Fine Wine in Crude Conditions

“Aaah, how nice it will be to uncork a bottle of our own finding after a long day on the road!” Said I, excited at the prospect of drinking the fine wine amassed during our trip. The idea being that after putting up the tent, setting up the gas powered kitchen and the tedious unpacking of our bags, one might be able to drink a glass or two, perhaps even an entire bottle of that smoky Barolo we sourced in Piedmont, maybe the refined beauty of a Chianti Classico from Tuscany, the teeth shatteringly sweet Malvasia from Lipari or the mouth watering herbaceous-ness of our Puglian Nero di Troia.

These are the organic Nebbiolo vines used in the making of our Barolo
nr. La Morra, Piedmont.

In reality, drinking from our car-cellar proved to be a tasking experience. Despite the salivating excitement preceding it, the event was often a disappointment. Why, I hear you ask? For me, the consumption of wine is a perfect process, a ritual. It begins by slowly and carefully pouring the entire contents of the bottle into the decanter, patiently and lovingly observing the beautiful sea-like ripples on the surface as I gently manoeuvre the liquid, giving it its first breath of oxidised life outside of the bottle. Occasionally lifting off the top permits me to take in a deep breath of the separate, yet magically intertwined aromas. Having spent an hour outside of its tall, green glass womb, it is usually ready to pour. After two years of wine education, I am still in the habit of drinking from tasting glasses, in small amounts at a time. These concentrate the bouquet of flavour, which after a whirlpool-inducing flick of the wrist, only abandon the glass upon heady nasal persuasion. My intoxicated Bacchus like self instantly recoils in deep pleasure as I throw myself back into my chair, satisfied but lasting only a short while, for I have yet to taste it. The moment it hits my lips is instantly followed by a bodily warmth, un-describable even to those who experience the sun for the very first time. It’s texture, soft and velvety cushions the sides of my mouth, preparing me for the sharpness of its fruit. Any acidity finds its way, mouth-wateringly towards the back of my throat, tingling, forming soft tears, which proceed to roll down my cheeks; each sip different in character, yet consistently pleasant.

It is precisely this chain of events, which is impossible to re-create on the road; no decanters, no crystal glasses and certainly no temperature control in our ‘deux chevaux’ drawn cellar. The very best we could manage on the few occasions we dared, was pouring our precious sanguine coloured fluids into plastic cups. This sadly led to the death of our delicious organic Barolo. Despite permitting the wine to oxidate, it in fact allowed more time for the plastic flavours to mingle, eventually snaking their way onto my repulsed taste buds.

Our 'Deux Chevaux' drawn cellar overlooking Tuscan vines
and San Gimignano.

Luckily for us, help is never far at hand. As usual, we dramatically appeared in our over-laden little car, at a pleasant little campsite near Marsala in Sicily. As was now routine upon arriving at campsites, we exchanged stories with those working there over a few San Pellegrino lemonades. After pitching our tent, one of the restaurant waiters came by and told us we should book a table.

“The food…very very good here” He said.

Like we hadn’t heard that one before…However at this stage, we were tired. Very tired in fact, so rather than filling up on pollenta and CO2, we decided to risk the unpredictability of campsite food and accepted his offer. We turned up early, hungry after a day in the baking sun. Upon entering, we stopped in our tracks and I rubbed my eyes hard.

“It actually looks nice!” I exclaimed, not too loudly.

That evening, we hoovered up some of the best pizza’s we had ever had the chance to eat in all of our time in Italy and Sicily. You must be wondering what relevance this has to our earlier vinous sacrifice, if any. Well, word at this stage had got around that I was currently studying wine – at least I think that’s what they understood – and the campsite manager who also happened to be a local wine grower had sent over glasses of both his own Nero d’Avola and Grillo. I don’t recall the mental tasting notes, however they were both fabulously fresh and fruity examples of good value Sicilian wine. On our way out, the kind manager caught up with us and offered a tasting of some of the local Marsala wine. Hayley, in her dehydrated, yet merry state declined, leaving me alone at the bar. I remember being there for a very short period of time but Hayley honestly believes I only returned an hour and a half later. Either way I did not come back alone, I had my arm around two generously donated bottles and two large wine glasses. Hooray Hoorah! Content, I fell asleep straight away, basking in the kindness of the locals. Happy ending? Before we had got a chance to use them, one glass smashed in the back of the car, sending shards into all of our clothes. Less than a week later and unable to guarantee the wellbeing of the second glass, we handed it over to a dear Croatian man who had let us camp in his garden.

This was sad for me, but surely there are benefits to travelling with wine? After all, when home in England, I struggle to get my red’s to a decent temperature of around 18ºC. Luckily for us, we were enjoying a Mediterranean climate. With the sun ready for bed, the evening was gently settling it’s way in and around our campsite, this was the moment we had been waiting for. I may even be able to ignore the taste of plastic. Unfortunately, wine loses most of its refined character when it reaches 35 degrees, our Barolo had effectively been half-boiled by the august sun. That evening put an end to unnecessary, self inflicted wine related torture for the remainder of the trip, which is why our surplus of nomadic bottles is now resting happily in a cool cellar, awaiting decanter and crystal tasting glasses. They are the lucky ones, and unlike the fate of our Barolo, these will reach their beautiful, colourful destinies.

Not my cellar at home, but the one at Castello di Verrazzano,
containing it's finest vintages from 1924 onwards.