Photo to the right: National Palace of Sintra in the region of Adega
natural bottles sprouting amongst the library wines. When he poured the 1969 Colares, Allison exclaimed, “What’s going on? I’m literally freaking out.” It cost 80 Euros. We left with blackened teeth and lips from the ramisco grape and the flavour of honey and sea breeze from the malvasia grape lingering. Then we went to Adega Regional de Colares. Despite our late arrival, they kindly greeted us, ensuring the winemaker, Francisco Figueiredo, was there. Francisco crafts wine from a tapestry of fruit, honours the grape growers and the extreme farming they practice. They live within a hall of barrels that can no longer be filled, due to the nature of the times. All delicious. I always appreciate a glass when I can imagine the face behind it, a creased handshake, and grapevines drooping over pure sand. This is hero farming in the civilized world. To get back, soon couldn’t be soon enough—glass in hand, sand beneath my boots. The sea breeze drifting warmly through the leaves. Saudade. If any winemakers in Colares are reading, I’m still thinking about it. And thank you for not saying anything about my cussing.
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