a surfeit of grapes - by Theo

Early in the 20th Century, around 1910 I think, there was a surfeit of grapes in Spain. Stuck with what to do with them, the grape-growers struck upon a plan - let's invent a tradition. They managed to convince the Spanish public that it would bring them good luck if they ate one grape for each chime of the clock at midnight on New Year's Eve. This proved popular and so this cunning marketing ploy became tradition.

With this in mind I went out to buy fruit. I didn't like the look of the white grapes on sale - a bit brown - so I got red ones. They came in bunches of twelve - genetic engineering or painstaking packing? Who knows. Anyway, upon my return Kate was taken aback by the size of the grapes, stating she'd never be able to fit them all in, so I was dispatched out again to buy some small ones, which I duly did. However, when our New Year's Eve guests, David and Nataly, arrived, we discovered we were way behind the curve on the grape front. They have bought canned grapes, twelve to a can, each one peeled and de-seeded. The Spanish elevate corner-cutting to an art form! So we found ourselves with a surfeit of grapes.In the end, after a rather long and large meal, I wasn't quite sure if any of us would fit them in! Rosie, not wanting to be left out, duly woke moments before the countdown began on Spanish Radio, so Kate had to forego her grape swallowing, sadly. The three of us however managed it, David and Nataly using the canned ones while I manned up and went for the big red ones. Kate returned in time for Prosecco and David and Nataly's initiation into Robert Burns ("Auld Lang Syne"). The fireworks went off in the street and 2011 arrived with a bang among friends, food and family. Perfect.

The Vines

When we embarked on our travels more than 6 months ago, at the beginning of April, the landscape that greeted us here in France was full of fields dotted with brown stumps. Gradually, over the following weeks, a few touches of green appeared on them and now, as we return to France those leaves are slowly turning red and the heavy bunches of fruit are visible from the roads. They are of course the vines, and in a way they have marked our travels around Europe, a natural calendar charting the time scale of our trip.

Yesterday was my birthday, my 27th, but instead of a lazy day after 3 days of driving, we were up at 7 to take part in le vindage - grape picking. Jean-Christophe and Christiane are a little like a French version of the Larkins, except they have fewer chilren and probably pay their income tax. Their little farm about 5 minutes from Cathy's is a menagerie of donkeys, horses, chickens, ducks, patridges, pigeons and finches, while they grow sunflowers, grapes, oilseed and plums.

We and about a dozen other people - friends, family, neighbours - were helping them pick grapes for their own home-made red and rosé wines. There was no cash payment involved, just endless food and as much booze as was safe to drink while wielding a pair of secatuers. Beers were handed round the vines by way of mid-morning refreshment, while the four-course lunch was preceeded by copious potent apertifs of which Pa Larkin would have approved. Lunch itself was accompanied by the house vintage and afternoon tea (complete with pastry turned into a birthay cake for me) was washed down with sweet cider. When we were invited back for dinner (along with half the neighbourhood) and of course, more booze. Perfick!

The work itself wasn't hard - 3 hours in the warm morning sun then another one and a half in the afternoon when there were even more helpers got the job done.
Christophe stacked the crates on his forklift, emptied them into a machine to separate the grapes from the stems and got the fermentation process under way. Naturally all this was done in a very French way - everyone watching, momentarily taking charge or giving advice. Vastly entertaining for us though. All the gloom and doom in the news about the financial markets seems a world away from this rural idyll of helpful neighbours, home brew and rustic feasts. A perfick birthday.