I thought I was ready. I had swim goggles to keep the wine out of my eyes. I brought old white clothing I didn’t mind sacrificing for the cause. And my suitcase packed for Spain was dominated by a large Super Soaker water gun that could hold the equivalent of two bottles of wine.
Then I met the locals and their buckets of Tempranillo. I didn’t stand a chance.
La Batalla del Vino (The Battle of Wine) takes place each June 29 on San Pedro’s Day just outside the village of Haro in the heart of the Rioja wine region in Spain. The origins of La Batalla started hundreds of years ago over a land dispute between Haro and the neighboring town of Miranda de Ebro after rival residents started tossing wine at each other. From old neighborly grudges, a week-long festival was born in Haro with daily parades and celebrations. Tradition dictates anyone wanting to do La Batalla stays up all night dancing to bands in the town square before the early morning battle starts.
This year, after a night of dancing (and maybe some wine drinking), I was one of many people to make the 7 a.m. trip out of Haro to the formerly disputed town boundary in the shadow of steep mountain cliffs. Festival goers wear all white except for a red scarf tied around their necks. And then leave drenched in red wine after several hours of throwing wine at anyone they can.
Within the first two minutes of stepping on the wine battlefield I already had two full buckets of wine dumped on my head. Learn from my rookie mistake: Never ask two guys from Haro with full buckets of wine to pose with you for a selfie photo near the entrance when your white clothes are still white.
The next two hours were full-on wine chaos. Trucks hauling tanks filled with wine fueled the battle. Buckets and backpack sprayers were the most popular weapons of must destruction. I did get off some decent shots of cheap Tempranillo with my Super Soaker that hit their targets, but I was severely outgunned and the wine running down my face and legs were proof . . . and it could not have been more fun.
Several different marching bands played competing songs as wine rained down on over 1,000 people. Soccer songs and chants filled the air. Wine-soaked flags were being waved. The ground was quickly filling with large red puddles as I noticed my skin was actually starting to turn purple from the battle-related maceration. And in the midst of the madness, I felt a tug on my dripping shirt. I turned around to see a smiling old Batalla veteran point to his traditional bota bag and nod. In Spanish he said, “This is my wine to drink, not throw.” I tried the bota bag wine and it was really good. I smiled, handed the bag back, and thanked him as we shook purple hands. Then I turned back to the main crowd and was almost immediately hit by another bucket of wine across the chest.
After two hours of bathing in wine, I gifted my Super Soaker to a worthy ten-year-old boy and started walking back to Haro. As I passed a steady line of pristine, white-clothed late arrivals on the road heading into La Batalla del Vino, there was an even split of reactions. Half the people laughed and gave me a thumbs up at my red-drenched appearance. The other half looked seriously scared wondering what they were getting into after agreeing to take part in this annual festival. But I’m sure they all ended up leaving the wine-soaked grounds with a big smile just like I did.
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