The Harvest of Stories

From Sangiovese to Sagrantino: where wine matures not only in barrels, but also around long tables

At the end of September, Umbria breathes grapes and must. Tractors hauling crates of bunches crawl up the hills, the air is filled with chatter and with a promise: the new wine is on its way. The Italians have a beautiful word for it: la vendemmia, the grape harvest. And anyone who experiences it knows that it’s far more than work. It is a celebration, a tradition, a ritual that brings people together.

The Etruscan legacy

That tradition goes back a long way. Already in the time of the Etruscans, thousands of years ago, wine flowed abundantly through these valleys. They were among the very first true winemakers in Italy and exported their wine as far as Greece and southern France. For them, wine was not merely a drink but a ritual: an offering to the gods, an essential part of banquets, even a companion into the afterlife, as evidenced by the cups and amphorae found in their tombs.

Remarkably, Etruscan women were also allowed to drink wine. While in Rome a woman could be punished for drinking, in Etruria men and women reclined side by side at the table, each with a cup in hand. For their neighbors this was scandalous, but for the Etruscans it was part of life. Perhaps this explains why, millennia later, wine in Umbria is still less about taste alone, and more about togetherness.

From grape to glass

Anyone walking through the hills during the vendemmia can see that the process still begins with manual labor. Grapes are picked into crates or baskets, often by families and friends working side by side in the vineyards. Then comes the pressing: in modern wineries with stainless steel presses, in villages still with small hand presses or even bare feet. The juice, the must, then goes into barrels for fermentation, that magical moment when sugar turns into alcohol and the grape yields its soul.

After that comes the waiting. Some let the young wine rest just a few months in large glass damigiane. Others opt for wood aging: French oak for elegance and a hint of vanilla, Slovenian oak for a more neutral profile, or Italian chestnut for a strong, rustic character. Every barrel tells its own story, and no two winemakers ever make exactly the same choices.

Grapes with character

The local grapes are just as distinctive. Sangiovese is Umbria’s all-rounder: smooth, approachable, found in almost every village around Lake Trasimeno. But head further south to Montefalco and you’ll meet the proud Sagrantino: dark, powerful, notorious for its tannins. A wine that only reveals its softness after years of aging. It is my personal favorite: stubborn, headstrong, and full of character, much like the Umbrians themselves.

A story at the table

And then there are the lunches inseparable from this season. Some time ago, we sat at a long table with the neighbors of Dutch friends in the countryside near Cortona. A delicious, traditional meal was served, naturally accompanied by wine from their own vineyard. The red was an honest, robust table wine. But the white… While Fulvio, the elderly farmer, winemaker, and in-law of the neighbors, sang his praises of this “fantastic” wine into my right ear, my friend Inge sat opposite me. She took a sip, pulled a face, and whispered: “It tastes like horse piss.”

Fortunately, Fulvio doesn’t speak Dutch, so I was able to assure him convincingly that she too found the wine “very special.” How I managed to keep a straight face, I still don’t know. But maybe that’s the essence of it all: here, wine is never just about taste, but about stories, laughter, and shared moments.

What truly matures

And so in Umbria and Tuscany, not only do grapes mature in barrels, but memories ripen around full tables and unexpected encounters. Perhaps this is the perfect time to plan a real wine tasting here. Not only with the famous labels, but also with those mysterious bottles without a label, straight from a neighbor’s cellar.

Because in the end, it’s not the perfect wine we remember, but the company, the laughter, and the stories that grow with it.  And maybe that’s the question we should ask ourselves more often: what truly matures in our lives? The bottles we keep, or the moments we share?