Plum Picking

I left the comfort of my lap-top today for a sojourn out in the orchards. Big Grand-dad would have been proud, as this was my first foray into the world of the "harvest." While I like to imagine that I slipped into the folds quite inconspicuously, I'm pretty sure I stuck out like a sore thumb with my pale arms, my novice hands and my american accent.

Jacob, the person in charge of the picking crew, said I looked like I was shopping in the orchards. Everyone has these canvas harvest

bags with a wide strap and a distend-able bottom so that when your satchel is filled, you can unlatch the bottom and let the plums tumble out into the bins. Most of the women and men wear the heavy bags slung over both shoulders or with the straps balanced on their head, (which surprisingly is how the Nepalese bore their harvest burdens,) but I took a slightly different approach. I put the strap on one shoulder, thinking that having one side free would allow me a greater range of movement when reaching for those high-flying plums. What I didn't realize was that this bag posture made the utilitarian bag look more like a personal, casually slung shopping purse. I can only imagine what I must have looked like out there, walking slightly dreamily through the rows, scanning the trees for the big, red plums and then reaching out to place my new picks into my little hip-slung satchel.

However, for all my out-of-place oddity, I absolutely loved spending the day out in the orchards. As with all things new and novel, I was enthralled with the whole process of the picking line; it’s amazing how much we relish what is different. Having spent all my working life behind a computer, doing something physical and present in your surroundings is immensely satisfying. I loved the fuzzy, dusty residue that was left on my hands at the end of the day, and I actually enjoyed the down-ward tug of a full picking bag. How great it is to work with something that has weight and shape!

Apart from the sheer physicality of it, the energy in the orchards was palpable and was like stepping into a different world. Unlike in the winery, where the product is already bottled and labeled, in the field I was working on the ground stage. Everyone with me was a worker on the farm, and it was nice to be in the minority. One of the hardest adjustments for me, when I first got to the Western Cape, was the inverse homogeneity of the people around me. In Malawi, I was normally the only white westerner around, while, in the Cape, I am almost exclusively surrounded by white South Africans. In this country, there are large separations between the cultures-- from the whites to the blacks to the coloreds (the names they use to refer to their own racial/cultural heritages)-- so it was nice, even if for just a moment, to get to sink into another sphere.

Of particular interest in this new world of the farm, was an older woman who led the team in my row. An expert picker, her hands seemed to flit from branch to branch with a speed and assuredness all their own. While I would pick one individual fruit at a time, relying on my sight to find the red in the undergrowth, she would dive into each plant, using her hands to search out the crop. The speed of her picking never faltered, and she seemed to be possessed of an inexhaustible store of meticulous energy. She had the most exquisite face, with crevices and textures of epic story, and I got to wondering how many harvests she had gone through.

For a long time, I fell into step behind her, trying to sink into her measured rhythm. I got to wondering-- what, if anything, does she daydream about?

While the women manned the lower part of the trees, picking the low lying fruit by hand, the men carried ladders to clean off the upper reaches. From top to bottom, man to woman, there is a great sense of humor shared by all the workers, a hilarity which is punctuated by the gender-bifurcation of this picking scheme. The men stand from their ladders, and call out jokes to one another, occasionally stopping to heckle one of the ladies below. They talk about the plum trees as females, and a constant rallying call among the men, when talking about the thickly laden branches, is "get up under those skirts, you never know what surprises you will find."

Like with the women-- who range in age from late teens to late seventies-- there is an amazing mix of the young and old amongst the men. From your weather-worn pickers of the older generation, you have your young fellows who saunter from tree to tree with the ladders jauntily slung over one shoulder. The demarcation in the generations can be seen in their head-ware. Two of my favorite young guys, who were particular "jowlers," wore an All Blacks hat and a NY yankees hat, while one of the most interesting older man wore a hat that he had made out of a springboch-- complete with horns and all. We think the older man may have been a witch doctor, but, even if not, his animalistic headdress was certainly a presence in the vineyard. The stark contrast between this home-spun, indigenous originality and the commercial, globalized baseball caps of the other boys was certainly a visible proof of the gulf that exists between the generations.

