Rtveli: Georgia’s Eternal Fest of Life

When autumn paints the valleys of Georgia in gold and crimson, the vineyards come alive with song. At dawn, men and women move through the rows heavy with grapes, their laughter mingling with ancient melodies that have echoed here for thousands of years. This is Rtveli, the grape harvest festival, one of the oldest celebrations in the world. To the outsider, it looks like a rustic harvest party. To Georgians, it is a sacred ritual, a living memory of a people whose very identity is bound to the vine.

Terracotta qvevri used for wine fermentation and aging, decorated with grape clusters. First half of the 6th millennium BC, from Khramis Didi Gora. On display at the Georgian National Museum, which we will be visiting during our trip.

Georgia is often called the cradle of wine, and not without reason. Archaeologists have unearthed clay vessels here containing traces of fermented grape juice dating back eight millennia—the oldest evidence of winemaking known to humanity. These were not ordinary jars but qvevri (sometimes also called churi, lagvani and kets in West of Georgia), massive clay vessels buried underground, designed to let grape juice, skins, stems, and seeds ferment together. The method remains almost unchanged today. When UNESCO recognized the qvevri winemaking tradition as part of humanity’s intangible heritage, it was simply affirming what Georgians have always known: this is not just wine, it is a sacred inheritance, a bond between earth and people, clay and grape, past and future.

Even the word itself tells this story. The English word “wine,” like “vino” in Italian, “vin” in French, or “wino” in Polish, likely traces its roots to the Proto-Kartvelian word ɣwino, meaning “fermented.” In Georgian today, the word for wine is still ghwino (ღვინო). From the Caucasus, this word seems to have wandered into the tongues of Indo-European peoples, carried along ancient trade routes, like the drink itself. In a way, every time someone anywhere in the world raises a glass of “wine,” they are unconsciously echoing a Georgian word that has traveled across millennia.

The grapevine in Georgia has never been a mere crop. It has been revered as the tree of life, appearing in carvings on medieval churches and in the embroidery of wedding clothes, in lullabies and battle songs. Legends tell us that when Georgian warriors went to war, their wives or brides would secretly sew vine cuttings into the lining of their chokhas, the traditional wool coats. If the warrior fell in battle, it was believed that the vine would sprout from his grave, binding him eternally to the soil he defended. Death itself could not sever the bond—through the vine, life would rise again.

At Rtveli, this reverence comes to life. Families gather, generations working side by side, cutting grapes and filling baskets until their hands are sticky and sweet. Children dart between the rows, stealing handfuls of grapes, while the older folk hum work songs that are as old as the harvest itself. When the baskets are full, the pressing begins, sometimes with bare feet stomping the clusters, purple juice splashing and laughter spilling louder than the wine. The juice is poured into qvevri sunk deep in the earth, and with it goes a whispered prayer that the fermentation will be good, that the coming year will be generous.

Georgian supra is not just an attraction, is part of our culture and life-style. And we definitely love it

And then, when the work is done, the feast begins. Long wooden tables groan under the weight of khachapuri, steaming mtsvadi, herbs, cheeses, walnuts, and stews. Pitchers of last year’s wine are brought out, filling clay bowls that are passed hand to hand. At the head of the table rises the tamada, the toastmaster, the poet and philosopher of the supra—the traditional Georgian feast. The tamada raises his glass, and silence falls. His words carry weight, for they are not mere toasts but blessings, bridges between the living and the ancestors, between the earth and the divine. He may begin: “To the land that gave us these grapes. To the ancestors who planted these vines. To peace, to love, to those we miss.” The guests drink, not for drunkenness but for communion, each sip part of a ritual older than memory.

The supra is as essential to Georgian culture as the vineyard itself. It is where the tamada leads the gathering through a journey of toasts—some solemn, some joyful, some humorous—all tied together like beads on a string of wine. To share a supra is to become part of the family, to step into a circle where hospitality is sacred and every guest is honored. Here, wine is not a beverage; it is the blood of tradition, carrying stories, prayers, and blessings from one heart to another.

Wine is produced in Georgia almost in all regions, except the mountainous one. During our all-Georgia trip you will have an opportunity to taste those wines

This is why Georgia guards more than 500 native grape varieties, more than almost anywhere else on earth. Each one has a personality, a history, a voice. From the deep red Saperavi to the golden Rkatsiteli, from the fragrant Kisi to the delicate Mtsvane, they are like members of a vast family, each cherished, each unique. Some are known across the world, others grow only in hidden valleys, tended by families whose ancestors swore never to let them vanish. The diversity is not just agricultural—it is cultural, spiritual, a reflection of the Georgian soul’s refusal to be reduced to a single note.

And so Rtveli continues, year after year, century after century. It has outlived invasions, empires, wars, and exiles. Through it all, Georgians have always returned to their vines, to the qvevri buried in the earth, to the songs rising from the vineyards. Even today, in the rush of modern life, city dwellers return to their ancestral villages each autumn to join the harvest. Tourists too come from across the world, enchanted by the idea of stepping into the world’s oldest winemaking tradition, where every glass is a sip of history.

Yet for Georgians, Rtveli is not about performance for visitors. It is about remembering who they are. It is about kneeling in the vineyard and touching the vine that your grandfather planted, about drinking from the qvevri that your grandmother once sealed with beeswax, about raising a glass at the supra and feeling the words of the tamada reach deep into your chest. It is about believing, as their ancestors did, that the vine is eternal, that as long as it grows, Georgia will endure.

And so, when the tamada lifts his cup at the harvest feast and calls out “Gaumarjos!”—to victory, to life—the word rings deeper than a toast. It is an oath, a reminder, a prayer. It is the promise that from the vine, from the qvevri, from the soil itself, life will always rise again.