With fond memories of a thatched roof, I set off for a wine dinner.
Crossing the Lee bridge, I spot a young guy, guitar slung across his back, walking across the bridge, his back to the sun as it begins to slide down into the James River.
It's a picture postcard reminder of the charm and beauty of this city.
The host for the dinner was Camden's and the winery was First Colony, the source of tonight's wines.
They'd won me over on two successive tastings with well-crafted wines and a thatched roof being put on their tasting room. Truth be told, I'm a sucker for architectural details like that.
I'm walking down the sidewalk, about to enter the restaurant as two women approach me.
Holding the door open for them, they say, "Are you ready to drink too much?" and we proceed inside with that intent.
I find the room is quickly filling up and grab a seat at the bar between two familiar faces.
Our first pour comes courtesy of a five-gallon batch made by First Colony winemaker Brad and it's a doozy.
Available only at this time of year as grapes are harvested, the apperitif Ratafia is a mixture of just harvested chardonnay juice fortified with un-aged brandy, a refreshing combination that clocks in at 18%.
Holy moly, that woman at the door wasn't kidding.
All of a sudden, the room is abuzz with tongues loosened by this 1000 year old Italian apperitif and the night is off to a brilliant conversational start.
Before long, we are poured "Zephyr," a white blend of equal parts Petit Manseng and Vidal, with just enough Riesling and Viognier to matter, paired with swordfish tacos with pickled cabbage and salsa fresca, the wine as bright as the lemon-cilantro flavors of the tacos.
The man next to me tells me about his recent trip to New England - the radiator that died in Stowe, the DIY farm wedding in Portland with endless friends' readings and a delayed starting time, his detour to the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed Graycliff House in Derby - and I chuckle at the stories.
Our second course is a Cumberland County tomato stack (and may I just say here that the tomatoes in the first three courses were a testament to the beauty of September tomatoes, so ripe and juicy they act as sirens to even non-tomato lovers like the guy next to me) wit house made ham, Mozzarella and micro basil paired with First Colony's Rose.
Everything about this dish sings with flavor and freshness, a pink feast of food and drink.
I might also mention that technically, a stack is a vertical construct and this was more of a fanned array of tomato, cheese and ham, but it wasn't the time to argue semantics.
On my other side, I had a woman who tells me flat out, "I need some alone time with the ocean," as preamble to telling me about her upcoming trip to Virginia Beach (although a another guys assures me, "Virginia Beach is not the ocean") this week.
We discuss how essential periodic ocean face time is for our type and she shudders telling me she was once married to a man who never needed to see the ocean.
What kind of human depravity is this?
With the Meritage, a blend of Cab Franc, Cab Sauv, Petit Verdot and Merlot, we dive into lamb carpaccio with fried tomato confit, a dish ideal with the light-bodied wine.
On my way back from the bathroom, I spot a couple I know from Floyd Avenue and we bemoan missing seeing "A Hard Day's Night" at the Byrd Theater tonight.
In honor of the occasion, I am wearing a thrift store find so ideally suited to the time that I could be an extra in the film.
My navy blue shift has bright gold buttons laid out sailor-style for a dress that looks straight out of 1964, a friend informs me.
Sadly, I missed the movie - which I've never seen although my friend originally saw it at the Byrd, no less - but at least I looked the part of a screaming Beatles fan circa the swinging '60s.
It is when the Monrovia Farms braised beef over spaetzel with bleu cheese crumbles arrives with Petit Verdot poured in our glasses that the room goes suddenly quiet.
People are lapping up this rich combo of meat and pasta with cheese and ignoring their dinner companions as they do. Yum.
My nearby seatmate mentions that he's been to talks and tours by my favorite park ranger, Mike Gorman, and we take off on a tangent about historical photographs, enthusiastic historical tours and how we both like to geek out over such things.
The evening closes with Mountain View Swiss cheese from Lexington, laid out with cherry preserves and honeyed walnut paste and paired with fruity and smooth Claret.
The winemaker has spent the evening working the room, explaining his wines and the pairings, and finally settles down to enjoy some food.
I've discussed salsa dancing, vacation photos, the missing UVA student and any number of other topics with people around me throughout the evening.
So far, I've heard zero mention of the thatched roof at First Colony, clearly a much bigger deal to me than the rest of the room.
Clearly they've not had alone time with the thatched roof like I have or they'd have been far more interested.
