Our first stop was at Ramilo Wines, a newer vineyard, but with deep roots in the region’s history. The view included another mist-shrouded castle, the Palácio da Pena, in the background. I could die here and not be surprised if I woke up in the same spot, still dead, still in heaven. They showed us a concrete lagar, where the grapes get stomped by foot, and temperature-controlled tanks, and medieval grape-stuff contraptions, too. Jorge Mata, the winemaker and enologist, poured us juice straight from the tank, cloudy and fizzing on our tongues. We were all sharing a stolen moment, waiting for the yeast to die and the wine to be born. We were led to a stone picnic table with bottles. All bright wax tops, stenciled lettering, nothing more needed. Jorge, scientist and ambassador, then lectured on soil, weather, and the political landscape. They had to argue with authorities to clear out a forest for the vineyard, claiming the vineyard existed first. Eventually the authorities subsisted: these vineyards must be protected. Wild cherry bubble gum
Hiding in the Sand THERE IS A PLACE IN PORTUGAL where the grapevines grow in massive sandboxes, tucked beneath behemoth trees. You can smell the ocean from the vineyards and wild hibiscus. It’s called Colares, less than an hour from the beehive of Lisbon. In the vineyards there is often a dopey haze drifting past. The fog loiters at hill sites near grapevines, and its presence assures that each grape is buzzing with mouth-watering natural acids. Colares is facing a different kind of problem. It’s too beautiful. People want to mow down vineyards and plant apartment complexes. Many of the most storied vineyards are extinct. There is capital venture, condos—with micro farming pulling on a sling and a handful of winemakers with stones pointed at almost every direction. I had to see it. And the Inn wanted to secure it. There’s a Portuguese word, "saudade," meaning a yearning for something that may have passed—or might not have happened yet. One winery, Casal Santa Maria, could not exist without it. Baron Bruemmer planted his vineyard at the age of 96. He planted 5000 roses to commemorate his wife. He used a pendulum to dictate most decisions within the winery, leaving the fate of it all within the hands of the old gods. He lived to see his grandson assemble the first vintages. He’s gone now. One of the six wineries is owned by a casino in Macau, the Grand Lisboa. Somebody I know, believe it or not, claims to have had the best wine of their lives in that casino. I need it. Heck, I yearn for it.
"They showed us a concrete lagar, where the grapes
get stomped by foot, and temperature- controlled tanks,
and medieval grape-stuff contraptions, too. "
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