One for Vinogirl

The rose-tinted image of grape picking is not even remotely near the sheer back breaking horror of it all. For a start, the lovely bunches of grapes are not at a good height, but low down so you have to bend down. All the time. And then, most of them aren't just hanging there neat and tidy, waiting for the, snick, precise snip of your secateurs. They may be squashed between vine branches or trellis uprights, many will have sent out hardy tendrils that clamp to other branches, lots are hidden behind foliage, there is the ever-present danger of the person working the other side of the row taking off one of your fingers, then there are the wasps and hornets that arrive in droves once the sun is up. Oh no, it's a tough life in the vendemmia season. And then there's your back, which when you are the wrong side of, er, old really doesn't want to carry on after about four hours. I had the misfortune to be working the rows with a 78 year old local woman, Adrianna, who doesn't understand the meaning of "please, I beg you, for the love of God, slow down". Started at 8.00am, finished at 6.00 pm, half an hour for lunch. Never again.
Not much grape selection here Vinogirl. Everything goes in, mildewed, rotting or not and then it's off to the local co-operative. We picked all barbera on Friday.

At least Piero's happy, the old dog.

A Broken Man

I went grape picking at the weekend; a chap I know was short of some people so I turned up on the Saturday. There were about ten of us, so pairs would work each side of a row of (what else?) Barbera vines. Most of them were locals and I imagine the average age was around 75. I was working with Bruna (78, still blessed with some of her own teeth) and I think I was in. I wanted to take her photograph but she was shy.

We started at eight in the morning, stopped for a light lunch (above, and that's not Bruna in the middle by the way but it is a woman) at twelve and then back to work at one. At four I had to throw in the towel, the seven hours of being bent over nearly double had rendered me utterly exhausted, had done for my back and my ability to see straight. They waved me goodbye all the Italians, still bent over, picking, laughing, chatting, sometimes singing*, scurrying around with their plastic baskets, in perpetual motion, the sun beating down from a cloudless sky. Bastards. The thing is I had done it a few years ago and hardly batted an eyelid. Time for a major review of my physical condition? Fat chance with Fred pitching up on Friday, bright-eyed and ready for it. I wonder whether he will have an, er, travelling companion?

*Sorry for the Under the Tuscan Sun moment.