The afternoon seems longer and harder and, if it is hot, much hotter than the morning, and the work goes on in the fields until