After a brisk five minute walk I arrive in the heart of village in front of the house of my friend Marie who is incidentally the wife of the Mayor (it is his grapes that we will harvest today) of Lastours, a small village constructed in old style Mediterranean houses which are precariously perched on the rocky precipices that make up the population of 163 inhabitants.
Lastours has only two businesses, a restaurant and a boulangerie, for anything else a fifteen minute drive by car to Carcassonne is necessary as the public transport is a bus that only passes through the village two times a day, one time at 7h00 and the other at 16h00. This is quite a shock for me having just arrived at the beginning of May after living for thirteen years in busy London.


Marie is elfin in size but she makes up for it with the energy that she exudes. Her sweet voice drowns out the bubbling of the Orbiel River that runs just in front of the house and divides the village in two by it banks.

“Do you want a coffee?” she asks as she bounces out of the house to kiss me the traditional three times as is the practice in the South of France. “There are more than twenty of us harvesting today, this is the most people that have ever come to help, people kept asking to come and Max could not refuse, it is a yearly tradition that no one wants to miss,” she says as she prepares the coffee.

“Amazing,” I reply as I drink the wonderful espresso; beginning to feel just a bit nervous, I have never actually participated in the grape harvest only studied all of the techniques during my years of wine courses, what if I fail to meet the expectations of our most discerning mayor?

“Don’t be worried” Marie re-assures me; but her concerns had nothing to do with the sudden inadequacies that I was feeling but were addressed at the steep descent into the little valley that she was manoeuvring the car down to bring us to the vines. The village’s cemetery was situated on one side of the valley below the little basin that was the home of the vines surrounded by steep slopes.

There was a jolly group of people waiting for us, an international melting pot of individuals who made the pilgrimage to partake in the yearly ritual of Max and Marie’s grape harvest. English, Belgian, Narbonnais; as well as several residents of the village all assembled and ready to give their time for a good cause.

The vines are heavily laden with fruit growing on plants of all ages that are for the most part perilously perched on the steep hillside. Max climbs into the back of his big white Toyota pickup and begins to hand out the tools of the trade, pruning clippers and 10 litre rubber buckets. “Is this anyone’s first time?” He asks as we take our tools. I timidly raise my hand and it seems that I am the only debutant. “Not to worry” Marie assures me, “you can be my partner; you are going to be just fine.”

Re-assured, we set off together to the highest part of the vineyard at the end of the field in the bright autumn sunshine. We each take a side of the row to ensure that none of the precious grapes are lost, there is one hazard in this technique however and that is the danger of cutting the fingers of your partner therefore the work is very precise and concentration is a must, however this does not stop the convivial fun of the moment and the cheerful chatter of Marie as we make our way down the row. “One year,” Marie recounts as she drops a beautiful purple bunch of grapes into her bucket, “I had a bit of a scare,” she laughs, “I reached up into the leaves of a vine to cut a bunch of grapes and came face to face with a sleepy serpent (known by the name of Couleuvre a completely non venomous resident of the region). “I screamed so loud that I think that I frightened everyone up in Languedoc Roussillon!” She giggles as she continues to fill her bucket, “I have been more cautious since then.”

My blood runs cold as I reach up into the next vine to cut the bunch of grapes, I would classify myself as being fearless with the exception of snakes, one of the nice things about living in London was that there was not much of a chance to come face to face with these little cold blooded beasts.