All in all, I was enthralled by my time in the orchards. I realize that I have an overly romanticized, reflective account of my time with the plums, but it really was a glimpse into a part of the farm life that had been, hitherto, hidden. At the end of the day, as in Malawi or Nepal, I found that what I took away from this short orchard jaunt was my impressions of the people. Hardworking and all too often care-worn, each seem to hold such a wealth of stories and experiences. Though there is a disappointingly sharp language divide-- they speak Afrikaans which I am only just, just beginning to learn-- there is more than enough in the faces and the interactions to keep the cultural observer utterly entranced.

Lazy Sunday

If you haven't noticed, there has been a big empty spot in my blog for the weekends. Chalk it up to not having very good internet in my little cottage or just not having enough time in front of the computer, but I thought that I would break with tradition and share a snippet from this past weekend.

Sunday was one of the nicest days that I have had in the valley thus far. Elgin's normally relaxed vibe ascended to a whole new level at the Gower's vineyard. Though most of the valley is enwrapped in a country charm, no estate has quite as much carefree charisma as the Gower estate. You drive up to do a tasting and wonder if you have trespassed onto a quaint family farm. The tasting house, (and I purposely used the term "house,") is filled with the an endearing hodge-podge of personal memorabilia that you would expect to find in someone's living room, and you can always expect a tasting to be drawn out to include drop-ins by the whole family. True to the intensely laid-back hospitality of the winery visits, the family put on a sunday afternoon luncheon amongst the trees.

I walked up to the winery not sure what to expect, and was greeted by the sweetest sound of all-- banjo cords raising a southern call. Though South Africa has a wide range of music, it falls decidedly short in the arena of Bluegrass and acoustics. You can imagine my surprise, then, when I heard not just a banjo, but a picked guitar and a harmonica floating on the summer haze. I had to pinch myself for a moment, to make sure that I had not been transported to an oak-filled lawn in Tennessee or thereabouts. The band's name is The Blacksmiths, and they are one of the few bluegrass bands in the country. While I was equally impressed by all, I came to find out that their banjo player is internationally recognized for his adroitness with a finger pick. For the whole of the evening, I was enwrapped in their music, and I kept trading chairs in order to get closer and closer to this transportive four-some.

After the music stopped, I went up to thank them for their playing, and, to be expected, they were thrilled to hear my American accent. I spent the next half an hour with them, going through my library of bluegrass music on the i-phone and discussing the merits of festivals like Strictly Hardly and Telluride. Although, I'm sure they would have preferred a toothless North Carolinian, straight off the slat-wood porch, I think they settled for an overly enthusiastic Texan.

With the amazing soundtrack in place, the mood was set and there was no where for this

party to go but up. The weather cooperated gloriously and there was a dappling of sunshine through the trees along with a cheerily ginger breeze. Big wooden tables had been set up in the small clearing and each was laden with a spread of cured meats, wheels of cheese, fresh bread, home-made spreads, fresh summer salads and, of course, in South African style, plates of freshly braai-ed meats. Suffices to say that this was a pure dionysian retreat-- there was no shortage of food, wine, or fantastic company. Everyone was in a posture of complete adherence and satiated laziness. Slung back over the chairs, people sat with their wide brimmed country hats and let the music and the charm of the afternoon hold sway.

Arriving at 1 pm, I didn't know what to expect, packing up at 8 pm, I didn't want to leave. It was truly one of those glorious days that float by in a perfectly lilting bliss; we watched the sun dip behind the hills wondering where the hours had gone. So, with a short dip in the dam and one last sip of wine, I went on the road home, pleasantly drained by a lazy sunday afternoon.

The Hard Life

Probably one of the hardest parts of my job here at Highlands Road is the “wine and dine.” Now, to the outsider, it may seem easy and even enjoyable to take long, leisurely lunches with potential clients, of which the constant fixture is a full glass of fantastic wine, but trust me—this IS hard work. I mean, how many of you have to sip on wine in the middle of the day? And how many of you have to concentrate on the finer points of pairing delicious food with even more delicious wine? Like I said, it’s hard work, but someone has to do it.

So today, at the vineyard, we played host to two very interesting chaps. One, a French expat, has been living in South Africa for 7 years. Turns out he grew up in Francophone Africa, switching from the Ivory Coast to Gabon and back again, before returning to France for university. After a short exchange at Berkeley (I informed him we could still be friends, rivalry and all,) and some work in the European wine industry, he headed down to the Western Cape to push his wine interests African style.