Or perhaps they'd just had too much to drink. Perhaps.
Showing posts with label first colony winery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label first colony winery. Show all posts
Monday, September 22, 2014
Monday, August 25, 2014
Running into the Sun
Sometimes you feel fortunate just to have been asked to take a road trip on a certifiably gorgeous day.
And then it just keep getting better.
Our first goal was lunch and Tanglewood Ordinary presented itself just as the driver acknowledged he was hungry.
And the family dining outpost, with its bottomless fried chicken and sides - cole slaw, biscuits, cornbread, stewed tomatoes, mashed potatoes, black eyed peas, green beans - plus a second protein (in our case, pot roast), more than took care of some growling stomachs.
Our server, Zach looked to be about twelve, but since he delivered our Zorin Prosecco, I'm going to assume he was older.
I couldn't have been more surprised at the music, which began with Marvin Gaye and went downhill, but perhaps that's a function of starting at the top.
There's a particular charm to eating in a restaurant that's part rec room, part simulated log cabin and part home on the range while the Spinners' "Rubberband Man" is playing overhead.
Fully stuffed on wings and legs, my affable date and I soldiered on to First Colony Winery.
The purpose was a complete wine tasting, but my ulterior motive involved my previous visit to First Colony last November.
Then, I'd seen piles of rushes, part of the supplies to build a new thatched roof on the winery.
Today, nine months later, the bodacious new thatched roof was a thing of beauty, topped by a weathervane of a chicken, turning with the wind.
And not just lovely because of the use of age-old thatching techniques but because of the quality of the workmanship on the roof.
It wasn't just a run of the mill thatched roof, it revealed itself in three different ways.
One part of the roof was just rushes, neatly trimmed at the end, over the line of the house. Another part was like a cross-section, a side cut view of the rushes.
But the most intriguing section was purely decorative, with an "X" under a half curve, one after another, patterned along the roof line.
If only I could have seen part of the process to make that happen.
On the deck off to the side of the tasting room, a band called Mid Life Crisis did a credible job with songs such as "King of the Road" and "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" to a rapt, wine-swilling crowd and a couple of dogs.
Inside the tasting room, we'd timed it perfectly and the bustling crowds soon dissipated and we had the room to ourselves.
Moving through what our taster called the "porch pounders" - Chardonnay 2012, Rose 2013 and the Zephyr blend - also known as easy-drinking summertime wines, we savored Petit Verdot 2012 and marveled at Claret 2012, surprisingly not cloying despite 3% residual sugar.
Afterwards, we retired to the deck under the trees with the masses, glasses of the refreshing and fruit forward Rose to nourish us.
Couples danced and the rest of us watched as the band demonstrated why they always end up staying past the time their set ends: people are having too good a time to stop.
But we had bigger fish to fry and once our pink was history, headed up the hill to Blenheim Winery for our final goal and the main event.
It was my first farm to table Hill and Holler dinner and it was a doozy.
Chef Kyle Bailey of D.C.'s Birch and Barley and Church Key was preparing food while the entertainment was to be Jackson Browne.
Kind of a big deal.
I'm not sure I would have even said I was a fan, but an opportunity to see him live - especially at this point- seemed like a once in a lifetime opportunity. I was over the moon at having been invited.
Despite every attendee having been warned not to wear heels, there were dozens of women who ignored the advice and, as a result, spent the evening taking mincing steps in platform and spike-heeled shoes on a field of grass.
For the record, I wore flats.
The view was magnificent, looking out over a valley and toward mountains, everything especially deeply colored as dusk set in.
After a period of mingling (looking at old books in the library, talking to someone I knew ages ago, chatting up a stranger) with butternut squash soup with creme fraiche being passed, we took our seats under a canopy, all 140 of us.
Seems they'd tried to cap it at 100, then 125 and finally pulled in the reins at 140.
The only thing I can say in their defense is that it was a benefit for the Environmental Working Group so it was all for a good cause.
Next to me was Tom, a biologist, who quickly introduced himself and told me his age and his wife's name. Across from me sat the husband of a woman with the Environmental Working Group, while he worked with the Chesapeake Bay administration.
Looking around, the crowd was decidedly un-Richmond looking. In fact, most people looked so D.C., very self-important and busy.
As a native Washingtonian, I can make blanket generalizations like that about my people.
