For six weeks every autumn, the whole Douro holds its breath. We spent a harvest with the Almeida family to find out what the rest of the year is really for.
There is a moment, just before sunrise in late September, when the Douro is completely silent. The river is a sheet of pewter. The terraces — those impossible staircases of vine cut into schist — are still grey, waiting. And then the pickers arrive, and for six weeks the valley does almost nothing else but bring in the grapes.
The work begins in the dark
Picking starts at first light, while it is still cool enough for the grapes to come in firm and unbruised. The rows are so steep that everything is done by hand; there is no machine that can climb a Douro terrace.
We don't decide when the harvest happens. The grapes decide. We just have to be ready when they are.
— Nordin Almeida
Why the foot still beats the machine
In the evenings the lagares fill, and the treading begins. It looks like folklore, and partly it is — but there is a reason the best Ports are still made this way.