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.

The long wooden troughs, or _lagares_, having been partially filled with grapes, a couple of swarthy bare-legged fellows in striped shirts, and leathern shoes studded with broad-headed nails, jump into each _lagar_ and, after spreading out the bunches, commence footing it ankle-deep among the crushed fruit, while the juice pours forth through spouts into casks placed to receive it. The men dance with a rapid swaying movement which is held to express the juice from the grapes in a more satisfactory manner than can be accomplished by any known mechanical appliance.

After being trodden, the grapes are finally subjected to the action of a screw, which is fixed over the centre of each _lagar_. The pile of half-crushed fruit is enclosed in a band of esparto-matting, and the handles of the screw being turned, a wooden slab descends, and the remaining juice pours forth through the interstices of the esparto, and is collected in the butts beneath. These casks, as filled, are hoisted upon bullock-carts, and sent jolting away to the Jerez bodegas.

The _vindimia_, or vintage, is always an animated scene, whether on the gently undulating vine lands of Andalucia, or in Portugal, on the steep terraced slopes of the mountains which shut in the wild Alto Douro. Afar across those Lusitanian glens resound the musical chant and characteristic sing-song ditties of the Gallegan peasantry--like _cicadas_, they sing and answer each other from hill to hill the livelong day, the happy, despised, bond-slaves of the Peninsula, who, at vintage-time, flock from their rude barren province of Galicia to revel in abundance in the Alto Douro on a couple of testoons, say, tenpence a day, supplemented by an allowance of oil, a few salted sardines, rice, and stock-fish, and of _broa_, or maize-bread, and the accommodation of mother-earth to sleep upon, with a roof overhead through which the star-light and the silvery rays of the harvest moon gleam in at a hundred chinks and crevices. A happy lot, these Gallegans, happy in the possession of content, happier far than their more impulsive brethren, the socialistic peasants of Andalucia, of whom we have just spoken.

PORTUGAL.--THE VINTAGE IN THE ALTO DOURO.

Fain would we pause here for a few moments among those rugged hills of the Douro, amidst which, long ago, we first witnessed the spectacle of _vindimia_--a sight which has left a deep and pleasing impression. Everywhere on the terraced slopes are scattered groups of vintagers, whose not unmusical voices fill the still air. Heavy bullock-carts go creaking discordantly up and down the dry boulder-strewn gullies which serve as roads; droves of nimble little donkeys, with pig-skins full of wine strapped across their backs, or bringing bread for the people employed in the vineyards, wend their way along zig-zag bridle-paths; farmers with wine-samples and pedlars with their packs on mules, equipped with jingling bells, jog leisurely along the mountain roads; groups of buxom women, with bright-coloured kerchiefs tied over unkempt tresses, and bare brown legs, dexterously detach the bunches and fill them into baskets, the men meanwhile lazily smoking under the shade of some olive-tree till their burdens are ready. Along the mountain-paths file strings of sturdy Gallegans,[62] each bearing upon his shoulders a huge basket (_jigo_), crammed with grapes. The _jigo_ weighs nearly a hundredweight, and the shoulders of the bearer are protected by a woolly sheep-skin. These burdens they bear to the _lagares_, where, when the great stone trough is filled, a gang of men step in and commence a sort of devil's dance, treading out the rich juice, which, after many hours' fermentation, pours in purple streams to the _tonels_ below.

Within the sombre shade of the _lagares_ that strange dance proceeds, at first briskly, amid laughter and song, to the squeaking notes of fiddle and guitar, the rattle of drum, and the chaff of the women who gather round the open verandas; but as the hours roll by and the air grows heavy with the exhalations of fermenting "must," the work begins to tell, and the treaders, all bespattered with purple juice, move slowly and listlessly. In vain the fiddle strikes up anew, the fife squeaks, the guitar tinkles, and overseers upbraid. After some eighteen hours of this tread-mill exercise in an atmosphere charged with soporific influences, music has lost its charm, and authority its terror. The men, by this time almost dead-beat, languidly raise first one purple leg and then the other, working on far into the watches of the night. Thus has wine been made since before Homeric times.

The wine district of the Alto Douro, whence comes our port wine, is a singular region, extending some thirty miles along either bank of the river, but chiefly on the north side, in the province of Traz-os-Montes, and having a varying width of five to ten miles. The whole _paiz vinhateiro_ consists of grey and arid-looking mountain-sides, divided by deep gullies and ravines, and all so steep that their soil of friable mica-schist, more like bits of broken slate than fertile earth, can only be cultivated by means of terraces roughly built up, tier above tier. Mountain after mountain has its sides thus scored with terraced lines like Cyclopean staircases, and on particular slopes as many as 150 may be counted rising one above another, the effect of which is most peculiar. Here and there a gleaming white _casa_, with its grove of orange and cypress-trees; or a water-mill, shaded by oaks and chestnuts, breaks the monotony of the landscape. Below, the yellow Douro courses swiftly, bearing picturesque boats, high-prowed and long-hulled, impelled by a white cloud of sail, and steered by a huge oar worked from a pivot in the stern-post, while far above the zone of vineyards rise mountain peaks in jagged outline.

