Bulk Wine

My Grandpa’s figure was more and more fascinating, because through those grapes I helped to harvest and through some kind of magic experience, he got, in that cool and dark cellar kept with devotion as a little church, a wine that made people come from the city. Everyone seemed to be seduced by the grandpa’s wine and by the tradition bringing smells and flavors. Also our neighbor used to produce wine, but it was deeply different from the grandpa’s one and it was not so good as his was: wine was a matter of trust.

The harvesting Sunday spent detaching bunches of grapes from the vite and pressing them with feet is now an old memory. In the past, the figure of the Winemaker Grandfather was stately and good. In harvest time, everything was about abundance, joy and hope. We could relish the same serene atmosphere in May, under the bower, when we tasted the first bottles of the latest harvest. It was enchanting: the new-wine color, the foam that filled the glass and then vanished, the taste with sweet hints, and the ham that was sliced to be offered to the costumer even then considered sacred.