Croatia: Four old men and a grapevine

 At 3 am even the searing summer months of Croatia are chilly. Rolling over, I wanted to throw my alarm at the wall and keep sleeping – at least till the sun rose. Then I remembered what day it was. It was grape picking day! I rose quietly, quickly dress and headed out into the courtyard and the unknown. I had been in Split for a few days, relaxing and enjoying Croatia before moving on, wishing I could spend some more time here. After befriending the wonderful Ladybird who runs The Beach Hostel situated right by Split’s only sandy beach, I met the landlord – an avid wine enthusiast, who enthusiastically taught me the ins and outs of the winemaking process. This involved very scattered English, many hand gestures and never-ending wine “tasting” with him and his gorgeous wife. And before I knew it, I had become his winemaking apprentice and was invited to head to Hvar to pick the very grapes for next year’s wine. Cultural opportunities like these are rare and are often the experiences you hold onto most. I willingly volunteered.

It was only when fumbling through the dark to make my way to the front of the property, still half asleep, that I realised I had no idea of what I had signed up for. Climbing into the passenger seat of the car, we were off, speeding through the streets of Split not stopping for a single light. He explained that for the day, I was his daughter and we were going to “pick up his friends.” I glanced around, curious to know where they would be sitting in the two-seated van. Only 3:15 am and his friend, also hyperactive at this hour, jumped his way into the back of the van and we sped to the harbour to catch the first ferry to Hvar. Whilst in queue to board the ferry, my Croatian Dad for the Day jumped out, handed his friend two tickets and jumped in the back with another figure who appeared out of the darkness.

This is when I realised we were smuggling people across and the expected panicked thoughts of what have I signed up to? slugged me. Are they going to murder me and throw me in an isolated part of the island? You know, the usual fears that modern day media instil in us all. I deep breathed: inhale, exhale, as we went through the checkpoint and boarded. My 3 new companions all jumped out nimbly with more energy in their late 60s – early 70s than I have in my early 20s. In awe I followed them up out of the garage and into the lounge for the crossing.

Once arriving in Hvar, we set off again at the speed of light through narrow windy roads in the opposite direction to Hvar Town where I had visited the week before. We passed one small village after the other with large churches dominating the villages’ profiles. As the roads got narrower and windier we headed into a village, pulling up outside a small shack with another fellow grape picker for the day – the owner. With a massive language barrier, we made our way to the vineyard overlooking a bay and other small villages and set off with our buckets and bags. Several hours later, after the last grape was picked, we were done. Or so I thought. We piled into the van with 24 large bags overflowing with fresh delicious grapes. Homeward bound, I thought.  However 10 minutes later we were at another field and out we all piled back into the routine of hold, snip, throw. My companions never stopped chatting, singing or laughing. I couldn’t understand a word but I enjoyed every minute, even with the back-breaking work of 8 hours almost straight picking with a 15-minute lunch break of the most mouth-watering fresh bread, meats and cheeses.

Second field cleared and the sun began to tilt lower in the sky. Again, I am deceived into thinking we were going home but we pulled up at another small vineyard. My companions dashed out, knowing time is of the essence if we are to get all the grapes and make the last ferry back to Split. I joined the group, exhausted. My section was pointed out and I tried to keep up with my old friends. Finally, dusk ass upon us and we’re done. In total 11 hours and 53 minutes of grape picking resulting in 54 large bags of white, red and black grapes. Back at the house we dropped off two and then again it was a high-speed dash to the harbour, making the ferry with 20 minutes to spare and time for a well-deserved drink.

Craving the comfort of bed and a pillow, I was invited to go to my Croatian “Dad’s” friend’s house to try his award-winning wine and see a larger home winemaking operation. And of course to have a few drinks with their wives. Finally, at 1am the next day, I crawled into bed and it dawned on me I had entered my last day in Croatia.