The second guy was a New Yorker. Because he was from Long Island, he had a decidedly mild New York accent and five children whom, he claimed, loved the outdoors ;). It was actually quite a nice surprise to have a fellow patriot at the farm. Since there are virtually no other Americans in the Valley, I value the chance to sit through a lunch and talk about the finer points of Saturday Night Live or the college basketball season. He is a distributor in the good ‘ol state of New York and is looking at bringing our wines into his corner of the world. The high population density of NYC along with the geographical spread into the Northeast would be invaluable to us, so we were more than happy to host this "yank" for a day!

So, fighting the difficulties of sitting down to a long wine lunch with the Frenchman and the American,

we were able to have a very productive afternoon discussing the importing potential of Highlands Road Estate and Belfield, (another amazing boutique winery here that produces an amazing cab called Magnifica.) Though my blog entries are often sparse about the business side of the wine industry, it suffices to say that wine deals are never made in a day. It often takes excessive wining and dining to build the personal relationships necessary to facilitate wine distribution. Thus, this lunch was a relative anomaly in the wine industry; in just one sitting, we were able to go from introductions to tangible steps for exportation. I guess I should work with New Yorkers more often!

The next time you are at a business lunch, try and add a little wine. See if it doesn’t make everyone just that much more amiable and amenable, and, while you’re at it, make it a bottle of Highlands Road Estate, I guarantee that it smoothes the way. J

Bob Watch #3: Quantum Computing

(Quantum Computing: a subject so beyond me I don't even understand the cartoon...)

So in all the traveling snippets I have given you about Aussie Bob, I have neglected to tell you about one of his most crucial and charming personality quirks-- Bob is a perpetually validated theorizer. When Bob materializes at the door, often with a cup of coffee in hand, he always has a story AND a theory ready to share. All of these theories are quite colorful and interesting and some of these theories have some sort of factual base. But whether he is right or wrong, has backing or not, Bob manages to tell these theories with such conviction and such flourish that the credence is of little import, or rather just part of the overall amusement of the situation.

On the occasion of our latest chat, over a delicious lunch, I tell Bob how I had just heard from Tash and John about a friend getting a PhD in Quantum Computing. Until now, I wasn't even aware of this new push into technological and theoretical bounds, and I wanted to share this amazing discovery with Bob. After mentioning this, Bob got this familiar twinkle in his eye and started with his usual "ahhhh...." (how he launches into every story or theory, fact or fiction.) He then goes on to tell me that he has read a lot about this. I was so excited-- Bob has an amazing store of knowledge and he truly knows something about almost everything. As I am pretty much clueless on this whole subject, I anxiously awaited some interesting anecdote to reveal to me something that I didn't know about Quantum Computing, (which would be just about everything.)

Taking a cue from my receptive posture, Bob launched into a story about how, a few years back, (and everything is a few years back for Bob-- the assassination of Kennedy as well as the founding of Australia,) there was this huge volcanic eruption that sent a gigantic dust cloud into the atmosphere. Worried about what the atmospheric effects of the dust cloud would be, the meteorologists, (according to Bob), used a new machine they had built that relied on Quantum Computing to predict the fallout. The information that this machine fed out, (once again according to Bob,) captured the effects perfectly and was the only 100%

accurate prediction of an atmospheric phenomena in history. Now, just to reiterate, I know NOTHING about Quantum Computing except that it is fun to say because it makes you feel smart. So other than being able to pronounce the words, everything to do with Quantum Computing is over my head. But, even from this point of complete ignorance, I can still sniff out a suspect claim. I told Bob that I was a bit dubious about his story, but he only responded with more certainty and a longer anecdote. I decided to let it go, to keep my reservations to myself, and to check on Google-- my general knowledge lifeline. I couldn't find the specific instance he referred to, but I can pretty safely say that the black hole of Quantum Computing has never been used in practical atmospheric modeling.

But, in the end, facts be damned. Isn't it so much more glamorous to imagine that this super-human, super-nerd computing system has been utilized in the real world to save the dusty day? Thus, even in his sometimes questionable theorizing, Bob is the best. Even if his theories don't always hold practical or factual weight, they produce such a great fantasy that I will choose his construction over any actuality. I think he would have been the best grand-dad, I can only imagine the stories he would have told a young Aussie bouncing on his knee!

