Middle of August, in the heart of Summer, while the sun sinks into the sea and the sky turns red, the shimmering light shines into the basement which is filled with baskets overflowing with grapes.
Brothers and sisters with trousers rolled-up to their knees, holding hands in a circle, pressing the grapes with their own feet, are following a rhythmic motion, as if they’re dancing. The first drops of juice drip slowly into the pod below.
Grandpa stretches out his hand to taste, a wide smile appears at his lips “it has been a good harvest”, he says proudly. Father gets on with the rest to be done, they won’t have finished before the first light of dawn.
This precious memory of our childhood revives every time a bottle of “Sarris” is opened at the table, among friends.