CHAPTER XXIX.
ON VITICULTURE IN SPAIN AND PORTUGAL
It is a pleasant contrast in the blazing month of July, when one passes from the parched stubbles of the corn-land, or the arid half-shade of the olivar, and enters upon the green luxuriance of the vineyard. Eye and mind are refreshed by that broad expanse of spreading vines clothing hill and valley with their close-set trailing verdure.
Before us stands the somewhat pretentious gateway in the fence of prickly-pear which surrounds the property—a handsome wrought-iron lattice gate swung on stone pillars which bear the inscription "Nuestra Señora de Piedad,—de Caridad," "Cruz Santa," or some such title. Passing through, one walks waist-deep along a narrow pathway amidst green vines. No need to ask which is Nature's most favoured plant in this sunny land. Stand on one of the Jerez hills at this season and look across the districts of the Marcharnudo or Carrascal and see the triumph of the vine. All other vegetation pants beneath the pitiless sun; tree, shrub, and bush droop withered and lifeless; the grass and wild-flowers have disappeared from off the face of the calcined earth, not a blossom remains; the bees have lost their employment, and already their persecutors, the Bee-eaters, are departing for less torrid regions. Yet all around lie thousands of acres of vines in the full exuberance of life and vigour, drinking in growth and increase from the very rays that are fatal to all beside. Vine roots reach down very great depths into the earth—often twenty feet and more, the tap-roots threading their way through the slightest cracks or cleavages of what appears solid rock, thickening out again as they reach a wider fissure of "fatter" soil, as may be seen in road or railway-cuttings.
Nothing can be a greater contrast than the appearance of the vines at Christmas or in January when not even a branch survives, each vine then being cut back, till nothing remains but a gnarled, knobby stump some two feet high, limbless and lifeless. The vineyards then assume a barren hungry look, a grey expanse studded with rows of the inanimate stocks.
During early spring much care and labour are devoted to the vineyards. The soil around each vine is drawn back with hoes and small adze-shaped spades, the blades of which are turned inwards, till the plant stands in the centre of a hollowed square, the heaped-up earth around serving to catch and direct the moisture towards its roots. For a time the vineyards resemble huge chess-boards, till in April the spreading tendrils and bright green leaves once more hide the face of the earth from view.
The workmen who are employed upon these operations have assigned to them a large barn-like room on the ground-floor of the casa de viñas, destitute of any semblance of furniture or fittings. In this they cook their pucheros, smoke infinite cigarettes, and when times are peaceful, wind up the day with a few touches on the guitar and weird Andalucian melodies; but during the troublous periods of anarchy and discontent so frequent in unhappy Spain, politics supplant music and fierce discussions rage far into the night. Well do we remember the violence of these disputes during the mano negra fever, and earlier, in the spring of 1872, when living at a vineyard with only a floor between us and the peasant politicians. Amidst the babel of contending voices one heard perpetually bandied about the names of Zorilla, Castelar, Sagasta, and others of the haute politique of Spain. The lot of the Spanish labourer is none of the happiest, certainly; but it may be doubted if they will mend it by argument and wordy warfare any more than by force. Poor fellows! they are the raw material which the high-falutin' scoundrels who promote rebellions by popular "cries" and pronunciamentos use for their own ends, and then abandon to the bullets of guardas civiles or the sabres of the cavalry. But, good times or bad, the guitar or the revolutionary rag—whichever it may be—are at length laid aside, they stretch themselves in rows on their grass-woven mats, like sardines in a keg, and in sleep the troubled spirits are at rest.
The vineyards, some of which (especially those in the Cañaleja, Badalejo, and Caulina districts) have pedigrees that can be traced back for upwards of six hundred years, are mostly interspersed with fields of corn and groves of olive-trees, and intersected by sandy roads bordered with hedges of cane and cactus. Occasional avenues lead to picturesque villas embowered in flowering shrubs and trees, among which the adelfa, or rose-laurel, the acacia, eucalyptus and cypress are conspicuous. The hill-tops are generally crowned with snow-white casas de viñas, and among the vines there rise little huts of esparto called bien-te-veos, perched on four tall aloe-poles. These are the look-outs for the guards who, armed with old-fashioned fire-locks, keep watch and ward over the ripening grapes and grain.
The scene around Jerez at vintage time is a busy and picturesque one—the narrow sandy lanes alive with gaudily-trapped mules bearing panniers of grapes to the wine-presses, and creaking bullock-carts conveying newly-pressed "must" to the Jerez bodegas. The vineyards themselves are thronged with vintagers—all of the male sex, for in Andalucia woman's right to take any part is altogether ignored.
The vintagers work in gangs of ten, each under the direction of a capatáz, dexterously lopping off the bunches of grapes with their ever-ready navajas, or bowie knives. The bunches are thrown into "tinetas," square wooden boxes, each holding some twenty-five pounds of grapes. As these are filled the men hoist them on their heads and march off to the almijar or court adjoining the presshouse. Here, after all blighted and decayed grapes are removed, they are then spread out to dry in the sun, and remain thus exposed for from one to three days, when they are ready for the press.