Vineyard at Son Bennassar (Episode 1)
In November 1994 Sandy and I purchased 38,000m² of land in Son Bennassar near Felanitx, beneath the mountain monastery of San Salvador. The property had an oak and pine wood, a small worked-out coal mine, and a vineyard with 3,600 Manto Negro black grapevines. It had an old stone well around which you could dig up pieces of pottery dating back to the Roman, and Arab occupations of the island; how all this came about is another story.
Francisco, the farmer who looked after the vines, was retiring in 1995, and we knew nothing about grapevines. Fortunately, our neighbours, Maria and Mateo, agreed to tend the vines for a year for part of the crop. After that, we were on our own.
Shortly after Maria and Mateo stopped tending the grapes, I had a phone call from Anders Nyborg, a silver-haired Danish artist and sculptor. Sandy had known him for some time, I met him later while having dinner at the restaurant Sa Farinera. An expensive bottle of Tondonia Rioja appeared on our table, the waiter pointed to where Anders, at another table with friends, was saluting us with a glass. I liked him instantly, and we became great friends.
Anders had phoned me because of a problem with his burglar alarm. After meandering through fields of vegetables and potatoes, in a beautiful valley near S’horta, I came to his stone farmhouse covered in crimson and purple bougainvillaea, pale blue plumbago and red hibiscus, beneath Castillo de Santueri. On a nearby hill is the futuristic house of his friend Jørn Utzon, the Danish architect who designed the Sydney Opera house. I found Anders fiddling with a gas cylinder and a copper contraption. Initially, I thought he was creating a sculptural masterpiece, but on closer inspection, I saw a tube delivering a drip of clear liquid into a graduated chemistry jar. Being from an Irish background, it needed no explanation, Anders was distilling moonshine grappa made with the fermented skins of recently pressed grapes from his vineyard. He offered me some.
“Isn’t this illegal?” I said, taking a sip.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
After sampling sufficient brew to vouch for its quality, and still being in possession of my sight, I took a look at his alarm. After replacing the batteries in the PIR detectors, he gave me a tour of his bootleg operation. We took a bottle to his vineyard and sat in the sun discussing our respective ventures. I told him of the loss of our vine workers. He went off and returned with a Spanish book with diagrams showing the do’s and don’ts of vine care. Later he copied and gave me the pages I needed to prepare the vines in the coming February. I left him, a little wobbly, clutching the means of our salvation to my breast.
The island slipped into winter. Hardier tourists could still be found in summer clothes at Felanitx market, conspicuous as inter-galactic time travellers infiltrating the Mallorcans wrapped in scarves and overcoats. In November, the air was scented with smoke from log-burning fires, and our wood was full of wild mushrooms, but not knowing which ones were poisonous, we daren’t eat them.
San Antoni and the grape picking volunteers: Winter fiestas in Mallorca are a great time to meet friends and catch up on the years events. My favourite is San Antoni on January 17. At midday, people take their pets to the church to be blessed. Bringing together cats, dogs, rabbits, goats, donkeys and the odd duck or reptile creates pandemonium. After this, there is a parade of floats with children in traditional dress portraying various pastoral activities and scenes with live sheep, goats, chickens and pigs. There are floats with religious themes of saints and martyrdom, invariably there is a pregnant nun somewhere in the procession. Jaime, our freelance tractor driver, particularly favours a black habit, dark stockings and suspenders. As a prelude to the blessing, there is a gathering in Es Carritxó the night before, and a huge fire is lit in front of the church. When the fire burns down, the embers are raked into piles. Free wine, hot chocolate, bread, and meat for cooking on the fires is supplied for a communal barbecue. The main Cala D’or route runs through Es Carritxó, most drivers avoid the village on the night of San Antoni, never the less, police are deployed to turn back anyone who harbours ideas that they might have a right to use the public highway.
Sandy and I are invited to Catalina’s house each year for a private celebration of her late husband’s Saints Day. She is a lovely, tiny lady who lives in Es Carritxó, but she also has a farmhouse opposite ours in Son Barcelo. Antonio was a wonderful man, he always looked after us, pruning our trees and keeping us abreast of the village gossip. He wouldn’t accept money for his work, so we always gave him a good bottle of brandy. One day he dropped dead in his field. We covered him with a purple blanket while waiting for the coroner. When Catalina arrived, she said it was the colour for a king, which was fitting because Antonio was her king.
Back on the crowded street, it became difficult to move and meeting friends for a chat turned into a random event. An ad hock band, with Jaime the pregnant nun disguised as a lute-playing farmer, was bashing out music for traditional dancers in local costumes. Soon others were caught up in the excitement, children and young couples moved in, and old couples revived their youth with lively whirling steps. Some foreign residents, who had practised, joined in. Other revellers, not so skilled, also got involved, but no one cared as long as they didn’t endanger the lives of other dancers.
It was under these conditions of fiesta and celebration that a solution to our vine pruning problem presented itself. Between the church and a large house is a lane that provides shelter from the cold night breeze. For some reason, the foreign members of the community gravitate to this area. Sandy and I arrived late from Catalina’s. Silhouetted by glowing embers and veiled in swirling smoke and showers of sparks was a gathering of people cooking on small fires. As they rummaged through glowing ash to retrieve chard meat and sausages, one group beckoned us over to join them. We recognised Ralph the English plumber and his girlfriend Sara, and two young lads who we had seen before, Seán was Irish and Mike English. All four were working renovating a farmhouse belonging to an Irish builder from London called Jerry. That house was Sandy’s first property sale for a local farmer who wanted the money to send his daughter to university to study industrial engineering. We huddled around the fire and shared wine and cindered sausages, our eyes streaming tears from the acrid smoke. Later, we were joined by an English couple, John and Maureen, who owned the charter boat Vita Bel in Cala D’or. I knew them as I had repaired their auto pilot the previous year. As the crowd thinned and drifted home, the lane became a chilly place, so we retired to the village bar. The bar was crowded and warm from an open log fire. We got a table in a corner and settled down amid the din that accompanies any meeting of Mallorcan farmers at fiesta time. Drinks flowed, and the conversation turned to the problem of pruning our vines. More alcohol was consumed and, assisted by an offer to provide food, wine and beer in abundance on the day, a consensus was reached that the vines would be cut in a joint Anglo-Irish effort of national cooperation.
There was one problem! No one had the faintest idea of how to prune a grapevine.
I would make further copies of Anders’ instruction sheets, and before we set to work, we would have a communal teach-in. To seal the deal, I bought a round of drinks and realised I would have to remind everyone of their commitment to the enterprise after the fiesta. Never-the-less they had accepted the King’s shilling, the matter was settled. The date was set for the last Sunday in February.