The Bottling Line

There was such a sad void when I walked down to the vineyard today. The space in front of the cellar, which had been formerly occupied by a huge, self-contained bottling truck, was now only an empty piece of concrete. So sad. I missed the friendly clink of the bottling line as my morning salute. But I guess I can take solace in the fact that this is only one of the many planned visits of the bottling fairy-- our very own bottling day is still a week away.

As any novice to the full winemaking process, the bottling machine is a mesmerizing invention that seems like the mechanized pinnacle of the wine process and a true feat of modern technology. To see a bottling line housed in a cellar is enough to amaze, to see this same complicated dance of glassware unfolding within the limited confines of a trailer trunk is simply astounding. Like the wino's ultimate RV, this big truck drives from winery to winery to set up for a day or two and churn out thousands of bottles of wine. It was all just so cool to me: Barnum and Bailey's traveling wine show.

While I wanted desperately to step up and form a link in the human bottling chain, I was pretty confident that my presence on the line would do nothing but hinder the process. So I resigned myself to climbing up the little metal ladder and watching the process unfold from the corner of the truck (the only space not being fully utilized.) From my cramped vantage point, the bottling line truly looked like a scene out of Fantasia. Once on the machine, the bottles take on a life of their own; animated by the slotted belt underneath, the glass silhouettes seem to spin and scooch on a stage all their own, independent from the buzzing machine behind. They do a little dance as they twirl their way past the filling station and bump their way under the cap compressor. I almost wanted to go and grab my ipod and put on a waltz for this epic dance of the wines.

(Sadly this isn't my own pic of the bottling truck. With my cords for my camera still in air-mail, I had to settle for an internet photo, but, it all looks largely the same, just add a few more people and swap out the American for a few South Africans and you get the picture...)

Bob Watch #2: A little light reading

I was absolutely shocked when I looked back through my blog annuals to find that there was only one other entry under Bob Watch. Blasphemy! Of all the unique features on the farm and all of the crazy characters in the Valley, no one even holds a candle to my good 'ol Aussie Bob. I think part of the "bob silence" stems from the fact that there is just too much fodder. After all, how do you try to stymy the flow or harness the power of Niagara Falls?

(By the way, this picture to the left is "smart Bob"-- that collar, not commonly a fixture you see on 'ol Bob.)

So, in due homage to this amazing man, I will look backwards and begin by giving you a live map of Bob's life-long walk-about. But do remember, as you read about all the miles he has covered, that Bob's constant distance from his home in Australia has only served to strengthen, not weaken that Aussie accent.

Take a deep breath, because here goes.... About 45 years ago, Bob stepped off his beloved Aussie Island and headed to the South Pacific. From there, he traveled through many of the islands in the East—spending as long as 6 years in the high hills over Papau New Guinea before hopping over to Fiji, India and back again. At the end of this Eastern frolicking, Bob set out across the pond for his first trip to the Americas. He crossed through the whole of the United States by car, being paid by wealthy Florida vacationers who wanted their own vehicle at the resort, and continued up into Canada because he forgot to stop at the border. Having conquered this Western Frontier, Bob headed back to the more civilized Continent and settled in for a life in Britain. From the safety of his new island, Bob explored all corners of Europe, going from steamers in Britain to construction in Mallorca. Happily settled in his European life, I could never quite see Bob in Britain. His two shirt wardrobe with strict hole-y standards never quite seemed like a fit for his majesty's land.

So escaping fastidious dress codes, a Southern Wind lifted Bob again and landed him in Guyana, where he stayed for a few months working in a gold dredge, (this part deserves a few blog entries on its own,) before returning back to the Queen’s country. Having rested for a few years on the isle, and once again satiated with the cultivation he received in Europe, Bob set out for where he felt most at home—the Bush. Bob has crossed the African continent 3 times by truck, train, and god knows what else. A man of epic traveling proportions, I find myself truly lucky that it is here, at the Southern Tip of his travels, that Bob has finally decided to string up those walking shoes. His constancy is my gain and my narrative salvation!

