Florence, Love and Vitis Vinifera.

‘Oh, must we go?’ I squeeled in absolute agony.

‘yes, I’ve already paid for it!’ came the response

‘But I honestly cannot move. Look!’ I made a walrus impression, hoping to put an end to this debate.

It was St Valentines day in Florence. Earlier that morning, we had got dressed early, deciding not to carry on wasting our time trying to sleep inside the dark, grotty, vertically disproportionate cave that was our hotel bedroom. The damp smell invading my nostrils was motivation enough, I knew I had to do something about this situation! The frighteningly grumpy receptionist was clearly not someone to be messed with so I wiped away the fear, took a deep breath and sent Hayley off to the front desk to complain. Phew!

With hotel matters out of the way and a new room reluctantly promised upon our return, we set out to explore the chilly February streets of Florence. We climbed the eternal steps of the Duomo, strolled around the Uffizi and lost ourselves in the narrow, derelict side streets. The first real treat of the day appeared in the form of a much-needed gastronomic feast at the famous Frescobaldi family’s restaurant. Sat in its mock-rusticated warm environment, we shamelessly phoned relatives in England, describing the food appearing before us on large white plates. We took particular pleasure in detailing the melting sensation of the fillet steak upon our delighted tongues. Meanwhile, our enthusiastic waiter excitedly poured and poured again, fountains of wine, insisting we try something new several times a course. I sat, utterly gobsmacked, the power that good food and wine can have in overturning what was a disastrous night and early morning. At that moment, all of our troubles were at bay.

Tuscan vines nr. San Gimignano

Things only turned again as we attempted to raise ourselves out of our chairs. It is a familiar feeling, one that perhaps, lunch should have ended a little before the end of the main course. But self-control, in regards to food is something we had not mastered then, not that much has changed now. With the pain slightly numbed by the last glass of ruby Sangiovese, we somehow Elephant-footed our way back through the decrepit Tuscan streets, hotel bound. We climbed the steps of our crumbling hotel, eager to spread our full-stomached selves onto a freshly made bed in our new room. I swung the door open and stared straight ahead at the glorious window, radiating the filtered sunshine through its glass panes. I moved forward to take a look at the view, which though unimpressive, was to my relief south facing. I didn’t ever reach the window, instead I tripped and fell head first onto a child size mattress. I looked up and around looking for the double bed. There was no double bed, just a much higher single next to this one. Too tired to care, I instantly curled up and passed out onto my standard issue, foreign legion inspired bed.

 Alarm bells rang! “Merde, qu’est ce qui se passe!” I shrieked.

I must have been dreaming in French which led to me cursing in my native tongue. Hayley’s mobile phone alarm drowned out the voices of my dream and I sat up, one eye open, assessing this most uncomfortable situation.

“Time for wine tasting” she declared

Reluctantly I rolled off the bed and looked into the mirror. I had bed hair like in the hair styling television adverts, perfect for strolling around the fashion conscious Italian streets. With the Hotel doors closing behind us, we were suddenly confronted by a late afternoon chill, motivating us to walk quickly to the other end of Florence until we reached a small wine cellar. Our host for the evening was a tall dark haired Italian in his early thirties, sporting a smooth looking black velvet jacket. He guided us and our fellow tasters, along and past the long stone-topped bar with its eclectic supply neatly stacked floor to ceiling all around the room, and down the steep stairs to the narrow cellar. Here, there were two long tables stretching their way along the room, just large enough to fit the fifteen or so guests. Though I could tell the basic sensory differences between good and bad wine at the time, my knowledge on grapes and winemaking was minimal. While our host chatted away, we chomped our way through sheets of Parma ham, threw olives into our mouths and nibbled on the finely cut slices of Parmesan cheese, as we sampled various expressions of Sangiovese, Vernaccia and Trebbiano. This was one of my earliest opportunities to assess wine glass to glass and side by side, to express out loud why it was that I preferred one to another. This was very liberating indeed and I suddenly felt I understood the true reason for wine’s existence; the thrill of the hunt, the never-ending search for the perfect bottle and the beautiful rituals associated with it. The recurring sounds of extracting tight fitting corks from their narrow necks, pouring, smelling, decanting then pouring again. In addition, I was instantly seduced by the concept of wine as a living thing, which, while it is nurtured, can evolve, improve or bitterly disappoint.

The tasting came to end, and upstairs, as the others filtered their way out the door into the bitter cold, we remained. We pulled out some chairs and settled into the cosy atmosphere. More meat and cheese was brought over to our table and we ordered further wine for evaluation. We eventually settled on 2005’s vintage of Cesani Luenzo, to take home with us. While handing over some Euro’s, I realised it was the most I had ever spent on grape juice. When I returned home, I excitedly made my way down to the cellar and cleared myself a corner, proudly staring at my lone import. I cut out a piece of card, tying it to the neck of the bottle onto which I wrote ‘drink 2011’. I knew at that moment that I would dedicate much time and fun to filling out the empty spaces around my Tuscan find. As my collection grew, I separated everyday drinking wines, ageing wines and valuable wines. Up until now, Cesani Luenzo has neighboured Bordeaux classified growths, Grand cru Burgundy and Super-Tuscans, reminding me of the birth of this small collection which shrinks and increases like the tide. I say up until now because 2011 is finally upon us and I had specifically timed it’s opening with the end of my WSET advanced certificate.

With excitement, I decanted the wine, cleaned out two tasting glasses and waited for Hayley to arrive home. I gently manoeuvred the decanters’ contents and held it up to my nose, then directed it towards the glass. My first sensory explorations of the wine showed balance; it is punchy, yet subtle. Tipping the glass to it’s side, it appears not the deepest of red but of a fine ruby with an almost invisible orange nail. To the nose, the classic Italian red cherry is present and is complemented by notes of raspberry and blackcurrant. The French oak barriques used in it’s ageing adds hints of overlaying vanilla and chocolate followed by pepper and a cloud of smokiness which finds its way, settling pleasantly to the back of my throat. Age has contributed raisins and provided a sweet jammy-ness. But its finest characteristic for me is the one that I mostly associated with the fabulous wines of Puglia: the scent of freshly trodden grass leading to a soothing medicinal menthol. The palate followed the nose fairly closely with the added pleasure of a smooth and refreshing mouth-watering acidity. A reassuring momentary detection of spice and cloves compliment the warmth of the alcohol, which feels comforting against the darkening clouds outside. Tannin is most definitely present, and plenty of it yet its silky form almost renders it undetectable, much like it’s full body, which is far from suffocating.

Worth the wait!

As my last tasting notes appear on the sheet of paper before me, I sit back and enjoy a glass with Hayley. I am proud of our choice all those years ago. Even with our basic knowledge, we had picked out something really rather special and had the patience to allow for its year-by-year improvement underground. Though the bottle is now empty, I plan to return it to the cellar where it will take pride of place, becoming an everyday memento of the events leading up to my infatuation with Vitis Vinifera.

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.