Didier, a distinguished middle aged gentleman stops for us to empty our buckets of grapes into his huge plastic receptacle which he carries on his back. He is a porteur the person that carries the grapes from the pickers to the wagon where he has to climb a ladder to empty the precious harvest, his agility amazes me as he bends over almost backwards facilitate the disposal of the contents of our buckets into his container which resembled a huge conical semi-transparent rubbish bin with straps attached in the style of a rucksack. “A good porteur” Max explains “can carry up to 35 kilos at one time”. And Didier seemed to be doing a very good job of it; he had to ensure that our quickly filling buckets were emptied to ensure that our harvesting rhythm continued without disruption.
“Breakfast!” Max announces after an hour of picking and he returns to the back of his pickup truck to serve us. Ah now this I was waiting for, the famous breakfast of vignerons, a colossal spread of charcuteries, cheeses, jams and pain de compagne (a whole grain bread in huge round loaves) along with red wine from a previous harvest. We gather around munching and drinking and chatting as we tuck into this enormous meal. It is a simple moment but one that I will never forget, everyone in commune and our only concern is to enjoy life.

“Back to work,” Max announces after everyone has filled themselves to bursting and has had a cup of coffee to balance the effects of the rich food and wine. This time we head for the lower flatter part of the vineyard where the grapes are mostly white and I work alongside Max, it feels as I have been picking grapes for years now and though it is bad news for Max, I am pleased to be able to identify a few bunches of grapes that have been devastated by odium a nasty mildew that dries out the grapes and leaves them hollow and ruined. The technical studies have now become practical. Marie, who is renowned for her jams asks us to keep the especially beautiful bunches aside for her to make her conserves and we all try to find the most beautiful bunch of grapes to put into her bucket.

We work quickly and the harvest is finished by 11h30, our hands sticky and the wagon full and ended by a water fight instigated by Dominique, a fellow winegrower from the water hose in the little shed in the vineyard where we all went to wash our hands, it ended in a melee of harvesters running up the steep slopes as quickly as possible to avoid being drowned. In the meantime, Dominique’s partner drove the precious cargo 8 kilometres south to the local cooperative to weigh the grapes and sell them. The journey would take him a few hours due to the little tractor that he had to use to take them down. The rest of us went our separate ways to take showers with the promise to re-join Max later in the afternoon. For my part I went up with Max and Didier to clean the tools at his house on the mountain, he lives in the valley but his mother is resident in a huge house that he built complete with a large garage that served as a large hall to host parties, on our arrival I was delighted to see that a massive table was laid out for the more than 20 of us by two of Max’s friends who had been at the house since 8am preparing the lunch for all of the workers. After the tools were all cleaned, Max took me down to his cellar where he showed me his preparation of the wines from the previous year; for the most part he sells all of his grapes to the cooperative however he keeps a certain number of litres to make wines for his personal use. We inspect the different mixes of wines and then he shows me two large barrels of the famous Cartagène. Cartagène is the regional alcohol of the region and the reason for its name is there is one quarter of eau de vie and three quarters of grape juice. Max had two different years, one of 10 years of age on one of 2-3 years; the initial aroma is that of the grape juice which can be very deceptive as the actual drink contains 24 per cent alcohol, to be drunk in moderation. Max filled two bottles, one from each of the barrels and we compared the colour of the two the older one much deeper brown and the younger one much lighter more a caramel colour. “We will try these later after the meal” Max explained, “I am going to put them in the refrigerator to chill.”

Upon the return of Dominique’s partner from the cooperative the announcement that we had harvested 2500 kilos of grapes was celebrated around the huge table eating traditional dishes from the area and as the wine flowed and the cartagène was served various people began to sing and tell stories and jokes late into the afternoon. Harvesting grapes for the first time was an experience that I will never forget. The life of the vine is a yearly cycle that marks the seasons in the life of a winegrower, most of all it is a celebration of life, the richness of what the earth can produce and the goodness of those that celebrate its existence. I am looking forward to next year’s harvest and tasting the results of my first Vendange at that time.

Shoshanna Guiet is passionate about every aspect of wine. She spent thirteen years in London and two years in New York where she pursued her studies in wine whilst working for a wine merchant in Wimbledon as well as hosting private wine tastings. She recently moved to the south of France where she continues to share her passion with others.

by Shoshanna Guiet
Shoshanna's personal blog: Wine and Capoeira

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