A glass of the divine

I was recently asked to fill in a form which asked: “Have you had any drugs or alcohol in the past two years?” It was not easy to answer as I was keen to go off-line from society for 10 days on a farm where there is no wine and you remain cross-legged in silence. I can never tell a lie and mentioned something about perhaps once having a sip of Bouchard Finalyson Pinot Noir 2009 while listening to Edith Piaf.

I got in! But it made me think more about spirituality and wine. And, as my mate Roger Scruton (beloved author of I Drink therefore I am: A philosopher’s Guide to Wine) says, “Although wine is not necessary for holiness, holiness is a wonderful addition to wine.” And I love that we concur that the greatest wines grow in sacred places as Scruton sites: “The temples of Roman gods, the gardens of monasteries and the terrace hillsides where calvaries parcel out land.” And then he yaks on, quite rightly, about therefore being suspicious of the wines of Australia and New Zealand.

So, I reckon the grapes of Bouchard Finlayson wines must be grown on sacred grounds where Edith Piaf wanders on moonlit nights singing her little French heart out while embracing the small grapes to her fine bosom, or embracing the fine grapes to her small bosom.

Amstel Adams reckons the Bouchard Finlayson Pinot Noir 2009 is like the ink that James Bond squirts out of his submarine to cover his tracks on a mission in the movie Octopussy. Indeed, this is a wine that is mysterious and tends to cover one’s flaws, especially if drunk in copious amounts. The wine is like watching a sugar bird sipping from the nectar of a pin-cushion protea, and for once not being avocado with envy. But Scruton would, with far more beauty, say, “The barely discernable foxiness of the grape sounded like a deep organ note beneath the choir of summer perfumes. A spicy glow filled the mouth and a deep murmur of fruit echoed in the belly. I recognised the red rocky soil, the humid air, the insectladen breezes, all squeezed into this deep black bottled-up grape, and then released in ecstatic clouds across the table.” Actually, I think he was banging on about a bottle of Horton’s Norton, the one that stormed from the bottle like a cloud of hornets, so don’t ever believe a word I repeat. Humid air in the Cape, I ask you.

I just don’t know how I shall cope being silent for 10 days thinking about nothing. And without a drop of good wine. My mother was most concerned.

“It will drive you mad, don’t do it!” she yelled down the phone.

“Why do you do this to yourself? I will buy you a crate of Bouchard Finlayson if it will change your mind, just don’t do it.”

I explained it was my equivalent of going to church, and going off-line for any of us is a wonderful most magical thing.

“Where is it?” she further enquired.

“On a lovely farm somewhere near Worcester.”

“Is it a township?”

“No, it is not a township mummy.”

“Is it run by a bunch of Indians then?”

“Indians? A bunch? Yes, yes, Indians.”

“Oh good. At least they’re gentle people.”

At this stage my signal miraculously went silent and so too did I, for 10 blissful days. Now which wine and with whom shall I break my fast?