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Journalism of Courage
Get tipsy on the charms of Hunter Valley in New South Wales,Australia
Tamburlaine was a ferocious invader,but my wine is ambrosia. Nothing of the evil of the Mongol warrior,but,trust me,the wine is as intense. Adjusting his mop of snow-white hair,Mark Davidson,one of the biggest vintners of Hunter Valley,pauses in his deliberation on the etymology of his famous wine,Tamburlaine. He did not come up with the name,but hes used to having to rustle up an explanation for the wine connoisseurs who are invariably intrigued by it.
In Australias oldest wine-producing region,the lush Hunter Valley,hundreds of vineyards,cellar doors,and wineries,the stories and the grapes get more captivating and intriguing at every vine. People will tell you of the doctor who had a surgery room on the first floor and a wine brewing corner on the ground floor of his log home; the Italian who could adroitly handle the scalpel and the sniff the Shiraz in one long breath. And of the vintner who so loved his mother that he created a Rosé blend but dropped the accent and named it after his mother Rose. Of that day in 1797 when a livid lieutenant who was searching for escaped convicts chanced upon the Hunter River from which the wine region borrows its name. That opinionated but amateur viticulturist called James Bugsy,who first moseyed into the valley with 500 vine cuttings.
In the Valley,the grapes would have had to wait; it was 8,000 rose plants,hundreds of magnolias,miles of orange trumpet creepers and rows of camellias that first beckoned. By the beige sandstone arches in the Hunter Valley Gardens,the pink pansies fluttered in the morning breeze,and as the buggy ambled through immaculate pathways,a dream world unfolded in the gardens that have been diligently planned by the Roche family.
Spread over 100 acres,the stone ducks,the Indian garden with colossal elephants,the red pagoda,horses of Brokewood Mountains galloping within the topiary make for such an enchanting floral motif that you wonder when the world wriggled into a chintz sheath the pinks edging out the yellows,and the oranges jostling with the fuchsia. But it is the Storytellers World that had me nostalgic in the middle of the garden the Mad Hatters Party was chiselled in stone. On a toadstool sat an elf,Jack and Jill tumbled down a grassy hill and Georgie and Porgie looked pudgy even in their painted stone pinafores and breeches.
Oh! You are a teetotaler. You must be quite an exception here. Quite like the Brigidine nuns,are you? Swirling his glass of red wine,a fellow traveller was getting sarcastic. We were in front of the Peppers Convent,a wooden building about 600 km away in Coonamble,which was once the retreat of the Brigidine Order of nuns. Interestingly,the convent building was dismantled and transported to the Pepper Tree Winery on large trucks,and where the dowels were then nailed and the banisters painted to metamorphose the convent into a chic hotel,next to which sits the Roberts restaurant; Hunter Valleys signature restaurant.
Before I could kneel and say a prayer,the sound of horses hooves startled me. I looked askance at the noisy intruders into the placid scene,to find Lance making a dramatic entrance in a green,old-world carriage drawn by a pair of Scottish horses. Lance looked dapper in his cowboy hat and bushy sideburns. The Pokolbin horse carriage relives the bygone age when Hunter Valley and Australia was shedding its notoriety as a British penal colony; planting the first vines and the roses in the valley where the Hunter river gurgled by.
When I walked into Hope Estate a little later,it wasnt the wine stacked neatly in painted racks that first caught my attention; it was a huge pipe spewing endless litres of burgundy liquid into a huge steel container. Never before had I seen so much grape juice,certainly never before seen it frothing out of a large-mouthed hose. At the Hope Estate,chairs were being lined up for an Eric Clapton concert. I kicked off my stilettos and rolled up my dungarees to stomp on a mound of grapes; a tradition dating back to 200 BC Rome. I initially felt guilty to stomp on the grapes with my bare feet,but soon enough,Id crushed enough grapes to a dark and gooey pulp that could have filled two goblets.
So,Hunter Valley did not tempt you to break the no-alcohol vow? asked Bilby,a Keralite,and probably the only Indian working in a Hunter vineyard. Jaded with having to answer the same question repeatedly with a poker-faced no alcohol in my DNA excuse,this time I took to beatific wit,saying,Im like the angels who drink the wine escaping from the bungs. For,in Hunter Valley the winemakers dont complain about the evaporated wine; they call it the Angels share. That was only half a lie; I may not have had the Angels share of wine,but I did go home intoxicated.
FACT FILE
Getting there
Hunter Valley is almost a three-hour drive from Sydney. You can book a wine tour which includes pick-up and drop off from Sydney and wine-and-cheese tasting. It can be a great weekend escape from Sydney.
Where to stay
There are several options; some of the best accommodations include Peppers Guest House,Peppers Convent,Crowne Plaza.
What to do
Visit the Hunter Valley Gardens,shop in the Gardens complex; hop on to a horse carriage for an old-world experience; dine at Chez Pok and Roberts; go hot-air ballooning,skydiving; do not miss wine and cheese tasting.
