The last "Wuemmet"

The first rule of harvesting wine grapes? Keep your fingers out of the snips. I learned the hard way last week, on a sunny hillside below the Swiss village of Wermatswil, where I joined about 30 other locals during the annual "Wuemmet," the Swiss-German word for "Weinlese," or grape harvest.

In about three hours, we worked together to bring in about 4 metric tonnes of Mueller-Thurgau grapes. Some of us cut grapes (and our fingers) from the lower reaches of the vines, while others transported full tubs via a small tractor to a central collection point in the pasture below the vineyard where the cows from a local dairy farmer looked on.

For me, it was a great chance to learn about a traditional undertaking that Europeans and others have practiced for thousands of years. It was also a bittersweet event for the "Rebverein", literally "Vine Club," in Wermatswil, whose members are disbanding their organisation, at least in its current form, after more than 40 years. (A new group may take over, but that's something that's still under discussion.) This is quite possibly the "last Wuemmet."

Making connections

When you harvest grapes, many connections emerge, linking agriculture, the climate, the economy, and generally, our complicated world.

In 2024, Switzerland experienced a wet spring and early summer, something that's increasingly likely with a warming planet. Winemakers struggle with so much moisture, since traditional European grape varieties like Mueller-Thurgau are susceptible to pathogens and must be sprayed heavily with fungicide. The fungi – in this case, downy mildew - are also a story of globalisation, having been likely brought from North America in the late 19th century to Europe where they infected local grape vines with no natural resistance. Downy mildew is one reason why the current club in Wermatswil is calling it quits after more than four decades: Planting newer, fungus-resistant varieties of grapes is a costly enterprise, potentially requiring some 70,000 to 80,000 Swiss francs in additional capital.

Challenges aside, Max Koller, the "Rebmeister" – in English, that boils down to a rather poetic "master of the vines" – told our group that the 2024 grapes are actually remarkably high quality, considering the damp weather. The roughly 4 tonnes that we picked fell somewhere in the territory of the average harvest, not the biggest haul from Wermatswil's vineyard but a far cry from the calamitous 655 kilograms brought in in 2017. Once off the vines, the grapes were transported to a winery near Lake Constance where they were pressed, put in barrels and will eventually be bottled.

After our group finished up, we had a glass of the 2022 vintage and ate bread and traditional Swiss Cervalat sausages grilled outside of the "Rebhaus," or "Vine House" at the top of the hill. Time slowed down, just a little.

Bottled sunlight from summers past

It was a lovely day, with a lovely outcome. I don't know about you, but I like to think of wine as bottled sunlight from summers past, a delicacy that not only pleases the palate but which also has the power to conjure up good memories – and perhaps inspire a bit of thoughtful reflection about our changing planet.

And there was this, too: on a hillside in northern Switzerland, with the sun on my face, my hands sticky with grape juice and the damp earth under my sturdy boots, it was possible to banish the noise of an otherwise tumultuous world from my mind, at least for a brief moment.

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