I didn’t expect to be up before the sun, holding a mug of instant coffee that tastes faintly of last night’s red, but here we are. The road to the vineyard is a long, chalky stretch lined with olive trees that look as though they’ve been keeping secrets for centuries. Ramón, the winemaker I’m spending the day with, waves from the gate and shouts something about not stepping on the irrigation hose. He’s smiling but serious. The vines come first. Always.
He tells me that on organic land, everything has to work with what’s already there. No synthetic fertilisers, no herbicides, no quick fixes. The soil has to feed itself, so they compost, rotate, and let the weeds live just long enough to remind the grapes what struggle feels like. “It’s stress,” he says, “that gives them flavour.” I nod as though this makes sense, though I’ve spent most of my life paying to avoid stress entirely.
By 8 a.m. the team is pruning. It’s part choreography, part meditation. Ramón shows me how to clip a tendril without harming the new bud. It’s harder than it looks. I manage to decapitate two vines before he politely steers me toward the compost pile. There’s a rhythm to the work, punctuated by the buzz of insects and the low whistle of someone’s radio playing old flamenco tunes.
We stop for a break under an almond tree. Ramón opens a bottle that isn’t labelled yet. He calls it “the test run.” The cork pops, and for a moment, the whole valley smells of ripe fruit and dry earth. It’s young, a bit raw, but alive. That’s the word he keeps using. Alive. Organic farming isn’t about making perfect wine, he says. It’s about keeping the vineyard’s life intact from soil to glass.
Inside the small stone winery, the air turns cool and damp. Barrels line the walls like silent monks. Fermentation tanks gurgle quietly, each one mid-conversation with its yeast. I ask if the wild fermentations ever go wrong. He shrugs. “Sometimes. Like people.” It’s his favourite answer of the day. I jot it down in my notebook even though I’ve forgotten the question.
What strikes me most isn’t the process, it’s the patience. There’s no rushing organic wine. No chemical shortcuts to control the weather or the yield. The work is messy, slow, uncertain. But then so is everything worth doing here. Ramón says he used to make conventional wine for export, the kind you see in airport shops with gold medals and predictable flavours. Now he makes less, sells less, and smiles more. “It’s honest,” he says. “It’s wine that doesn’t lie.”
By sunset the vineyard glows the colour of honey. The crew packs up. The stray dog that’s been shadowing me all afternoon steals half my sandwich and trots away like he owns the place. Maybe he does. Ramón hands me a bottle to take home. The label’s still blank, a simple glass filled with potential.
Later that night, sitting outside my rented house, I pour a glass and taste what a day of real work feels like. It’s imperfect, slightly cloudy, but full of character. I think of everything that went into it: the soil, the sun, the hands that never stopped moving. Maybe that’s what makes organic wine different. It remembers the people who made it.
Internal reflections:
If you’re curious how organic vineyards differ from biodynamic or natural practices, read Biodynamic v Organic: What Spanish Winemakers Are Doing Differently. And if you’re planning a trip through Spain’s organic regions, From Rioja to Ronda: Spain’s Top Organic Wine Regions makes a good map companion.