It’s 07h00 on the third Tuesday in February and it appears we’re already late.
Myself and two other wine writers have been afforded the opportunity to get a first-hand experience of what it takes to harvest some of the Hemel en Aarde’s most iconic wines.
“Harvest” is when Bouchard Finlayson’s winemaker, Chris Albrecht and the farmer come to the consensus that each cultivar’s sugar and acid levels are just right. Grapes for MCC’s are harvested earlier in the year while grapes for Reds and “Late Harvests” are left for a later harvest. It’s then, when a team of both permanent and seasonal workers, and this year novice wine harvesters (professional wine drinkers) descend on the vines at dawn.
Today, the Bouchard Finlayson Sangiovese blocks are speckled with generations of harvest alumni.
Bouchard Finlayson’s viticulturalist, Mortimer has handed each of us our own set of sharp sheers. This means the sheering of sun kissed Sangiovese won’t be as unbearable as perhaps our counterparts who are bound to have a personal pair that they’ve used each year over. Bent over we search for burgundy berries, carefully pluck off any pests and bad bits and toss them into a crate, there are already masses of these scattered at our feet filled to the brim. A nod to the Wizard of Oz as we follow “the yellow brick road” to vines left untouched.
Our mentors are asked to lead us to our dedicated rows, a path we quickly notice is travelled each year around this time and there’s a earnest sense of ownership over each trellised trail.
It’s clear this task requires devotion. Some of the worker’s being at Bouchard Finlayson for as long as 18 years. Simon is the longest standing staff member and he’s currently handing out creates and moving from block to block as we slide down the slopes with our lemon-yellow crates zealously trying to fill them as fast as those who have come to impart their stories and knowledge with us throughout the trellises.
As we are gain our confidence and a sense of rhythm, we are left to pluck these tempered berries off their trellises and toss into crates. Mortimer can be heard in the distance “Cut every grape, leave nothing behind. I know it’s tough, I know it’s hot. Just Keep pushing we’re almost there”
It’s becomes inherently clear to both those in the fields and us bright-eyed-wet-behind-the-ears journalists that nothing should go to waste, everyone has worked so hard to get to this day “we cannot let our predecessors in the harvest schedule down, we cannot devalue the work that it took to get these fruits.”
You see, to those in the already 25 plus degree sun, at least two hours in foraging for fruit, this day truly is the “fruit of their years’ worth of labor. “
Whilst #Harvest20xx is the most publicized time of year, after awards season, what often goes unnoticed is the utter willpower, fortitude and spirit it takes to get us to this fruit filled place.
To wake daily, stare over 25 hectares of land under vine and believe with all mighty faith that “we will overcome this mountain” it’s easy to consider that wine making and harvest is a form of religion “and all us uneducated, unappreciative drinking folk are quite simply put, heathens.” who take for granted the wines on our shelves and in our fridges.
From trellising and tucking of new shoots in the burnt burgundy autumn months to the meticulous pruning done at just the right time and temperature in March. These are the tales that are often left untold, the unseen faces of your favourite Chardonnay, the reality that we often forget when we quaff our 2017 Syrah blend and quip “It’s a bit dry, not sure I’ll buy this one again”
This, This is just the harvest of it (I mean “half of it!”)
It’s about 11h00 now and after a tumbler of tea and a broodjie the team descend onto various other elements of the harvest and stages of wine making.
From the pressing plant, where globes of grapes are gingerly pressed to produce free run juice, the “purest” form of unfermented wine that zealously burst out their yeasted skins almost elated to be part of the journey from harvest to Hannibal.
To sorting Sangiovese, where each berry and bunch is given a polite hand shake, “a thank you, nice to finally meet you-we’ve been waiting for this day.”
There’s constant cleaning and movement of crates, grape seed compost and old baskets. Everyone one Is moving, all the while “wine” waits for no man.
Dry ice cools down juice, stainless steel tanks that tier towards the trusses are being filled, aerated, lab tested, emptied, cleaned and filled again. The day promises to be no shorter than 12 hours long and in the business of winemaking,1 there’s no time for whining.
Now, weeks later as I open the fridge, peel back the wax on a wooded Chardonnay, slowly twist out the cork and lap the closest glass in sight with this lovely liquid.
I begin to glug the hardship of the week that was away.
It’s then that the reminiscence of the laborious love that went into my glass slowly returns.
This mirage, the lingering rounded mouthfeel, 13,5% alcohol and the idea of hand harvesting hectares of vines in often 42-degree weather easily makes that idiot “Jason” not seem so bad.
Each quaff makes me more inclined to forgive Katelyn in accounts for using the last Nespresso pod on Monday Morning when I went in early to get a head
When the memory fades I pour myself another glass and think back to that third Tuesday in February.
