Beneath the stone vaults, the wine comes to an end

The Provençal cellar awakens. This is the other side of an October day—the one that begins in the vineyards and ends on the courtyard cobblestones, where the morning's harvest finally becomes the year's wine. The mule arrives from the estate, laden with three barrels, and the woman with the cask already precedes it toward the vaulted ceiling. In the center, the cooper works on the hoops, his hammer raised; beside him, the waiting casks are piled high. Before the stone arch where the barrels and bottles are stacked, the man with the demijohn brings out his precious reserve of fortified wine—the one that will keep until Christmas. And amidst this lively activity, a man lying against a barrel is already snoring: he has tasted it, perhaps a little too soon. In the distance, just beyond the mauve hills, the Provençal village stands watch—its steeple pointing toward a peach and gold sky that is fading.