Everyone had barely found a resting place when Jackson himself took to the stage.
Looking remarkably like he did in the '70s (or at least pictures of him), the dark-haired Browne said, "I'm just going to sing three songs and hope they go with the wine pairings."
As if "Baby Blue" and "Looking East" wouldn't go with any wine. Pshaw.
His voice sounded amazingly like it did on the radio back in the day when Jackson Browne was on the radio, so it was no small thrill to hear him.
His encore was (duh) "Runnin' on Empty."
Gotta do what you can just to keep your love alive
Trying not to confuse it with what you do to survive
And then, poof! He was gone and it was farm table time.
Everything was served family style and first came cool pickled watermelon rind and marinated radish salad with arugula.
Panzanella, one of my favorite summer dishes, of Bellair Farms tomatoes, fresh pulled mozzarella and garlic with toasted bread came fast on its heels and both were paired with Stinson Vineyards Sauvignon Blanc.
With the deep blue of the sky fading to dark, we were served earthy gemelli with ground lamb, roasted peppers, cumin and yogurt, paired with Pollak Vineyards Cabernet Franc 2012.
A bit of conversation and I soon learned that the man across from me lives in Takoma Park, that last bastion of hippiedom in Maryland, although he seemed the antithesis of loosey-goosey hippies.
To go with King Family Meritage 2012, we had succulent roasted farm chicken with sweet potato and okra followed by beef tenderloin with eggplant and oyster mushrooms.
By this point, people's eyes were starting to glaze over with so much food and wine and beer (shucks, I didn't even mention the Blue Mountain Brewery selection that was also paired with that last course) being delivered regularly.
The pros among us persevered.
Dessert was pound cake with local peaches and cow's milk ricotta, served with a glass of Foggy Ridge Pippin Gold cider.
As you can imagine, by this point everyone was everyone's friend and the decibel level under the canopy had grown quite high blotting out the stillness of the landscape around us.
Everyone was still a little bit high about having just seen Jackson Browne perform and certainly the lovely meal and generously-flowing wine didn't hurt the vibe any.
Everyone I know, everywhere I go
People need some reason to believe
I don't know about anyone but me
If it takes all night, that'll be alright
If I can get you to smile before I leave
I don't know about anyone but me, but my smile was ear to ear long before I left.
Color me fortunate and then some.
And then it just keep getting better.
Our first goal was lunch and Tanglewood Ordinary presented itself just as the driver acknowledged he was hungry.
And the family dining outpost, with its bottomless fried chicken and sides - cole slaw, biscuits, cornbread, stewed tomatoes, mashed potatoes, black eyed peas, green beans - plus a second protein (in our case, pot roast), more than took care of some growling stomachs.
Our server, Zach looked to be about twelve, but since he delivered our Zorin Prosecco, I'm going to assume he was older.
I couldn't have been more surprised at the music, which began with Marvin Gaye and went downhill, but perhaps that's a function of starting at the top.
There's a particular charm to eating in a restaurant that's part rec room, part simulated log cabin and part home on the range while the Spinners' "Rubberband Man" is playing overhead.
Fully stuffed on wings and legs, my affable date and I soldiered on to First Colony Winery.
The purpose was a complete wine tasting, but my ulterior motive involved my previous visit to First Colony last November.
Then, I'd seen piles of rushes, part of the supplies to build a new thatched roof on the winery.
Today, nine months later, the bodacious new thatched roof was a thing of beauty, topped by a weathervane of a chicken, turning with the wind.
And not just lovely because of the use of age-old thatching techniques but because of the quality of the workmanship on the roof.
It wasn't just a run of the mill thatched roof, it revealed itself in three different ways.
One part of the roof was just rushes, neatly trimmed at the end, over the line of the house. Another part was like a cross-section, a side cut view of the rushes.
But the most intriguing section was purely decorative, with an "X" under a half curve, one after another, patterned along the roof line.
If only I could have seen part of the process to make that happen.
On the deck off to the side of the tasting room, a band called Mid Life Crisis did a credible job with songs such as "King of the Road" and "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" to a rapt, wine-swilling crowd and a couple of dogs.
Inside the tasting room, we'd timed it perfectly and the bustling crowds soon dissipated and we had the room to ourselves.
