We arrived in the D.O. Costers del Segre, after a harrowing ride where we lost one and almost lost me. I crawled out of Jose's vinomobile, leaving green Chris behind to sleep it off and with Jordi Sanfeliu, who was born and raised in this small hill top town, headed out into the hills, into astounding vineyards.
Jordi has icy blue eyes and a warm, self-effacing way of being. Everything is felt deeply. "People farm with chemicals, it's a drug," he said in his vineyard, poppy flocked with huge shards, slabs really of limestone. "But people are becoming more aware of vinos naturalos." All around him are terraced wheat fields, deeply terraced. There are lentils in flower. Almonds waiting to fruit. He has always farmed without chemicals, no pesticides and the agrarian model is poly. His vines are soaking in the benefit of multi-culti and he even has a personal vegetable garden in the midst. And between the vine rows, are volunteer wild leeks. Poppies. Poppies. I wanted to lie down and roll.
The dusk was coming slowly, like honey getting a chill.
And then we ended up in a cherry orchard right next to the vines. Every tree a different taste. A different size. The night was falling faster. In the middle of the tree was a BIG BOX. It was quiet. Jordi kneeled down (maybe there will be an illustration here one day) and put this box ON. It blared music. The lights started to flash. Disco! He cried. The boars, such a problem. They eat the grapes, but when they trip on the cord the music blares. The boars run away. No neighbors around to complain. What a brain. You know, this reminded me of when my grandfather in White Russia told me of hooking up crickets to match boxes. Inventive. There isn't much to do out there. And Jordi works so hard. So do his folks.
We left at nightfall and took over a house in a town that had one short road. We were drinking Jordi's trepat rose.
The kind of wine you just can drink and drink and drink. No sulfur. Why? Read the next book. I'm not sure I want to give it away here. Let me just say he never made wine, he didn't want to use sulfur. He searched the net. He met Laureano. (stay tuned. more photos coming)
I'm at JFK, at the bar, drinking a Hendrick's martini (pas mal) and just not feeling like going into it.
Chris felt better, color coming back. All good.
The next day, before we blew the day off. It was just too fantastic a little place to leave. Jose, Jordi and I went into a town to forage. We considered 
but settled on other meat bits and whatever vegetables we could scavenge. Heading back, we stopped in the vines to see Jordi's folks. Many of the grapes from these vines go into Frexinet of all places! His gorgeous fussed over grapes into those wines. I can't imagine.
From all reports, I made a rather sensational roasted cauliflower, and we frittered the day staring at the olive trees, drinking trepat rose, sweating in the angular heat and pretending (or at least I was) that I wasn't an angst ridden woman about just about everything in life,
The day ran like wild horses into the sunset. We drained the last drop of Trepat and left. Chris was restored to health.
Bye, bye piece of heaven.
2007 was his first vintage. He never made wine any other way. Jose Pastor imports. Should be arriving on US shores shortly.
The dusk was coming slowly, like honey getting a chill.
And then we ended up in a cherry orchard right next to the vines. Every tree a different taste. A different size. The night was falling faster. In the middle of the tree was a BIG BOX. It was quiet. Jordi kneeled down (maybe there will be an illustration here one day) and put this box ON. It blared music. The lights started to flash. Disco! He cried. The boars, such a problem. They eat the grapes, but when they trip on the cord the music blares. The boars run away. No neighbors around to complain. What a brain. You know, this reminded me of when my grandfather in White Russia told me of hooking up crickets to match boxes. Inventive. There isn't much to do out there. And Jordi works so hard. So do his folks.
We left at nightfall and took over a house in a town that had one short road. We were drinking Jordi's trepat rose.
The kind of wine you just can drink and drink and drink. No sulfur. Why? Read the next book. I'm not sure I want to give it away here. Let me just say he never made wine, he didn't want to use sulfur. He searched the net. He met Laureano. (stay tuned. more photos coming)
I'm at JFK, at the bar, drinking a Hendrick's martini (pas mal) and just not feeling like going into it.
Chris felt better, color coming back. All good.
The next day, before we blew the day off. It was just too fantastic a little place to leave. Jose, Jordi and I went into a town to forage. We considered 
but settled on other meat bits and whatever vegetables we could scavenge. Heading back, we stopped in the vines to see Jordi's folks. Many of the grapes from these vines go into Frexinet of all places! His gorgeous fussed over grapes into those wines. I can't imagine.
From all reports, I made a rather sensational roasted cauliflower, and we frittered the day staring at the olive trees, drinking trepat rose, sweating in the angular heat and pretending (or at least I was) that I wasn't an angst ridden woman about just about everything in life,
The day ran like wild horses into the sunset. We drained the last drop of Trepat and left. Chris was restored to health.
Bye, bye piece of heaven.
2007 was his first vintage. He never made wine any other way. Jose Pastor imports. Should be arriving on US shores shortly.
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