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On the sixth day, big drops thunder against my rain gear as my hands - wrinkled, saturated flesh - search through the leaves of the vine for the bundles of gamay grapes, clipping and tossing them into the bucket. There is no speaking among the vendangeurs. My shoes squish in the mud. And there's still six hours to go. This is the romance of the grape harvest in France's Beaujolais region.

My post-university travels led me to work and trek about France for a year - the discover-yourself/improve-your-French trip - and in every hostel, bar and language class, people kept endorsing the " super-bon atmosphère" and the backbreaking labour of the grape harvest as a way to make a nice chunk of change. So on a September day, among the tens of thousands of other vendangeurs, I'm picked up by Marie-Nicole Coillard at the train station of Belleville-sur Saône, 40 minutes north of Lyons in the heart of the Beaujolais region, to prepare for the Beaujolais season that opened this week.

Falling under the Appellation Régnié Contrôlée, the last of the Beaujolais crus to receive this status, the 10 hectares of the Domaine des Buyats are scattered around the chateau; the oldest grapes sit within the chateau's stonewalls while the newer grapes climb up the surrounding steep hills.

At the welcome dinner of family, friends and the 25 vendangeurs, we introduce ourselves. Pierre Coillard, the proprietor, is full of energy, the consummate host, and he smiles big at my exotic presence, as I'm the only non-Français of the group. Over never-empty bottles of wine, we get to know each other and later, in the moonlight, we stumble our way through the vines to our bunks in the loft of a barn.

Gil, le chef, rouses us at 6:30 for breakfast. On y va is our call to arms and we pick up our cerpette (a small sickle cutting tool) and bucket and march into the field for day one of 10.

Like an advancing front, we each take on our own line of vines and work away in the full sun and 35 C heat. The gamay is not like most high and sparse grape vines. Instead, it lies low, the branches twisting about like a dense jungle. One must stoop to pick and this is where the famous mal à dos comes from, a condition that will not abate until weeks after the picking is done.

In the fields, we talk, sing and play games, 20 questions being the most popular - Jacques Cousteau! The bundles of grapes go into the buckets, which are dumped into the bins that the porteurs (industrious Thomas and the mini-giant, Jean-Pierre, with a grey mop on his head and huge mustache) carry on their backs. When those are full with 80 kilograms of grapes, they ascend the ladder to the bin on the tractor and acrobatically dump their load. The sorters, standing atop the tractor's wheels, perform quality control. Then Tintin, a retired postal worker who has missed only one harvest in 25 years, drives the load to the chateau and dumps the grapes into the vats of the cuvé where they're pressed and cycled through a heating and cooling process.

Une pause takes place each morning when plastic kegs of wine are brought out along with chocolate and saucisson. Later, we return to the chateau for our waiting lunch prepared by Paulette and her kitchen crew.

Lunch always starts with a salad, followed by something like quiche or beef bourguignon, a cheese plate and fruit. Of course, wine is had. Most of us decamp to the lawn for a nap in the sun and I dread to hear Gil's voice: C'est parti.

Each new row of vines brings a new neighbour, new information. I learn that Céline is studying Chinese in Paris; three friends from Bescançon all study architecture in Toulouse; one of the three Juliens placed sixth in a French marathon; and Tintin has six children.

When we switch to the newer, thicker grapevines, we trade in our cerpettes for secateurs and the unfamiliarity of the tool causes curses and bloody fingers. Ad hoc bandages are made from cloth while veterans squirt grape juice onto cuts.

C'est fini signals the end of the day and it's a rush to the temperamental showers that offer extremes of hot or cold water.

Some of us congregate in the small cave where thousands of bottles are stacked along the stone walls and where we taste past vintages. The 10 hectares of grapes produce about 12,000 bottles a year.

À la soupe is the call to dinner and the evening begins. One night, we have ratatouille, another les quenelles, a lyonnaise-like gnocchi. Third and fourth helpings are washed down with the nectar of the gods.

Cards are brought out and I fail miserably at learning boulot. Intense games of table tennis are played. In the night, we can see the lights of the other vineyards and hear some of the thousands of vendangeurs in the region, singing. Sleep is never an issue, fatigue a great sedative.

To travel to the farther parcels of grapes, we cram into the backs of vans or hang onto the tractor. The rain lasts for the sixth and seventh days and in our raincoats we become indistinguishable from the porteurs.

With the weekend arrives the sun and reinforcements in the form of Pierre's son, father and brother. There's talk of the end in a couple of days, which sets people salivating.

At the dinner table, the mood is pre-celebratory. Throughout dinner, we play games. Gil leads us in follow the leader as we bash our hands on the table, leaning left, right, standing up to sing La Marseillaise.

Jerome and Morgan, a young couple, announce their engagement and would like the blessing of the group. A kissing conga line forms and we give each of them bisous over and over until their interest wanes.

The next morning, the mal à dos is accompanied by a mal à tête but the knowledge that it is the last day lightens us all. In the field, music plays and Gil tries to keep the grape flinging to a minimum.

After lunch, people cannot contain their jubilance and, when the last stretch of vines appears, all-out war begins. Bundles of grapes fly through the air and land on their targets with a sticky splat. Thomas gets juice in my eye that I later take revenge with a shot to the back of his head. Jean-Pierre lifts one of the girls and tries to dump her head first into the bin on his back. And, in the end, everyone gangs up on Gil - like the dumping of Gatorade on a victorious football coach - and he is soaked through with juice.

We arrive back to the chateau in triumph, everyone in song and we have a toast to the end of the harvest. The dinner that night is a grand affair. Pierre thanks all with a glass of bubbly and Gil, as per tradition, says something about each person. A comment regarding caribou is made about me and they all laugh. Last talks are had and I'm invited by everyone to visit them in their little part of France.

The next morning, Pierre gives me my ration of three bottles of wine for my trip and I'm deposited at the train station by Tintin, who wishes me bon chance.

Beaujolais is one of the last regions that still picks by hand because of the terrain, the difficult gamay vine and, most importantly, tradition. One day while we picked, Pierre had turned to me after watching the vendangeurs walking through the vines, their colourful clothes bright against the green and said, " Ça c'est beau, non? Très beau."

Pack your bags

GETTING THERE

The Beaujolais region is easily accessible by train from Lyons. Check http://www.voyages-sncf.com for schedules.

FINDING A VINEYARD

To pick grapes in France you must be legally allowed to work in the country and have medical insurance. If you are 18 to 35 years old, check out http://www.swap.ca and/or http://www.ambafrance-ca.org for information on how to obtain a one-year working visa to France. To find a vineyard, check http://www.anpe.fr (French only) from June onward for job postings.

MORE INFORMATION

French Tourist Office

Call (514) 876-9881 or visit http://www.franceguide.com.

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