By Leah Black, 30th November 2024, Ecoinnersense.com
This magical season of letting go is coming to a grandiose close; its colours beaming like flames that lick terracotta cooking pots in a steamy cloud of spiced desert incense. At first, though, greens began turning subtle yellow in early autumnal radiance that pulled me towards the familiar vineyards of Cangas del Narcea and their annual wine festival. People swirling liquid notes in delicate glasses that repeatedly caught early evening rays were grouped in aroma-sniffing noses. But I was drifting off into venerated vineyards smiling at vines, introducing myself to woody characters that may have even met the medieval monks who planted them many a leaf fall ago. I couldn’t help but feel the vines were celebrating the harvest festival too; a vibrant energy of bountiful human-vine symbiosis grown over many hundreds of years. Does the vine remember the person who planted its seed and cared for its budding success? Perhaps the grapevine snuck into this stunning place through its own choosing, ensuring its sublime juice grasped human need in a form of taming people and tantalising taste buds. One relying on the other to thrive in joyful fulfilment, benefitting precious bees and butterflies in mutual transaction and becoming culturally significant locally; a relationship set in the stone and soil of ancient history, still soulfully honoured today.
Crystal waters glistened gallantly towards a bustling town of noisy joyous festivities; light streaks flowed on water that accentuated the delicious purple beauty of venerable vines, with their twisted bark and knotty eyes of animated curiosity. As I walked along absorbing the morning glory of vines and fallen grapes lined or lying like royal guards along the river and sloping fields, it felt as if they were staring back at me. I added a nod or two and a wave here and there in recognition. Bare stalks laid the way in giant discarded piles. And between these mounds of fruity mulch and the damp smell of morning riverside air, I momentarily felt like I’d stepped into an old British bookshop with a spiralling staircase leading to an unexpected wine cellar. Cobbled streets and beckoning bridges drew me to the heart of bottle adoration lining the walls of olden bodegas.
Oxen laden with sheepskin cloths that hung seamlessly over their great horns gracefully pulled a cart that held a huge barrel through the giant doors of Cangas del Narcea town hall; watched like a religious relic entering a cathedral. Alongside its wagon filled with fresh bunches of varicoloured grapes walked three young men, darkened by the sun of fields with eyes striking blue. Their forward march ready for the old ways to kick in; all eyes on them, bagpipes yearning their arrival in haunting echoes of thrumming air. Crimson grapes were roughly poured in a giant wooden tub as the three handsome young proud members of a new generation crushed berries under strong bare feet; a display of magnificent ancestral energy. Traditional music and song guided their dedicated movement; arms linked in striking swirling circles becoming part of their community’s history. A special moment for every generation of the families surrounding me; an initiation since the first barrel oozed red blood of wine and hard rewarding sweat of cultural reciprocity.
With a wooden wine bowl in hand, mauve tinted, stained through time, and a bygone crypt of barrels surrounding me, I merged into wood and grape in an earthy explosion of tradition; sipping wine in the good old way – no risk of smashed glass as grapey infusion overtook the edges of my senses. Hands curved as my head bowed into the birch tree bowl, each zesty sip feeling as if I was in receipt of communion from Nature. I pondered, how did the ancestors of lands of others, like yours reading this story, drink Nature’s beverage in times gone by? Perhaps they sipped Meade from bone, beer from oak, whisky from pine or gin from a hunted skin.
What festivals do you know of in your local community’s history that celebrate a fruitful harvest and harmony? Maybe they began way back when farming commenced, supposedly in Neolithic times; each festivity adapted by the decade as people evolved their ways, tastes and beliefs.
Does the grape vine, apple tree and blueberry celebrate harvest-time too? Do fallen forgotten masses of rotting apples beneath strolling feet reminisce of days when human children and farmers filled goatskin backpacks with their scrumptious yield? As I hike in autumn mountains I witness wasps, bears and wild boar grateful for the loss of tradition as ageing abandoned orchards fill their bounty and winter preparation; I hope they don't mind me joining in!
Do blackberry bushes and hazel trees miss our touch of gratitude during laughter, stories and song as people merrily plucked their fruits, placed one by one, into handmade woven baskets? Perhaps one day it will become fashionable or even a necessity to work the land in biodynamic unity once again. After all, everything grows and falls in cycles of survival. Until then, I will walk the meadows and forest paths singing to hawthorn and wild strawberries whilst eating their sweet generosity. And soon, I will begin to plant the first pear and apples trees in the corner of one of our companion fields. The excitement to taste the first sugary acidic bite, fills my spirit with anticipation. When I die and fade like crisped leaves dissolving into a January snow, I’ll know I planted trees; leaving part of me in their rooted chlorophyll memories and flavoursome fruits to be enjoyed by generations of animals and people to come.
I will end this series of autumn contemplations by sharing a little moment locked into my memory. In a heart-warming October morning back by the River Narcea in Cangas, I saw a familiar face from the year prior; a lady of 100 years or more washing her pinafore, socks and metal dishes in a bubbling pool at the side of the rapidly gushing river. Below is an image I took that protects her privacy, arms seen under the leaves of a fruitful tree. As she sang out loud, above the thundering of water, my heart sang with her; emotion stirred deep in the galaxy of my solar plexus. I began to cry; my tears releasing a fluttering heart. Snippets of our Western Nature-connected past alive today affect me so deeply, like the thorn of a spectacular rose in painful beauty. I know next year she may not be here. And thus, I hold onto her image in my throat, like the gulp you take before jumping into a dark watery void. Perhaps the River Narcea has been absorbing this woman’s words so dearly for a century; rinsing her things and thoughts so gladly and caressing her humble callused hands daily. In this living scene so rare in electric modernity, I sensed symbiosis, love and blissful affinity; a life I will never fully know nor comprehend in totality. As the river held the hands of this cherished smiling human elder, I wondered if a stone, tree, building or hedge remembers me when I return to my home land of Birkenhead streets, sporadically. Perhaps there’s a place or more-than-human being that remembers all of us, like beloved kin concerned about our decisions and lives. A non-human being that wished we knew our full family history and story of their ability to love and comprehend us completely. Maybe something will spring into your mind that remembers you just as preciously as you recall them. For me, it is a truly ancient oak tree I saw every Tuesday on my way from school to my grandmas for tea. We both waved hello to ye olde Dungarvan, before visiting the corner shop to buy a paper bag of penny sweets.
For Samhain this autumn I experienced a life-enhancing four days alone in Nature, where I wrote about my life’s green spiritual journey. If you’re curious to read it, you can find it here on GreenSpirit’s webpage.
With love and light,
Leah
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