Having traveled so much of the world, you sort of expect Bob to be a crusty, hardened traveler, but after 40 years on the road, his blue eyes are as sparkly and jovial as ever. To prove this point, let me tell you about the first visit I received from Bob after my return to the farm. As usual, Bob just sort of appeared in the door of

the office with a bellowing "How is it Moll," (at times his entrances remind me of Kramer--he just slides in from nowhere,) and hands me a book. Though I do not have the cords to load up a photo of the actual book he gave me, this internet photo of another version of the book cover gives you a pretty good idea, as does the photo of the author. Both belie the fact that this is, without a doubt, a woman's book, and, more than that, a woman's

feel-good, heart-throbby, late-night-trashy novel decidedly from the 80's, (which makes it even more emotional and cheesy, like Baywatch has in some way been infused into it.)

So in saunters Bob, and with a slightly pained, abashed look on his face, he hands me the book. In his best, gruff Aussie voice, he tells me about how he first picked up this book because there was ABSOLUTELY nothing else around. After a few pages he thought, "man I can't do this," but as the days stretched on and no other books materialized, he decided to give Stepping another try. In the end, he had decided that it was a really great story, a fantastic human interest angle that, though written for women, could be appreciated by both sexes alike. It was with high commendations that he, thus, passed along this literary treasure to me.

A heart of gold. And who said a tinkering, traveling, do-anything-and-everything-yourself, penal-colony native can't be in touch with his feminine side?

Wine Education: Part 1

Lesson of the day: Protein Stabilization.

This is what I like to think of as the pinch-pot process of wine. Wine makers claim that they are doing necessary work when they pull out the buckets of bentonite, but I know that they are just using it as an excuse to play around with a lot of clay. I mean, I would.

When mom and I were in Nepal, about to step into the Mustang Kingdom and bid wine farewell for the long, forsee-able future, we went into a last outpost and found 5 bottles of wine. Knowing that we were going to be far removed from such comforts for the remainder of our trek, we were ecstatic. The bottles had clearly been there a while and had been severely neglected in terms of upkeep, being kept in direct sunlight-- but beggars can't be choosers. Ready to buy the whole lot, we then took a closer look at the white wine to find that there were gossamer, white clouds floating throughout. Lucky for us we were in the mood for red.

What I hadn't realized at the time was that what I took as the wine "gone bad" was simply a case of no clay tottering for the winemaker. The whole process of protein stabilization is for nothing more than aesthetics-- it does nothing for the wine, (actually making the wine worse by tinkering with it,) except for keeping it nice and clear, like we like it.

For a bit of nerdiness because, well, I'm a nerd, the chemical process is pretty cool. The

clay itself is Bentonite which is more or less the clay that we liked to play with in elementary school. The same reason we liked to play with it-- it was infinitely malleable and stretchable and could make some pretty size-able pizzas-- is the same reason it is the perfect substance for this process. Bentonite has a huge surface area that can be used to filter through a whole tank of wine. The proteins in the wine, like proteins in eggs, get white when you cook them. These are positively charged and in order to remove these cloudy, white-hue producers, you have to use a negative charge. The negative charge of the bentonite, then, uses it's polarized charge to attract these positively charged proteins and, with it's big surface area, to catch the proteins as it drifts through the tank. So, in the end, Bentonite becomes like a huge net that is stretched across the top of the wine and pulled all the way to the bottom, collecting positively charged proteins in its web all along the way.

So yes, clay has been used in making your wine, but, rest assured, after it sinks to the bottom, the wine is taken off the clay residue. If you pick up on a clay character the next time you are drinking wine, sorry for that, but it probably wasn't from protein stabilization.

Overberg Roundabout

Though long overdue, I finally took a wine tour around the valley. Of course it took two visiting Brits to get me to all the places that I hadn't seen for the past four months, but it was wonderful to step into the tourists shoes. I loved this place before, but now I am about ready close up shop and open up my own tour company for this region alone. So here is my fragmented place by place breakdown, if only you had all been with me for the sampling.

Our first stop was just down the Mountain from Elgin, at a place called Bot River, which is perhaps even a bit more delightfully provincial than Elgin. A farmer's town through and through, it is most known for it's quirky wine barrel festival which consists of wine makers and wine drinkers alike racing barrels down the main street of the podunk town. The wine maker at Luddite, Neil, is a rather large man. He came in 13th in the barrel race with his aptly named "Luddite Barrel Boys" team.

