I like to think that every glass of wine tells a story.
Some are a short story. Catchy, punchy, to the point. Some are epic works, demanding your attention and rewarding it in return. Others are pulp fiction.
The best will capture your imagination.
Most are stories of people. A hand that cared for the vine, the mind that chose to plant here and not there, and what. When. Someone that made this wine’s story special.
Some are stories of place. Seams of stone running through the bedrock. A mountain protector sheltering from rain. A chance of nature that made this wine’s story unique.
Not all stories are grand. The humblest origins belie a wine of great character. Some are mysteries, thrillers. Others are mundane tales; an enjoyable yarn to spin of an evening, no more.
All are stories of time. A gentle rest that irrevocably altered the wine. Time’s reach is long, and frames the tale of every drop, every glass, every bottle.
I like to believe that stories hold a kind of magic. They enthral us, they move us, they thrill us and claim with a spark, a splash, a scent.
The flicker of film as it spins in the reel when the precious liquid catches the light. Shades from gold to deepest purple cast reflections around you. They tell you of time.
From the moment the cork is pulled, the cap twisted, the story is revealed before you. Each swirl in the glass, each tumbling drop as it pours. The wave as it strikes the wine cup, releasing a torrent of aromas sparking stories of their own, like pages turning in a book.
The words speak as wine washes over your lips and dances over your tongue. Unveiled, the story rushes over you. Scents and flavours breathe life.
They tell you of place. Of what. Of where. Of how. The story unfolds and the truth of the wine is revealed.
Every glass of wine tells a story. What story is in yours?