TRAVEL I MEMOIR
Wine, Words, and Wanderlust
A Bacchic journey in Tuscany
I’m ravished! I’m rapt!
Heav’n finds me admissible.
Lost in extacy! blinded! invisible!
Hearken, all Earth!
We, Bacchus, in the might of our great mirth; —
To all who reverence us, and are right thinkers;
Hear, all ye drinkers!
— Francesco Redi, Bacco in Toscana (Bacchus in Tuscany,) 1685
Waking with the first light of dawn, I drove through the vine-clad hills of Tuscany, where the countryside bathed in shades of gold and green along the rows of grapevines.
The day was brightening, and the sky unfolded a breathtaking view above. Luca warmly welcomed us as I arrived at a picturesque winery amidst the Tuscan fields.
The villa, painted in a warm Tuscan yellow with charming green-shuttered windows, was timeless. The surroundings were like a dream, the air filled with the delightful scent of ripe grapes.
It felt like stepping into a pastoral idyll of Francesco Redi, where “Taking his rounds divine , Pitch’d his blithe sojourn on the Tuscan hills….”
There were six of us, and Luca led us through the sprawling vineyard. The rows of vines looked gorgeous under the autumn sun. Amidst the vines, olives hung from nearby trees, and lemons swayed, adding a touch of vibrancy to the landscape.
Many of these vineyards were once owned by local farmers but had fallen into disrepair, often due to the farmers’ old age. Over time, Luca and his partner refurbished these vineyards, practicing organic farming and collaborating with these elderly farmers— it’s a heartfelt journey of revival, partnership, and community-building.
Luca proudly shared that they had transitioned to making organic wines. He explained their process of viticulture and vinification, emphasizing their commitment to sustainability and biodiversity — “We tend our vineyards without herbicides and preserve the natural vegetation in the soil.”
You see the beam here from the sky
That tips the goblet in mine eye;
Vines are nets that catch such food,
And turn them into sparkling blood.
Come then-in the beverage bold
Let’s renew us and grow muscular;
And for those who’re getting old,
Glasses get of size majuscular
— Francesco Redi, Bacco in Toscana (Bacchus in Tuscany,) 1685
“This,” Luca proudly gestured to a row of grapevines heavy with plump, ruby-red fruit, “is our pride and joy, the Sangiovese!”
“And over there,” he added with excitement, “we have the Foglia Tonda — once almost forgotten, a hidden treasure of oenological history.”
They cultivated a captivating collection of rare and ancient varieties — like Pugnitello, Abrostine, Bonamico, and Abrusco. Each vine has a story to tell, reflecting their passion for preserving the diversity and richness of the winemaking heritage.
I eagerly followed Luca, scribbling down every detail. In those moments, I briefly imagined the life of a wine taster and felt a subtle pang of regret for not pursuing it as a career. There was so much to know and discover — he was revealing new insights at every turn. I always return to my journal at the end of the day, where I meticulously compile these discoveries — it’s genuinely fascinating to relive these notes and reflect on the knowledge.
Pour then, pour, companions mine,
And in the deluge of mighty wine
Plunge with me, with cup and with can,
Ye merry shapes of Pan,
Ye furnishers of philosophic simile,
The goatibeardihornyfooted family.
Pour away, pour away,
Fill your gasping clay
With a pelting shower of wine..
— Francesco Redi, Bacco in Toscana (Bacchus in Tuscany,) 1685
We entered a cozy tasting room filled with wooden barrels, where we commenced our journey into the world of wine. Each pour was accompanied by carefully curated snacks and cheese, complemented by music that seemed to enhance the flavors of the wine.
The tastings continued, and I happily indulged. Soon after, we moved to another stunning setting — a beautiful kitchen nestled amidst the vineyards, where we were to make pasta together. The kitchen was alive — flour piled high, eggs lounged casually waiting for their moment in the culinary mix. Rolling pins and cutting boards stood ready. By the time we started making pasta, we were all in high spirits — thoroughly enjoying the experience and feeling the effects of our wine-filled adventure.
The chef, ever kind and patient, guided us through the pasta-making process with a smile. Meanwhile, my dough seemed to mimic the carefree dance of the vines, twirling into varied ravioli shapes. It was a joyous chaos of my culinary escapade.
We gathered on a shaded porch beneath a terracotta roof for lunch, overlooking the sun-drenched vineyard. The atmosphere was lively, with intriguing conversations and laughter. Connecting with people from around the globe always enriches our collective experience.
Finally, our ravioli arrived — despite the quirky ravioli shapes, the flavor was scrumptious. I suspected the chef added her special touch later. We playfully inspected each other’s plates to see whose shapes turned out the worst, only to realize they were all the same — perhaps the chef had mixed them up.
The joy of cooking, eating, and conversing in a magical setting was precious.
It was a perfect day of shared camaraderie, and simple happiness of discoveries. Before bidding farewell, I visited their shop and handpicked bottles of my favorite wines, along with jars of local olives to savor later. These tangible souvenirs captured the magic of my experience — a magical blend of wine, words, and laughter in the heart of Tuscany’s picturesque countryside.
Until our glasses clink again, I’ll cherish my Tuscan memories!
This well of a goblet, so round and so long,
So full of wine, so gallant and strong,
That it draws one’s teeth in its frolics and freaks
And squeezes the tears from the sides of one’s cheeks,
Like a torrent it comes, all swollen and swift,
And fills one’s throat like a mountain rift,
And dashes so headlong, and plays such pranks,
It almost threatens to burst the banks.
No wonder; for down from the heights it came,
Where the Fiesolan Atlas, of hoary fame,
Basks his strength in the blaze of noon,
And warms his old sides with the toasting sun.
Long live Fiesole, green old name!
— Francesco Redi, Bacco in Toscana(Bacchus in Tuscany,) 1685
