The smiling bunch

Sicily, where you rediscover that mysterious spark of human creativity, something increasingly rare; where what is still deeply human suddenly comes alive before you.

South of the South, on that island immersed in blue. Warm as the sun that caresses it.

Sicily makes you lose your head and your heart. It wraps you in its scents and nourishes you with its food. And you realise that, with every step you take, you leave a piece of yourself behind.

The immensity and endlessness of landscapes your eyes can never quite take in seep into you, filling you with emotion, until sometimes you simply want to shout for joy.

Sicily, a land of warm souls, where a deep gaze is enough to give you a smile.

And bread. The dark kind. And schiacciata with sesame seeds, to dip into Alcamo pesto, fragrant with mint.

Sicily: the earth, the sky and the sun, and between them, the vineyards.

And the winemakers.

The Viola winemakers, and Aldo Viola.

Viola, like the colour of their wine.

Their joy and their toil.

Not life and work. Lifeandwork, merging into one.

You breathe with the vineyard. You rise with it at sunrise and leave it beneath a crimson sunset. You talk to the wind as it brushes the trees, and you talk to the vines.

Aldo calls them “my boys.”

Some are young and need to be led by the hand; others are old and bent, tended and raised with the wisdom of their winemaker...

They return that love with abundance, heavy with bunches of grapes entwining among the leaves and around one another. Sometimes a bunch is so large you cannot hold it in one hand.

And when you feel their nectar running through your fingers, you are wrapped in warmth and fragrance, intoxicating you even before it becomes must.

You cannot resist biting into that bunch. Not one grape, but many. You want them all at once. Your palate is never satisfied...

“How do we harvest them?” we ask.

“It’s simple,” the winemaker replies. “You pick the bunch that smiles.”

And yes, the bunch smiles.

And the people smile as they harvest.

Around us, old farmhouses fade into the distance, scattered across the hills, with only a few trees here and there...

The winemaker tells us:

“There aren’t many trees here... Trees were planted to provide shade for the landowners. But here, the winemaker worked alongside his labourers. He never rested, and he didn’t plant trees because he had no time to sit in the shade.”

To enter quietly and become part of a grape harvest is a great honour.

You step into a world of its own.

As you walk between the rows of vines, you can hear the bunches calling to you... You pick them one after another, and just when you think you have gathered everything from the vine, there it is: another bunch smiling at you.

And you say:

“Where did you come from, you mischievous little bunch?”

And the winemaker replies:

“You just have to look at the vine from another point of view.”

And then comes the dance of wine...

Once the harvest is over, the grapes must be destemmed, one by one, by hand, then placed in the vat and crushed beneath your feet...

Just as they once were.

And it becomes a celebration.

The natural starter is created just as nature gives it to us. And only then do you understand why that must can intoxicate you so deeply that you almost feel drunk; why every trace of its aromas stays with you — aromas drawn from the nature that gave birth to it and nourished it, under the watchful eye of its winemaker.

And you can smell the earth, the sun, the grass, eucalyptus, wild berries and roses...

You look at your hands, stained completely black, and feel proud to have belonged, even for a little while, to a world of hard work that gives so much in return.

Waiting for that vintage wine, to be drunk together, steeped in the joy and love of everyone who was part of its making.

And I end, as if this were a story:

I give thanks to life.

Because when life decides to give you a gift, magic happens between people who have met somewhere between earth and sky, among the Viola vineyards.

And I will keep dancing to the notes of the wine I will carry inside me.

There will be another reason to celebrate, with a Chicco di Syrah, picked at Feudo Guarini, from Aldo Viola — who, like all dreamers, will follow his dream, his ideal, because this is his calling.

Aldo, never give up.

Because your bunches will always smile.

A special thank you to Don Angelino and his wife.