Grapes are growing by the wayside, hanging from every crag or tree to which a vine can attach its tendrils, and, perhaps most picturesque of all, from the _ramadas_ or trellises. These _ramadas_ roof in the courtyard of cottage or farm, and even span the village street. As one rides through the hamlets which nestle in the valleys of the Douro, the heavy purple clusters, six or eight pounds in weight, hang temptingly just overhead--temptingly to the stranger to raise his parched lips and snatch a mouthful of the juicy spheres. Partridges, too, appreciate the luxury of a grape-feast, and in the evening, at this season (September and October), their call-note is ubiquitous. But it is terrible work to follow them amidst the tangled vines and crumbling terraces under the fierce afternoon sun; and a better chance of sport will be found at mid-day on the heather-clad ridges above. Thither, after their morning feed, they retire to enjoy a siesta, and with the aid of a good dog will afford excellent sport till towards 4 P.M., when they return to the lower grounds. There is a cooler breeze on these heights, and a superb panorama of the wildest region of Lusitania, bounded by the Serras do Gerez and Marão and the highlands of Traz-os-Montes. There handsome Swallowtails (_Papilio machæon_) curvette around on powerful wing, and among the shaggy heather, rocks, and rough straggling woods, one may chance upon a slumbering wolf, the _bête noir_ in the winter of the Douro goatherd; though nothing ever fell in the writer's way more formidable than a black fox, for the destruction of which was awarded the premium fixed by law--300 reis, fifteen pence! It is a land of insects, from the singular mantis and merry grasshoppers of many hues, to the scorpion, and centipedes of enormous size. As evening falls the air rings--the earth seems to vibrate--with the rattle of mole-crickets and cicadas, and the gentle tinkle of the tree-frog: glowworms sparkle on each dark slope, and by the feeble light of fire-flies we have to pick a devious way along miles of broken rock and hanging thicket, by what in Portugal passes for a bridle-path.

Twenty years ago the Alto Douro could only be reached on horseback, crossing the Serra do Marão by the Pass of Quintella. A pleasant ride it was, nevertheless, in September, by Cazaes, traversing the valley of the Tamega to Amarante, famed for its peaches and "vinho verde" (green wine, so rough as to bring tears to one's eyes); thence up the slopes of the Marão, and through the granite defiles of Quintella, which look down upon Pezo da Regoa and the valley of the Corgo. It was here--in the _Baixo Corgo_--that the port wines of three generations ago were vintaged; now all the most valued growths come from further east, beyond the Corgo (Cima Corgo).

The return journey in those days (now there is a railway) was by boat, down the Douro, seventy miles, which was accomplished in one long day. Hour after hour we glide down the rapid current, through green vineyards, all resonant with the long-drawn songs of the vintagers. Now the cliffs close in, and we pass through a gorge, whose sides rise a thousand feet sheer from the water, overgrown with masses of broom, heath, gorse, and a variety of evergreen shrubs wherever a ledge or cranny afford hold for their roots. Gigantic aloes with broad spiked blades and towering stalks stud the rocky declivities, and the cactus, wild fig, and other sub-tropical forms of plant-life lend character to the scenery. Amidst these crags a pair or two of the handsome black and white Neophrons may generally be seen.

Dangerous during times of flood are the snag-set rapids of the Douro, as many a little cross or inscription, cut on the impending rocks, bears witness. That rude mark indicates the spot where some poor fellow has lost his life, perhaps a whole boat's crew; and our men, as we pass each memorial tablet, remove their hats and cross themselves with simple piety.

At intervals we pass picturesque cargo-boats, upward bound, and laboriously making their way against the current, motive power being supplied by a gang of watermen hauling on a tow-rope ashore. Where the path becomes precipitous, one sees the string of bare-legged men walking, as it were, down perpendicular rock faces like flies on a wall, each hanging on by the sustaining rope. As already mentioned, there is now-a-days a railway to the Upper Douro, and much of the picturesque river life of twenty years ago is a thing of the past.

SPAIN.--THE VINTAGE IN ANDALUCIA--(CONTINUED).

