I am writing to you, my love, because I realised that it was not Somló that I fell in love with. I instead fell in love with what we had become at Somló. The whole winemaking story started the same time I met you, almost eight years ago. To be more exact, a bit earlier than when I met you, but then I considered our house there rather as a summer cottage, as a weekend house. Actually, during those first years of our relationship, I started to feel more deeply attached to Somló because you let me run with my fantasy, plans and dreams, even if it meant being away. I am writing that you let me go because at that time you wanted to become an actor in Budapest and did not even think of moving to the countryside, of working or raising children there. I am writing that you did let go of me because for the lovers in their twenties, the most important thing is the “now,” to be together in happiness, sorrow, jealousy and calm. Regardless, to be together! And we were just like that. Somló and the winemaking, however, has got its secret place in our life. It was not a common goal but also not an obstacle, either. And now we are about to renovate our family home surrounded by the woods. Of course, I tried to assemble the pieces of the future, during those many nights we were sipping wines and looking to the stars, but I never did succeed completely.
Three days after our wedding, I went to Badacsony to help Ambrus Bakó with the harvest. It turned out a bit earlier that his worker quit, and that he needed someone. We were at Pisti Bencze’s place, when he told me, that you looked at me and you knew it. You knew that I would go. Our honeymoon was put off because of the harvest and even then we were visiting wineries, alternating who would drive the rental car until we reached the next cellar.
I fell in love with the fact that I could actualize all those things I was dreaming of when I was a kid with you in Somló. While sitting on the sofa, I was dreaming of being a cowboy, walking in the woods, alongside with my animals, and I would work on a farm. My dog would run after me in the light of the dawn, on the meadow. We would cut down the trees alongside with my children as the snow is falling. I longed for freedom.
Even if we will not have horses, farm animals, and maybe not even a dog… I do hope that during the next Advent, we will walk down to the Saint Helene chapel, and we will sing some songs, and afterwards we will make some mulled wine. I long to roast chestnuts with you again soon!
If I am not mistaken, Vili will be toddling by then, and if he gets tired, I will carry him on my shoulders back home.
That is what I am waiting with you.
