It’s that time of year again when summer slowly gives a little room to autumn, allowing a crispness in the early morning and a mild cool darkening of the evening. Here ,in the street of fields, the house martins are sensing the change in the atmosphere and are frantic in their search for flies. From first light their shadows flick across our shutters as they swoop from the barns across the road to our open windows in the roof. They perch and chatter loudly, the sound echoing down through our stair well so clearly that I am sure they are trapped in the bathroom. I suspect they are discussing the quality of the local food and preparing their imminent route down south. Since the spring they have been training their young how to swoop and soar from our balcony and window sills, the babies losing their soft down as they fatten up to become the sleek aeronauts we enjoy so much.
And it is
that season when all good Luxembourgers turn their attention to the local
harvest. The summer has been spent bringing in the hay, letting the calves
gallop out into the fields and devising ingenious ways of getting together to
cook sausages, chops and, in the case of our local village, haunches of
suckling pig, slow roasted in a contraption designed and engineered by our very
own neighbour. This marvellous machine looked more like an instrument from the
Spanish Inquisition, with its chains and spikes and the hot coals glowing and
flaring at the flesh impaled along its length. It was truly effective, and I
was at last able to use my year’s Luxembourgish study to order boiled potatoes
and salad with the piglet haunch. A proud moment. Folks recognised us from the
previous year, I chatted to a neighbour or two and we were introduced to the
other Brit living in the village, who has lived here since he was married as a
young man to a local lass some 40 years ago.
But I
digress. That was the summer and the village marquee has been taken down, the
benches and tables stored in their own special cupboard in the village hall. I
dare say that the magnificent roaster has been oiled, stripped down and
decommissioned ready for next year.
Now it is
definitely autumn and it is time to think of the next harvest. Wine. The vines
are heavy with glistening swags of grapes, and these last few days of sunshine
will fatten and sweeten them up. To that end we thought that we would join in
some celebrations of the grape in a village not far from home, Schwebsange just
back a bit from the Moselle. The Weinfest has been advertised for weeks on
signs planted carefully on the grass verges. We thought we would saunter along
round about lunch time and sit with the rest of the world enjoying sausage
grills or perhaps a salad with potatoes and we would sample the local wine with
a view to buying a few ready for winter. However, our arrival at midday found a
few stalls set up and ready with pottery displayed carefully along the huge
single beam press that takes pride of place in the centre square. There were
tables and chairs set up under a marquee as we had expected, but the sound man
was still testing the equipment by the fountain newly decorated with ribbons
and bouquets protected by railings.
“Aha” I
thought having done some research. “This must be where they serve the free
wine.”
But
nothing was happening and nothing was heating on the grill. There was no grill.
We were loath to leave because we had an excellent parking place. We opted for
lunch in the Italian Bistro (lasagne for me, Spaghetti Carbonara for Dearly
Beloved, our collective spirit of adventure numbed) and we waited. The meal
arrived about half an hour later. Tout le monde, it seemed, was doing the same
as us, from large family parties with patient grandparents walking toddlers up and down (and in every gathering,
is there not always a child with a squeal that could launch an Exocet?); older
couples, Sunday dressed, the ladies’ jackets just so over their shoulders;
younger couples, chic, thin, self- absorbed, cigarettes and smart phones on the
go for aperitifs and between courses; and there was us, dressed for a street
barbecue and with no clue what was going on or when it would happen. How long we
thought, can we spin out a post prandial cup of coffee?
As we ate,
more folks wandered through the square, admired the fountain and disappeared.
It was not only us, then, who felt that midday would have been a great time to
start. On reflection, I suspect that the battalion of dignitaries were themselves
being fed and watered elsewhere.
The
restaurant cleared away the lunchtime tables. Large groups began to gather, some
to take une coupe or a digestif at the restaurant, others to mill about. They
were,unusually, all clutching a wine glass. One lady had a plastic bag of them
tidily wrapped in tissue paper, enough for each of the noisy band of family and
friends now occupying most of the restaurant terrace. Surely something would
happen imminently? Girls walked past in the ubiquitous National Dress of all
European countries: black fitted waistcoat, white blouse, black dirndl skirt
and black pumps. Is there a National Dress outfitters, discreetly placed in the
forgotten parts of Brussels, Strasbourg and Luxembourg, gently regulating away
any gingham excess, measuring the holes in any lace work, dictating that all
men over the age of 65, if not in a suit, must wear a checked shirt at any semi-
formal event, such as a wine festival? Who knows?
After the
girls, a handful of young musicians wandered past. The party at the next table
finished their drinks, told us that it was all about to start now, assured us
that there would indeed be speeches, wished us a good festival and left to
mingle with the crowds that had now swarmed in as if from nowhere.
The sound
system, hitherto belting out good old fashioned German drinking songs, was
hushed by the band striking up and the dignitaries rolled into view,
comfortable looking chaps with figures and faces honed by years of hard toil,
testing and approving the vintage. The Waikinnigen (wine queens) and their
princesses followed, dressed in robes of white, red and rose. Along with the band
they gathered round the fountain. The speeches did indeed follow. I think, but
was not sure, that the outgoing master of the vines was handing over to his
successor. There were, of course, the long list of thanks, a summing up of the
trials, tribulations and successes of the year past. Then gravely the incoming
master explained how things would be better now, though the price of grapes
would never be enough to maintain a worthy standard of living, but they would
all continue to work cooperatively together to bring the beautiful country of
Luxembourg its health giving nectar. Well, that may have been what they both
said. How would I know? I have only done one year of Luxembourgish, and can
introduce myself, discuss the weather and order three croissants.
But now,
drum roll and crescendo fanfare, the fest was open and the wine could flow
freely. Two buxom girls stood on a plank suspended over the fountain pool, and
cheerfully dispensed a glass of wine to each of the dignitaries, wine queens,
the band and then to the masses. But we had no wine glass. This is Luxembourg
however, and no one should ever be caught out without a wine glass for free
wine when it's on offer. So, Dearly Beloved queued at the special wooden cabin to
buy one, and then queued for the laying on of wine. He has better elbows for
this task than I do, queue being a merely aspirational term for the jolly crush
bearing down towards the fountain.
The wine?
Crisp,dry,acidic and fruity, undeniably local, we have no idea what it was. It
would have been, I am sure, produced from the vines that comb their way down
the hills round the village, along the sides of the houses and around the car
parks. Whilst strips of vines are owned individually, the grapes are harvested
and pressed cooperatively. We were free loading on the fruits of their
endeavours.
I say
free. What I really mean is that we got a glass of wine for the cost of a two
course lunch (about 70 euros) and the cost of a glass (2euros), and three hours
spent wondering if anything would happen, practising our small talk.
Next year,
we shall be splendidly prepared, glass in hand and straight on to the cunning
little parking spot we found behind the church on our way home. And I shall
ensure that DB’s checked shirt is crisply ironed.
A di.
