Grape-picking in Barossa Valley

It is a tradition in my partner's family to pick grapes every year. At the end of summer, they all go to Barossa Valley together with some mates.

Steven and I have been talking about this for several months and finally, this weekend, we were able to do it. Armed with long pants, a hat, a bucket and a pair of snips, we marched towards rows and rows of red grapevines.

The weather conditions have been favourable so several rows had very heavy yield of fruits. They were sweet and dark. The leaves were thick and the branches gnarly. Unfortunately, the snips were extremely sharp.

I cut my finger after losing my concentration for just a fraction of a second. I had to keep it quiet to protect my pride. I promised Steven that I wouldn't cut myself but he came to my rescue. He dressed my superficial wounds for me.

It rained and the sun shone on our backs. The wind picked up the dry clay while the dogs (and a kitten that behaves like a dog) tried to distract us. It is hard work but somehow the repetition and muscle ache relaxed my mind.

I read somewhere that when you work in a chocolate factory, you will hate the product eventually. But I still love grapes.