The transition to whatever comes next.
Wet morning farewells in gloomy grey, everyone wondering how to feel? What comes next? Who will you see again?
A day of cleaning, as the house rapidly cools... the echoes of laughter and silliness receding into memory. All packed and stacked, the slate wiped clean ready for next years edition.
Those that remain, quieter. Somber. Thoughtful. The retreat into your own heads to process the past few weeks and ponder the aproaching of the next.
... A bizare comedic respite of an evening stacked into 2 cars up to Macon, tasting wine and on a whim a wet nights drive to Lyon for dinner... the drive home packed and folded into the boot of the car.
Another round of early morning departures... but with the sunshine to assuage rising melancholy.
French lessons and final apero on the porch.
A lunch of laughs and spaghetti... and another packing of sardines into a car.
... Last one left in an empty house as the rains descend again. Its getting cold in the dark and the house is all the more silent in memories of the noise that filled it.A good time to retreat into those memories to stay warm...
...
The last morning on the vines, and its as though the most beautiful was saved till last as a final farewell to the vendange. A mornings consolation for appraoching departure.
A warm, watercolour sunrise of pink and peach casting out over the rolling hills of beaujolais, scattered with rowed vines and little villages as they recede off into the distant misty Alps.
No need for a camera, the memory burned forever in my mind as we share soft smiled appreciation for moment of simple beauty.
...
Nights at the bar till close.
Packed in under the marque, fortified against the evening chill by warm company, laughter and 5 euro bottles.
The comforting knowledge of returning home to coffee on the Porch with Big Steph, and his quiet contemplation of the day.
...
Meals.
All of them.
Marking time by them.
Looking forward to them.
Learning to take the fullest, most innocent joy in the appreciation of great food shared with lovely people. Forgetting diets and habits of the outside world and just eating with joyous abandon, in good company.
...
Apero.
That 10 minutes outside the cave, in the sun...
The perfect transition from work to food that instantly makes your back feel better and the world seem as beautiful as it can be.
...
Ramble.
The simple joy of a vine skipped with a short walk.
The Grape Escape.
Word games, jokes that spring up and evolve over the two weeks. No-one else will ever know them. They are a secret, to be guarded with your vendange memories, a gift to you that you can keep forever. Unique. Only those that shared your vendange will know them, and it binds you close together, though you scatter to all parts of the globe.
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Laying in the sun on the grass... athos as pillow.
5 minutes it may be, but its 5 minutes that make the world.
...
Swiming at the weir with Gypsy kids on a perfect sunday.
Teaching them to jump high of the rocks in to the chill dark water...
brief shivers quckly smothered by the hazy golden sunshine and the unbridled laughs as someones belly smacks loud and awkward on the water.
...
Stolen moments.
Serious. Silly. Reflective. Thoughtful.
They come more vivid and intense than anywhere else, for where else do you have so much time together so richly? For 2 weeks strangers become closer than best friends, and in those moments you gain a beautiful window onto a wonderfull collection of people.
How else do you explain the wrenching feeling of loss that comes afterwards? Missing people you have only just met? It is the beautiful sadness, the rich paradox of the vendange.
Whether I see them again or not, I will remember them fondly... and for a long time yet, miss them all deeply.
...
And where to next?
The next few days afterwards is like the aftermath of a tsunami, and you must simply let the turgid water recede. Then, when it is clear and dry, you can start to think about the real world again.
Until then... music, and the melody of a fond memory
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