The sun blazes, intensifying the colours of the camellias, of the grass on the mountainside, of the bright summer clothing the people wear.
The air is heavy with the scents of fruit, and jasmine, overlaid with a tiny, subtle, tang of sweat; and the song of birds mingles with a cacophony of laughter and shouted ribaldries.
Round and round the women walk, skirts tucked up to their waist, dark eyes flashing and flirting as they catch the glances of the men, the sun lending a golden tinge to the smooth brownness of their limbs, more a dance than a procession as they move through the same patterns their mothers and grandmothers moved through.
Round and round the men go, in their place, at their pace, their gaze locked on the women, their arms held above their heads. They repeat the ancient movements of their ancestors.
Somewhere, off, almost out of sight, an old man starts to play a guitar, the notes floating on the summer breeze.
And, as their feet grow dark with his blood, on the hillside the vine stands, bowed, and weeps.