Count on me

Con media azumbre de vino is the title of a poem by Claudio Rodríguez. He is in Spells, his second book; it would seem that the first, Don de la ebriedad, announced his free and wandering life through the taverns, his Alliance and condemnation, title of the third (next to Conjuros, my favorite). "We will never be! Always/ with wine on top! (...) Half azumbre / of wine peleón, doncel or albillo, / red of Toro. How much my youth needs/ my heart, how little."

He remembered it the other day at the National Fair of

Wine from Ciudad Real

. Life brings us and takes us, we are just nothing more than wrecks of a beach. When you think you have arrived, a wave plucks you from the sand to take you to the sea again; When you no longer had hope, it again brings you back to dry land. I had never been to any fairs other than book or cattle fairs. The latter are admirable, animals and fairgrounds tell them everything with their eyes. Although they are also sad.

- the calf says goodbye to its mother; the tamer, of his horse; The ox, from his work, on the way to the slaughterhouse. But all in all, not having to talk is a relief. And to speak dryly, if you have to do it, in addition, of a book of your own, what condemns. It is, moreover, absurd, like lying to a tree.

Thank you Jesús Flores Téllez, wine cellar and friend forever, that the tides want to join us one day in another sale of the road.

So the wine was quite an experience. I would never have imagined it. What a good mood everywhere, in its proper measure. A few minutes later, thanks to the wine, everything was effusions, songs of joy. Friends were reunited with hugs and strangers embraced starting an eternal friendship.

. I had never been close to any. "An old winemaker," he said; "Experience is everything here." He told us many things. He spoke like a poet. "What does this wine taste like?" someone asked. "Never say

; Wines don't taste, they remind you. This wine reminds me of withered flower. And the one before to the cedar of the pen that we bit as children at school.

, hearing how it falls into the cup, whether it is stream or oil, and continues with the view on the glass of the cup, do you see it?, this forms an aqueduct with its narrow arches; Look also at the heart of the wine, the heart says it all, it has a heart red as garnet and is brave, like an ancient warrior; Only then comes smell, that taste without smell does not exist." He also gave us practical advice ("above fifty euros, all wine is nonsense; Wine is easy: I like it or I don't like it; and never drink in bad company, do not waste what has cost so much to do." Thank you

, wine seller and friend forever, that the tides want to join us one day in another sale of the road.

And thank you, friend

, for taking us to that fair with the excuse of talking about wine in the

. This talking about wine in the

It didn't matter. They have done it many before. Tell it to one, who spent fourteen years of his life transferring the aged wine to a new wineskin, I mean translating the

, "faithfully and integrally", to the language of all. Drinking it is something else. It is a gift, one of the highest, the gift of drunkenness. At the fifth tasting I remembered what Claudio said (the first thing that happens with tastings is that at the fifth we all apeamos treatment and used): "Wine is not alcohol". Nothing could be more true,

. It's something else.

: "And before the autumn rains fall, hear: harvest all that is yours, / count on me. Drunk with drought,/ Let the clarity of the soul belong./ Where were my drunkenness?/ Before this half-azumbre, thank you, thank you/ once again and goodbye, goodbye forever."