I grew up on a farm in California, and the largest crop we grew was grapes. This was the San Joaquin Valley, in the centre of the state, fertile and hot. The grapes were primarily table grapes but if the crop was not up to the quality required, we took them to the winery.
Growing grapes was a livelihood, not a hobby, and I had to help. I drove a tractor. I tied vines. And I picked grapes-extremely unpleasant work in 90-100 degree heat, fighting off flies and bees. I remember my incredulity when, newly arrived at Oxford, I was excitedly told by one of my friends that he was off to Bordeaux to help with the harvest.
I liked going to the winery. When we reached the entry, a man came out and plunged a glass tube into the grapes. He was measuring the sugar level: this dictated the price we would receive. Then we drove into the winery itself, where the back of the truck was tilted and the grapes fell into the receptacle leading to the crusher, where the huge archimedes screw turned round and round as the grapes were mangled and carried off to the fermentation tanks.
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