The Smell of Harvest in Wine Country

One is hard pressed to find a more romantic land than wine country in the fall. When the vines pull heavy with ripe, inky purple shades of merlot, cabernet, syrah, and zinfandel, it is a time of celebration for humans and animals alike (some say the best way to know when to harvest is when the birds come to feast). Wine lovers come from all over to the central coast for "crush" time and all the wonderful, drunken harvest parties. It's a glorious time had by all.
Unless, of course, you live near Wildhorse Vineyards, which we do. There is one thing slightly less romantic than the rest of wine country during harvest time, and we are on the front line of this one thing. It's called the fermentation process. Don't get me wrong, fermentation is a thing of pure beauty because it eventually leads to the nectar of life, and I would never, ever insult it. HOWEVER, I will boldly issue the following warning: It is never a good idea to live in a trailer that is old, and therefore requires all windows to be open at night for ventilation, within one mile of a large winery. Around 9:45 each night for a little over a week now we have been the recipients of a southerly wind pregnant with the pungent scent of rotting grapes. The first few nights, being neophytes to harvest time, we assumed it was our trash collection (we have to take our own trash to the dump, so you can imagine how large the tower grows before we are forced to take it). It was that gnarly. But once we disposed of the trash and the smell continued to join us for aperitifs each night, we were at a loss. We busted out all the incense we could dig up out of our as-of-yet unpacked boxes and set it aflame next to our arsenal of candles. I am sorry to report that all our thick musky smoke did was cohabitate with the fermentation stench and drive us from our humble abode. This wouldn't normally bother us, except that fall nights (as of literally three days ago - before that nights were still like 75 degrees) up here are a bit chillier than in Newport Beach, and being driven from our trailer, even with the open windows, feels a bit like lying naked on cold concrete. And that is not romantic, not matter how you cut it. So with that my friends, I am off to try to cuddle our two dogs who may just be more pissed off about our harvest situation than we are.