It was about 100 degrees when we pulled up to the farm and began looking for the shaded coolness of the tasting room. As we walked onto the verandah, we saw Neil, the wine maker, sitting around the table with four others pouring freely from an open bottle on the table. Unsure of if we had happened upon an early morning happy hour among friends, we contritely approached. With a big slap on the back and a broad grin, he welcomed us to the table and told us there was only one wine, the shiraz on the table, but that we should go ahead and pour ourselves whatever we wanted. Luddite really contains the best of Bot River-- a no-fluff, casual approach and one of the best Shirazs I have ever tasted.

It had been the 2005 Shiraz that was sitting opened on the table, and I really don't have enough good things to say about it. One of my favorite Shirazs I have ever had, it is subtle and deep and had an almost cinnamon/clove to it-- which is just to say that, like it's owners, it had it's own understated funk and swagger.

Two other great things about Luddite, (which I'm clearly enamored with,) is that Neil's wife cures her own sausage and prosciutto and that they designed and decorated their own tasting room. As unique as the wine, the tasting room had a floor made of barrel heads and a chair made out of the front of a car. The barrel top floor had been hand done and imbetween each wood round someone had hand painted the floor black. The overall effect was a modern wine retro that the "car seat" in the corner only augmented.

Our next stop was a far cry from Luddite, both in terms of individual charm and vino quality, but it was an oddity to the valley in a completely different way. Gabrielskloof was built over the past couple of years and opened it's door only in October of 2009. Brand new, it gives off the feeling of newly manufactured grandure in a town that is anything but uppity or grand. More like a Stellenbosch property than an Overberg property, the construction is flawless, the scale massive and the charm mostly lacking. There isn't the rustic personal touch, you don't walk into a tasting room set up like the owners own living room, but it does execute the commercial perfectly. Not too much to say about their wines, I wasn't too fond of their Sauvignon Blanc or Rosé, but their Red blend was a good every day wine. Like the building, the wines were all fairly "big," they may do well in competitions but they don't have the subtle flourish of your Luddite or, ahem, Highlands Road :)

Still, the food there was great-- we had the meat and cheese platter-- and I can't emphasize enough that this large restaurant is a truly unique fixture in the Overberg. Like a bit of Disneyland in the hill country, it has a beautiful dining room, perfect inner landscaping, and a fantastically diverse menu. Every establishment has it's place, and Gabrielskloof brings the big swagger into the valley. Oh, and the winery came in 1st, 3rd and 4th at the Bot River barrel challenge under the different auspices of Gabriel's Kloof, Gabriel's Kloof- Barry's team, and Gabriel's Kloof-- Kobie's team, so I guess there are quite a few formidable barrel rollers on premise.

From Gabrielskloof, we headed back over the mountain to its more commercial Elgin cousin--Paul Cluver. However, unlike Gabrielskloof, Paul Cluver was a pioneer to the valley, his wines on the whole are quite well recognized, and it was and remains a completely family owned enterprise. In fact, a couple of days before I got back there was a huge fire in the mountains around Elgin. In an attempt to stemie the growing blaze around the farm, the Cluver clan amassed to fight the fire. Papa Cluver, who is about 75, took the lead, but when a gust of wind came, the fire swiftly changed direction and engulfed him in flame. Luckily, Dr. Cluver knew to stop, drop and roll, but he still sustained burns on about 20% of his body. You have to respect a patriarch who would roll through fire to save his vineyard.

Paul Cluver's wine in general is very well received and well accoladed. His Chardonnay has five stars and just about everything else brandishes four. I have to say, though, that I was more enthused with his tasting room bar and table, which is made from in-tact oak tree trunks, than most of his wine. But in his and my defense, I think that table is one of the coolest I've ever seen, so it would have taken alot to top those trunks. So yeah, his wouldn't be my favorite in the valley but it's still really really good. I particularly like his Gewurztraminer, which is the only one I know of in the valley. His Chardonnay was also good in that really big, oaky way if you like that style; just so happens that I'm not such a Chardonnay fan.

