We had a wine festival yesterday in Glossa village. It may have been the first Glossa Wine Festival. Or maybe not. Nobody was quite sure at the start and by the end no-one was quite sure of anything at all.
There was, apparently, a row at some point. One account – which is no more likely to have any truth in it than any other – has it that the mayor provided money for the festival on the understanding that there would be good Greek wine and live music to encourage dancing in the square. The organisers (allegedly) decided that the most important thing about a wine festival was the wine and that the measure of a good wine was the amount you could buy per euro.
Who knows? But I can report that there was only one wine on offer – a white wine of dubious provenance. It was distributed free and, personally, even at that price it was too expensive. But then I’m not a great lover of white wine – even at a euro per litre, or kilo as they say here.
The festival started at four in the afternoon and by the time we swung by at 8.30, half of the village was enjoying themselves mightily. The music was provided by somebody’s collection of Greek dance music, roughly ripped and compiled on to a precarious stack of CDs on the end of the improvised bar. A song would suddenly stop in the middle to be succeeded, just as suddenly, by another. Which sometimes confused the dancer.
But what the music lacked in presentation, it more than made up for in volume and those present were enthusiastic consumers of the wine and the occasional souvlaki on offer.
Oh, yes, the dancer.
There is a certain point in any local celebration – and this was certainly that – that an old boy (and to be counted old in Glossa you have to be well past 80) will take to the floor with one of those slow, gyratory, men-only Greek dances. One of the features of this genre is occasional great hops from one leg to the other, which is hard enough to do aged thirty and sober and which draw admiring “oopahs” from the assembled company. There is truly something death-defying about this dance.
If there is any truth in the story about the row, I am not surprised.
The other day a friend of mine was talking about the process of putting the boats back in the water after the winter. She is not Greek, although she has lived here for many years. “Why can they not organise themselves”, she asked, “it is always the same chaos every year – all the boats go in the sea at the same time, it is crazy!”
They could, of course, ‘organise themselves’ but my friend is missing the point. These are more than competent sailors – the Aegean can be unforgiving. Many men from Skopelos serve thirty or forty years at sea, some have had command of great vessels. My neighbour is now on the bridge of a huge oil tanker running the gauntlet of pirate alley off the Horn of Africa. They come home to Glossa to retire. To be addressed as Captain here is a mark of respect.
The whole point of doing it all together is just that. It is a celebration of the end of winter, a headcount of those who made it through, a time to make formal recognition that a son has succeeded his father as skipper of the family boat, it ensures that there are plenty of hands to help out and it provides a lot of fun for the harbourside spectators.
The end result is that the boats get put back in the water, but that is not the objective. The objective is the celebration.
Our wine festival may become an annual event with dancers in traditional costume, live music, decorations of grapes and vine leaves and a choice of good local wines. I hope it does. But I can understand the point of view that you just need to provide as much free wine as you can afford and Glossa will celebrate the beginning of the end of summer in fine style.
Let’s talk.
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