But we have wandered far from our original subject, and must now leave Portugal, and return to the Andalucian vintage. We are not going to enter into the technical details of wine manufacture, which have been fully described in special treatises; suffice it here to say that from the wine-press, the _must_ (or juice) is run direct into casks placed beneath, and in which, almost as soon as made, the process of fermentation begins. In this state the young wines are removed on bullock-carts to the bodegas of Jerez, or San Lucar, and there remain till January, when fermentation is complete; the wine is then placed in clean casks, and so left to mature. The contents of each cask, however, are kept distinct and separate--that is the wine-juice that ran from the _lagar_ into one cask is not mixed or blended with another.

And now follows one of the most curious circumstances known in oenology. The wines thus made--the uniform produce, be it repeated, of a single vineyard, gathered the same day, pressed in the same _lagar_, and subjected to identical treatment--develope wholly different characters and qualities. Some of the casks prove to be wines of the highest grade and value; others indifferent, some coarse, and some even vinegar. Then amongst those casks which have developed into the wines styled in Jerez _finos_ (_i.e._, soft, dry, and delicate, with a fresh, pungent flavour), there is found here and there one which has acquired the rare and highly valued _amontillado_ character.

This singular inequality in development appears to be merely a matter of chance--of caprice in fermentation; and is quite inexplicable and uncontrolled by any known laws or causes. Some years ago an attempt was made to bring the light of modern science to bear on the old rule-of-thumb methods of "rearing" sherry. An English scientist of high standing essayed the task of assuring an approximately equal development of all the wines grown in one year and one vineyard. The result, however, was unsuccessful; or if an approximate level was attained it was, unfortunately, the level of mediocrity, or worse; the wines operated upon were destroyed, and the savant left Spain under a cloud.

Although the vine is almost ubiquitous throughout the south of Spain, and the production of wine practically unlimited, yet there are only two districts which yield the specific wine entitled _sherry_. These two districts are the amphitheatre of hills which surround the city of Jerez de la Frontera, and a small area of 1,500 acres in Montilla called Moriles. It must also be remembered that there are differences in the grape as well as in the soil. The vine has several distinct natural species, as distinguished from mere varieties (whether artificial or climatic), and the character of wine is largely dependent on the vine producing it. Vast quantities of wine are grown in adjacent districts, good genuine wines, sound and wholesome, but the two localities named stand out in marked prominence. The area of the choice _vignobles_ around Jerez is some 12,000 acres, divisible into four classes according to geological formation.[63] The average yield of the fine vineyards being two and a half butts per acre, it follows that the total annual production of first-class sherry is some 35,000 butts, or thereabouts.

In addition to the above quantity, there are also grown, as above stated, large quantities of wine in the adjoining districts. These, though pure and genuine, are but of second rank. From what we have already written, it will be apparent that in this land of the vine (and the same remark applies to Portugal), there is nothing so cheap as the grape. There is therefore no temptation to seek substitutes for this, its commonest product, or to employ other materials in its place.

Viticulture abstracts from the soil a smaller proportion of alkalies and other mineral constituents than either corn or root-crops: hence the exhaustion of the soil is slower and the vine can be cultivated on land incapable of yielding any other crop. An acre of vines on sandy soil will cost but one-half the money to cultivate, and yield three times the weight of fruit that an acre of the _afueras_ will produce.[64] It is a curious fact that these sandy soils never yield, even phenomenally, a cask of fine wine. These better wines require years of keeping to attain the perfect development of maturity, while the others, being of a lighter description, are as good at first as they ever will be, although in appearance and flavour the grapes of the sandy soil may even seem the best. These facts serve to explain the difference in cost which must exist between the produce of the two classes of vineyard.

So much for the wines of Jerez; but sherry, though in British eyes it looms the largest amongst the wines of Spain, and is, in fact, of the greatest intrinsic value, yet represents a mere drop in the ocean as compared with the whole produce of the land. Spain overflows with wine. Hardly a village but has its vineyards and its vintage-time, when the very earth becomes encarnadined, and when the chief care of the peasantry is rather to find casks, goat-skins, or other receptacles wherein to store their redundant crop, than wine to fill them withal. In traversing many a hundred dusty leagues of the wildest parts of Spain, we seldom failed to replenish our wine-skins with good, rough, red _vino del pais_, grown on some neighbouring slope; racy of the soil, refreshing, and delicious after hard work under a torrid sun, and at an average price of two pesetas the arroba, or about one-third the price of "small beer"!

One soon grows to like and appreciate these rough red wines of Northern and Central Spain, whose generous fulness and refreshing asperity are so requisite in this hot land. After a course of several months of the Riojas and Valdepeñas of Spain, how thin tastes that first bottle of the Bordelais--price two francs--at the breakfast-buffet of Hendaye!