Wine Tasting in Central Otago

We've just spent three days in central Otago, tasting wine in searing autumn temperatures, standing in wineries, just feet away from rows of plump grapes ripening on the vine, swilling pinot noirs and chardonnays and pinot gris and reislings and sauvignon blancs around our mouths, squirting them between our teeth, gurgling them noisily over our palates to oxygenate them, and then, always, without fail, without even thinking, 'But it's not even 11 o'clock in the morning yet,' swallowing them with a gulp.

Then pausing with a practiced air, our heads cocked to one side, as if listening very carefully to something in the distance, while we pretend to appreciate the afterfinish.

And then driving half a mile down the road to the next winery. And repeating. And then driving a little farther and doing it again. And again. As the sun climbs higher. All day.

Driving through the goldfields, along tight dusty passes that thread between imposing mountains, next to deep gorges cut by cataracts of bright blue, glacier-fed rivers, to the next winery, with its well-tended vines looking in the distance like a green tabletop, half-hidden by the peaks, made pale by the early morning mist.

Heaven. (ck)