Just Wave.

A flurry of tractors chortling on the roads.

As you know our village luckily is as small and laid-back ( apart from a cleaning craze ) as one only reads about in Agatha Christie novels. That suits me perfectly. Small enough to recognize most if not by face than by their car. Yes, my brain registers the car first before it lets me find the name of its driver.

At times it is a bit of a guessing game as their is a plethora of black Audi's and VW's. A bit Fordian, if you ask me! A black car is akin to a sauna during summer and after the hot summers we've recently had I think a few will change their colour choice. Once the car is close enough for me to decipher the number plate, the automatic wave I give to most acquires meaning.

The harvest is in full swing and the vineyards are alive and teeming with ' pickers '. At times I can't see them but I can definitely hear them as they merrily chat away whilst enjoying a stint of outdoor activity. Apart from the full time wine- crew ( Bob for example ) those tasked with separating grapes from vines are often city folk, family or friends who have taken leave to be a part of tradition. Nice, isn't it?

Picking grapes in vineyards carries a lot of prestige. It isn't everybody who can casually swirl their wine glass at a dinner party and share their adventure of having been there at the wine's infancy. Anyone can study the wine guide but not everyone can help make wine.

Tractors of all ages, shapes and sizes are buzzing all over the vineyards carrying the picked grapes. The few tractors I normally encounter on my walk are easily recognized ( by the road they take, the pitch of gear and the elan of the driver ) but this morning there were so many different tractors buzzing past me that I chose to wave, just in case.

Biggi