The Morning Of The First Day Of Harvest - Avondale

At 04:30 on Friday morning my alarm signaled the start of my day. It was still dark outside as I showered and fed the cats and it was still dark outside as I set off on the N1 toward Paarl. By 6am I was slowly driving through Avondale's gates, the sun throwing pink and orange rays onto little puffs of cloud from behind the mountains. The air was completely still and my ears popped as I yawned and stretched out after the early drive. Through the last prickles of the early morning chill you could already feel the heat of the day rolling in. 

The vines and grasses were wet with dew as we met with the family and farm workers and strolled out into the vineyards. To my left was a block of Chardonnay vines and a stack of big red crates. I was handed a pair of red sheers and instructed to "Cut the bunches off right at the stem - and we don't want any leaves in there, just grapes." The vine leaves licked at my arms, right up to the elbows as I peered between them, looking for the heavy bunches of ripe green grapes. 

All around me the stillness of the morning was interrupted with the chatter of farm workers and friends of the family between the snip, snip, snip of the sheers. I systematically made my way along my section of vines, taking great care to be as gentle as possible with the bunches of grapes I picked, gently laying them down in the red crate at my feet. My hair fell into me eyes and I pushed it back with the back of hand, smearing grape juice on my forehead, knotting my hair with the sweet syrup running down my hands. 

The grapes really do a good job of camouflaging themselves between the green leaves on the vines and I concentrated hard on not missing any bunches. I didn't want the farm workers to come through the vineyards later and shake their heads at each other as they talked about the girl in the pink jeans and slip slops who did a half job. 

I was distracted though by the breathtakingly beautiful surroundings and every few minutes I had to stop to take a picture, careful not to look like I was slacking. The sun was still hiding behind the mountains, but a few rays were creeping into the valley and they threw a soft light onto the smoke that still hung above the neighbouring farms after last week's devastating fires. The family spoke between themselves about how grateful they were to their staff and neighbours who had risked so much to help them fight the flames that threatened to tear through their precious vines. 

I became overwhelmed by the fact that I was lucky enough to be experiencing something so sacred. The first day of harvest is traditionally a family affair and here I was, in their beautiful, organically grown vineyard, picking their pesticide-free grapes for the pride and joy of their range, the Armilla MCC. The crispness of the morning was suddenly shattered as the sun rose above the mountains and washed over the rows of vines like a warm wave. Within minutes the heat was approaching sweltering and I was grateful that we wouldn't have to be picking through the midday heat.

A tractor came through and collected the heavy crates of grapes we'd just picked. We all made our way up to the manor house for the blessing of the grapes and the first press of the juice that will go on to become the Armilla. We bowed our heads as the family priest said his blessing over the farm, the family and especially the farm workers who had worked so hard to protect the farm from the recent fires. I bowed my head deeper as I felt my throat tighten with the emotion of the moment. With God's blessing, the grapes began to be systematically loaded into the press, crate by crate as we anxiously waited for the first drops of the juice to run from the spout.

Once we had all sipped on some of the first juice, we went out to the veranda for a celebration breakfast. Spirits were high as we chatted over delicious pita breads filled with mushrooms, eggs, tomato and sausage. It was 10:30 when we said our thank-you's and climbed into the boiling hot car for our drive back to the city. 

On the drive back toward Table Mountain I thought again about how special the morning was ,and about how I will never be able to look at wine in the same way, now that I have experienced the love and great care that goes into a single bottle of bio-dynamically farmed, handpicked, lovingly-pressed, bottle-fermented Avondale Armilla.