Our next stop was my long neglected and prominent neighbor: Oak Valley. In addition to being a rather large wine estate, they are a cattle ranch, pig farm and mountain biking haven. Large oak trees line the entrance to the property-- hence the name Oak Valley-- and single track paths snake up into the surrounding hills.

Back to the typical Elgin style, their tasting room consisted of a small, well appointed room and a fantastically friendly AND knowledgeable pourer. Ebony the Aussie has long been someone that I "had to meet" in the valley, and it was great to finally put a face to the bubbly reputation.

To begin, the wines were fantastic. Sounds silly that I wouldn't have tasted their full range before, but when you are surrounded by your own labels, you don't often get your hands on your neighbors'. In great Elgin style, their Sauvignon Blanc is both infinitely age-able and delicate. While we were there, Ebony decided to pour the 2004 Sauvignon Blanc, and just like our 2007, the years had done incredible things to the wine. Still maintaining all of the single minded purity of a Sauvignon Blanc, it had now attained a more serious, food style status that would allow it to hold up to any other varietal in a unique brand of "richness." Mmm Mmm. Their Chardonnay was also my favorite that I've had around here. As I said before, not a big Chardonnay fan, but theirs seemed to have a zest and lift without being that ponderously, overwhelmingly buttery/woody Chard. I would gladly gladly drink bottles of this one! Lastly, their Pinot Noir was pretty awesome. While ours is much more in the French style, theirs reminds me more of Washington/Oregon-- though it's a bit deeper in color and a little less, I dunno how to say it, zesty/jammy?? In other words, I honestly liked it better than a lot of the WA ones I've tried-- Go Oak Valley.

While the wine was fantastic, the highlight may have been the large leg of ham that was perched on the back bar in the tasting room. When I brought it up, Ebony seemed a bit daunted-- turns out Aussies aren't schooled in the art of ham haunch carving (too anatomically different from the sheep, I should think.) But, with the giant, giant knife, she did manage, and we got to taste some pretty great cured meat. A bit salty at the moment, the pigs had lived on a diet of acorns, which, though I had never heard of it, is apparently a very high-brow, spanish style of raising pigs. I guess the squirrels now have a cause to fight against.

We finished our day at Almenkerk which is the valley's super fancy, super high tech new winery. Though the level of technology in the cellar is much more Napa-esque, Joris and Natalie are decidedly and thoroughly Eligonian. They are the ones who have a quiz night every month for which the winning prize is... pride, and in their amazing cellar they have a fireman's pole that you are encouraged to swing down, dance on or even shimmy up. They are really cool people who are passionate about their wine.

Though they have over 100 hectares, they have decided to put only 15 into cultivation; for the rest they are going to let the native flor and fauna re-conquer. Their cellar is phenomenally open and well laid out with probably round about 12 tanks. Why, you may ask, would they have so much tank space for only 15 hectares of Sauvignon Blanc, because they are budding wine scholars. All of this tank space allows them to keep blocks of grapes separate and really allows them to play with the juice. If desired, they can use two different tanks for a small, specific section of grapes and test out things like, what is the difference in the profile is we harvest later, expose them to more sunlight etc. Pretty cool and fantastic, catch is you have sufficient funds to have a ton of "unused" tank space, and sufficiency is not easy to gain in this case.

So, here was a not-so-little snippet tour of the Elgin/the Overberg, and does it make your jaw drop when I tell you these are only a small fraction of the amazing places here? These were the only the ones I hadn't seen, just wait for reports of the rest!

Back in the Saddle

After LONG LONG days of traveling, I am back in South Africa and, well, it feels good. I feel, first, that I owe an explanation (though most of you have already heard my underly dramatic tale,) as to my long hiatus from the blog and from the Vineyard. It all comes down to a little thing people like to call "the law" and a little thing that can happen to you if you don't follow it in a foreign country, "deportation."

So here is a short little version of my "run-in" with South Africa's Home Affairs. When I went to go take care of my visa (which, admittedly, was about 6 days overdue,) I was wisely counseled by my sage sister to go into the US consulate beforehand just to make sure things ran smoothly on the South African side. After penetrating the huge protective structure that is the US consulate and presenting my passport documents, I was told to take a seat as my passport was taken to the back to the buildings inner sanctum. About an hour later, the head US consulate emerged and told me that I had overstayed my visa by a month and six days and that a trip home for Christmas was strongly encouraged. Turns out that the authorities had started my visa when I connected through Joburg airport to Malawi, a month before I ever actually arrived in South Africa to stay. So, not feeling up to taking my chances and the possibility of spending a night in the South African jail, I took the advice of the consulate and scooted on back to Texas.