Moving through what our taster called the "porch pounders" - Chardonnay 2012, Rose 2013 and the Zephyr blend - also known as easy-drinking summertime wines, we savored Petit Verdot 2012 and marveled at Claret 2012, surprisingly not cloying despite 3% residual sugar.
Afterwards, we retired to the deck under the trees with the masses, glasses of the refreshing and fruit forward Rose to nourish us.
Couples danced and the rest of us watched as the band demonstrated why they always end up staying past the time their set ends: people are having too good a time to stop.
But we had bigger fish to fry and once our pink was history, headed up the hill to Blenheim Winery for our final goal and the main event.
It was my first farm to table Hill and Holler dinner and it was a doozy.
Chef Kyle Bailey of D.C.'s Birch and Barley and Church Key was preparing food while the entertainment was to be Jackson Browne.
Kind of a big deal.
I'm not sure I would have even said I was a fan, but an opportunity to see him live - especially at this point- seemed like a once in a lifetime opportunity. I was over the moon at having been invited.
Despite every attendee having been warned not to wear heels, there were dozens of women who ignored the advice and, as a result, spent the evening taking mincing steps in platform and spike-heeled shoes on a field of grass.
For the record, I wore flats.
The view was magnificent, looking out over a valley and toward mountains, everything especially deeply colored as dusk set in.
After a period of mingling (looking at old books in the library, talking to someone I knew ages ago, chatting up a stranger) with butternut squash soup with creme fraiche being passed, we took our seats under a canopy, all 140 of us.
Seems they'd tried to cap it at 100, then 125 and finally pulled in the reins at 140.
The only thing I can say in their defense is that it was a benefit for the Environmental Working Group so it was all for a good cause.
Next to me was Tom, a biologist, who quickly introduced himself and told me his age and his wife's name. Across from me sat the husband of a woman with the Environmental Working Group, while he worked with the Chesapeake Bay administration.
Looking around, the crowd was decidedly un-Richmond looking. In fact, most people looked so D.C., very self-important and busy.
As a native Washingtonian, I can make blanket generalizations like that about my people.
Everyone had barely found a resting place when Jackson himself took to the stage.
Looking remarkably like he did in the '70s (or at least pictures of him), the dark-haired Browne said, "I'm just going to sing three songs and hope they go with the wine pairings."
As if "Baby Blue" and "Looking East" wouldn't go with any wine. Pshaw.
His voice sounded amazingly like it did on the radio back in the day when Jackson Browne was on the radio, so it was no small thrill to hear him.
His encore was (duh) "Runnin' on Empty."
Gotta do what you can just to keep your love alive
Trying not to confuse it with what you do to survive
And then, poof! He was gone and it was farm table time.
Everything was served family style and first came cool pickled watermelon rind and marinated radish salad with arugula.
Panzanella, one of my favorite summer dishes, of Bellair Farms tomatoes, fresh pulled mozzarella and garlic with toasted bread came fast on its heels and both were paired with Stinson Vineyards Sauvignon Blanc.
With the deep blue of the sky fading to dark, we were served earthy gemelli with ground lamb, roasted peppers, cumin and yogurt, paired with Pollak Vineyards Cabernet Franc 2012.
A bit of conversation and I soon learned that the man across from me lives in Takoma Park, that last bastion of hippiedom in Maryland, although he seemed the antithesis of loosey-goosey hippies.
To go with King Family Meritage 2012, we had succulent roasted farm chicken with sweet potato and okra followed by beef tenderloin with eggplant and oyster mushrooms.
By this point, people's eyes were starting to glaze over with so much food and wine and beer (shucks, I didn't even mention the Blue Mountain Brewery selection that was also paired with that last course) being delivered regularly.
The pros among us persevered.
Dessert was pound cake with local peaches and cow's milk ricotta, served with a glass of Foggy Ridge Pippin Gold cider.
As you can imagine, by this point everyone was everyone's friend and the decibel level under the canopy had grown quite high blotting out the stillness of the landscape around us.
Everyone was still a little bit high about having just seen Jackson Browne perform and certainly the lovely meal and generously-flowing wine didn't hurt the vibe any.
Everyone I know, everywhere I go
People need some reason to believe
I don't know about anyone but me
If it takes all night, that'll be alright
If I can get you to smile before I leave
I don't know about anyone but me, but my smile was ear to ear long before I left.
Color me fortunate and then some.
Monday, November 11, 2013
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.
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.
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