Vineyard at Son Bennassar (Episode 2)
Start of 1997: As the vine cutting day approached, we conscripted a few more volunteers. John and Daphne Hadland, both expert gardeners. Rosemary, a German lady, offered help when she heard the plan. Gary, an English gardener, with a good supply of secateurs, found himself volunteered, and David from near Cas Concos, who had lived in France offered his experience. Before the start day, I contacted the original gang of six to remind them of their obligations and found them all still enthusiastic. Anders was back in Denmark, but he was with us in spirit, and his pamphlet was made available for the faithful. It might seem strange we didn’t enlist our Mallorcan friends to help, but we felt it was important to show them we were capable of tending the vines ourselves.
The night before the cut, I ordered twenty-five long bread loaves for the morning. I purchased an 80cm flat paella pan, plastic cups, and a large quantity of beer, wine, soft drinks and fruit juice.
I took the supplies home, then loaded my old car with the paella pan, concrete blocks, some steel reinforcing rods and went to the vineyard, arriving a little before sunset. Between the two areas of vines was a strip of land with almond and apricot trees, and it was there that I set up a cooking area for the next day with the blocks and steel rods. I tried the paella pan on the structure and satisfied with the cooking facilities, I collected fallen branches and twigs for kindling. When I had a pile of fuel sufficient for the next day, I sat a while watching the sun disappear in a blaze of red and gold behind the old farmhouse and windmill at the end of the lane, then I put the paella pan into the car and went home.
Sunday morning opened cool with a beautiful turquoise-blue sky, a good omen and a relief as the weather in February is unpredictable, the last thing that we needed was to be rained off on this important day. I went into Felanitx at 08:00, parked the car and walked to the market hall behind the church. When I arrived, the hall was almost empty, the cavernous space echoed with the clatter of dropped boxes and the banter of stall holders as they set up their stands.
I made my way to the wet fish counter which was run by a mother and her daughter, a pretty young girl who had been at school with our son Rohan. As I approached the stall, I caught myself humming the air to Molly Malone, I abruptly stopped when I realised what I was doing, but I doubt they would have understood the association with the Irish melody.
Looking at the piles of fish, I saw the fresh sardines that I had come for, not the small things you find crammed into a tin, these plump silvery fish were up to 25cm in length. I asked the girl if she would clean five kilos for me, and told her I would return to pick them up before one o’clock. She didn’t want the money then, but I paid anyway, it was one less thing to worry about. That was the lunch, now I had to sort out the evening meal, I had decided to make paella. The fish stall didn’t sell shellfish, so I went to the supermarket for mussels, octopus, prawns and clams, and picked up the bread that I had ordered the night before.
Back at Cana Cavea, the volunteers had arrived. We loaded the cars with eating utensils, bread, and cold boxes with drinks and salads, and a collection of various types of secateurs, and made our way in convoy the 3Km to Son Bennassar. We parked the cars under the apricot and almond trees to shade them from the winter sun that had risen in a clear blue sky. Bacchus, the god of wine, was looking favourably on us. Some workers needed no introduction to their task, while novices like Seán, Mike and myself had to familiarise ourselves with the vines awaiting major surgery.
The vines stood in rows, old knobbly stumps with a tangle of spindly twigs, the remains of the previous year’s growth. They looked dead, and it was difficult to see how this forlorn presentation of plant life could ever yield fruit. However, on closer inspection, small green buds could be seen on the dry twigs, the sap was rising, and regeneration was underway. If no action were taken, these dead looking stumps would turn into an anarchy of bushes fighting for space, turning the vineyard into an impenetrable thicket.
Anders’ pruning instructions were distributed, and like a group of devout believers, we stood heads bowed reading the sacred words. To Francisco, driving home after visiting his land further up the hill, it must have looked as if we were calling upon divine intervention, and only natural if we had burst into hymn. Normally, he would have tooted his horn and waved or stopped for a chat. On this occasion he passed in silence, eyes averted so as not to disturb the solemn gathering.
The pruning instructions were relatively simple, you had to count up three buds from the base of each branch and then cut through the bud directly above them. There were more advanced techniques described in the instructions, but we decided a simple approach would be best. It was too late now for reservations, workers were allocated their rows, and the work commenced.
About 11:30, Bruno emerged from the farmhouse he rented on the other side of the track to investigate the activity in the vineyard. Like a benevolent Mussolini the short, stocky, bald-headed eccentric Florentine strode between the vines. Full of joy, with flourishes and gesticulations, he administered words of encouragement in Italian to the workers. Bruno told me that it warmed his heart to see so much honest labour in progress. He was off to the market, but on his return, he would cook us all some wonderful erotic spaghettis. Not sure what erotic spaghettis were, I explained we already had arranged lunch, but we would be happy if he could join us during the meal break when he returned from the market.
It was a pleasantly warm day, not like the oppressive heat of August. Each person had about six, fifty metre long rows to cut, and the work progressed well. I spent my time between pruning and distributing liquid refreshments; Sean and Mike being particularly demanding clients.
By 12:30, we were halfway finished, and I headed off to pick up the fish. I returned with two shopping bags of sardines and started a fire of twigs that crackled and sparked under our makeshift grill. Once the larger logs had settled into a heap of glowing cinders, I began frying the sardines in golden olive oil. As Sandy and I cut the bread and spread out bowls of salads and olives, the others drifted in from the vines, enticed by the aroma of fresh fried fish carried on smouldering apricot wood smoke in the still air. We spread out blankets and popped the corks of chilled bottles of sparkling cava, and settled down to a well-deserved lunch. Under a blue sky beneath the monastery of San Salvador, we presented a scene of pastoral tranquillity.
After lunch, pleasantly drowsy from the food, wine and the morning’s work, we stretched out on the blankets for a siesta in the warm afternoon sun. Refreshed, we restarted the work determined to finish before the sunset. By 17:00 we were finished, we made neat piles of the cuttings at the end of each row and generally cleared up. The vines stood like dejected dead stumps in the dusk light, it was hard to see how they could ever produce fruit again. Just before sunset, weary but happy with our achievement, we made our way to Bruno’s house for coffee, almond biscuits and reviving brandy.
It was dark when we got back home to Cana Cavea. I started cooking the paella, while the others cut bread and prepared salads. Wine was opened, and with music playing the vine cutting party got underway.
The party went on into the night until people started drifting off home, leaving us with just Mike and Seán who, overcome by the day’s events, were put to bed in Cana Cavea. They stayed for breakfast and lunch and finally left for home late Monday evening.
And that is how the vines of Son Bennassar were cut.