It was absolutely amazing being home for the holidays, and I really am grateful for my lack of lawfulness. It was pretty easy leaving the country-- the Home Affairs/passport checkers were more interested in flirting and getting me to stay in the country than taking care of this American renegade. Almost disappointingly anti-climactic, I went through the line and was given a fine but no shackles, trips to a concrete interrogating room, or even stern warnings. They were all smiles and chatty as could be about my "overstay."

Yesterday, on my way back into South Africa, having paid my fine and expecting no delays at all, I was finally given the trip to the back room that I'd wanted so much on my departure. But far from my imaginative constructions, the room was not a concrete block with a naked bulb hanging over a dilapidated wooden chair but a normal office with stuffed couches and family pictures on the desks. I guess I was finally given the drama of being taken to the back, but, for god's sakes South Africa, at least paint your walls a darker color of cheery yellow! Would it be too much to ask for some dim lighting and a metal table?

Overall, though, the 48 hour long haul was quite manageable. It began rather precariously-- I was given a middle seat next to a man with gold chains who had already staked his claim to MY arm rest-- but turned out to be a rather charmed journey. Before take off, I left my middle seat and took up a window seat across the aisle. My seat partner, a pilot, was then moved to first class and I ended up with a whole row to myself-- not bad considering my humble cramped beginnings.

In London, I had a 12 hour layover which, admittedly I was less than enthused about. To complicate matters further, my summertime South African ware was a poor match for the storm of the year that was rolling through the UK. Determined to brave the weather, I put on everything I had in my carry-on which consisted of three hoodies and a scarf. If you get preppy credit for three popped collars, do you get underpass credit for wearing three hoods? I felt like the hoodlum bag lady of many colors-- I had a red hood, a green striped hood and a fur lined blue hood-- and did have a bit of trouble looking anyone in the eye at the Tate Modern.

But despite my haggard look, it was a great half day in the city. I went to St Paul's cathedral for sunday communion, the Tate Modern for a fantastic guided tour of the "poetry and surrealism" exhibition, and Covenant Gardens for a beer and ballet. Not bad for 12 hours. The pub I went to in Covenant Gardens was fantastic-- it was down a small winding alley way and it was called the Lamb and the Flag. Going in, it felt just as drab and English as all good pubs should be. My snakebite was served in the "traditional" or "only correct way" which is to say the English way-- a bit of black current syrup with my cider/lager mix. Also, as any good pub should, the menu was limited to Fish and Chips or Chicken, Roast Beef or Roast Pork with yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots and gravy. Mmmm Mmmm Mmmm, love the British fare or at least the idea of it.

Then, the real charmed moment arrived. Walking through Covenant Gardens (where it started to snow, the flakes collecting in all three of my colorful hoods and beginning to weigh me down,) I saw a bunch of people milling around in the lobby of one of the Theatres. Having about 2 hours before I had to be back at the airport, I decided to go in and see if there was a show on.

Turns out, the first act of the English National Ballet's "Snow Queen" had just ended. I think they must have felt sorry for this American bag lady because when I turned to leave, they offered me a free ticket. Slightly more shaming than walking through the Tate modern, my three hood look was a bit unorthodox for the London Ballet-going crowd. Whatever embarrassment suffered, though, was more than worth the chance to see this performance. The sets were spell binding and I really don't know the last time I have seen a Prima Ballerina with such grace. The Snow Queen ballerina was absolutely mesmerizing with had the most poignant lines of any dancer I have ever seen. Truly truly incredible, there is nothing quite like a ballet to relax and hypnotize you before an 11 hour flight into Africa.

It was all a bit of a blur that became quite surreal on the flight over Africa. Looking out the window at night, flying over Western Africa, there were no electric lights to be seen only semi-circles of fire blaze. As beautiful as the bright white Western Ballet was, the night time vistas of Africa were extraordinarily and surreally beautiful. Talk about fodder for my plane flight dreams...