Pour, Pour Me

I got two invitations to spend my Sunday touring and sipping.

There was an invitation for a brewery tour from a stranger and an invitation for a winery and cidery tour from a non-stranger.

Well, as a non-beer drinker, that was a no-brainer.

We set out in late morning with a free-form goal of stopping where ever and whenever.

Because neither of us had heard of it, our first stop was Weston Farm Vineyard and Winery.

The owner used to be a building contractor, the wife coddled her angry bulldog while we tasted and the wines were, well, exactly what you'd expect.

'Nuff said.

Stop two was the grandiose Castle Hill Cider, a place that screamed big money and had a spacious tasting room.

After tasting through their five ciders, we cleared out when a large group of Boomers arrived to do the same.

Before beating feet for the back forty, though, we got a bottle of Celestial Merret, a warm Albermarle Baking Company baguette, a hunk of Caromont Farm chevre and my choice, Red Row, a raw cow's milk farmhouse cheese.

A sunny table overlooking the pond and hills was just the place to sip the fine-bubbled cider and watch the geese sunning themselves under the brilliant blue sky.

We decided the only thing that could have made it a better way to embrace the lazy was if there'd been music.

Once the bottle was empty, we pushed on, eager for more adventures.

After a winding road back into the trees, we arrived at Virginia Wineworks to taste winemaker Michael Shaps' wines.

Unlike the gift shop atmosphere of Weston or the gala event vibe at Castle Hill, this felt like a true tasting room, complete with barrels of wine stacked high and fruit flies buzzing around.

Here we also found a couple from D.C. and, as a native, I couldn't help but ask where they lived.

Near Union Station and New York Avenue, the trendy young man told me.

Oh, NOMA you mean?

He couldn't have been more surprised, not only that I knew his neighborhood but what it was called, making us fast friends.

When our taster was pouring the Michael Shaps Petit Verdot, he leaned over, smiling, and asked, "Are angels singing as they pour that for you?"

Oh, my yes, it was a lovely wine and his hyperbole only made it better.

With the time change, the sun was looking low in the sky by the time we left with a few bottles, but we had to pass First Colony Winery to get back to the road, so neither of us could think of a reason not to stop.

They had musicians playing on the patio, so the only people we found in the tasting room were the D.C. couple we'd just met.

Hell, if they were going to stalk us, then I was free to start grilling them and what better topic than music?

When he told me his favorite band was Dave Matthews, I had that same moment I always have when a twenty-something says a band like that.

Don't you care about the new music your generation is making?

Apparently not and he about lost it when I pooh-poohed Dave and said I'd seen him far too many Thursday nights at the Flood Zone back in '92 and '93 for five bucks to still care, much less be following him in the 21st century.

What he didn't seem to grasp was that he could be catching some terrific up and coming band (especially because he lives in a bigger city) right now for $5, one that'll be huge in twenty years.

But in between doing our First Colony tasting, I gave him another shot, asking for another favorite band.

The Rolling Stones, he gushed.

Shoot me now, the future is lost.

Giving him more crap about being a fan boy for the geriatric set, he laughed at himself and looked at me, asking, "Hey, how old are you?"

Old enough to have been taught by my mother that you never ask a woman her age or her weight.

Our tasting finished with the Shanando, a sweet blend of Vidal Blanc, Petit Manseng and Traminette, and providing my geek moment for the day.

Shanando was the original spelling of Shenandoah back in the 18th century, notable only because just the night before, I'd heard mezzo-soprano Kate Lindsey sing a goose bump-inducing version of "Shenandoah" at CenterStage.

What are the chances?

The owner was kind enough to offer us a stroll around the grounds after our tasting, providing an unexpected architectural treat.

Driving in, we'd noticed that the roof of the center building was being replaced.

What he told us was that it was being redone with a traditional thatch roof, the kind I associate with Britain, not Charlottesville, my curiosity was piqued.

He showed us the bundles of rushes and explained the process, a fascinating look into an age-old technique being practiced by a U.S. company since the early '90s.

It's going to be magnificent when they finish, although I only wish I could watch a bit of the process as it was happening.

This art nerd would consider it a practically perfect afternoon: a couple of chairs, a bottle of wine and a view of a thatched roof going up.

As it was, it was enough of lovely surprise to spend the last bit of daylight tramping around the winery grounds.

A brewery tour? Pshaw!

Not when there are hills for sipping cider, angels singing as wine is poured and lessons in roofing to be had.

Best of all, with a non-stranger.