“In falling seeds of rain”*

Posted on 23 September 2025 by sheg4184

For the past couple of weeks, we have been pottering through Scotland, from south to north, enjoying hairy Highland ‘coos’ and plenty of tartan. There’s barely a real Highland cow to be seen, though – just a multitude of the soft toy, made-in-China variety in twee souvenir shops. Oh! And water. Water, water everywhere…in the sky, in the lochs, (and the locks!), in the rivers, the canals and the sea. And there were several castles, but I’ll get to those later.

Weather plays a major role in any trip to Scotland. So far, we have been lucky, dodging in and out of rain bursts that blow over quickly – but it’s wise to take those waterproofs for those just-in-case moments.

Our first night in the land of my ancestors was spent on a small and pretty loch, south-west of Gretna Green, and included a fleeting visit to Kirkcudbright, pronounced, most confusingly, Kir-coo-bree, a pretty, coastal town that has become something of a haven for artists, where the One & Only was keen to meet a local print maker. By lunchtime, we were en route to meet friends in Glasgow.

Glasgow, once labelled the European City of Culture, is certainly rich in art galleries and museums. There are also many elegant churches and plenty of beautiful red sandstone buildings from the 19th century. Sadly, many are derelict, or heading that way, and it is a shame to see such elegant architecture deteriorating before my eyes. Oh! for the wherewithal to return them to their former glory. Local artists have tried to pep them up with some super murals, but unfortunately, ‘tagging’ is almost as popular here as it is in Melbourne.

I am not one for pounding pavements indefinitely, so was delighted to find a wooded path along the Kelvin River, that took us on a gentle stroll from the Botanic Gardens to the Kelvingrove Art Gallery & Museum – a sumptuous and palatial building nestled into a soft curve of the river. Lord Kelvin is to Glasgow what Macquarie is to Sydney. We passed a plethora of streets and parks, a bandstand and a statue, all named for this eminent Victorian inventor and scientist. Although not a native Glaswegian (he was born in Belfast) he had a life-long association with Glasgow University. His father was appointed Professor of Mathematics when Kelvin was only six, his older brother James was a Professor of Civil Engineering and Mechanics, and Kelvin himself would be Professor of Natural Philosophy at the University of Glasgow for forty-three years. He also became the first British scientist to be knighted. A studious family to say the least!

Leaving Glasgow and the illustrious Lord Kelvin behind, we headed north again, swiftly passing Loch Lomond and several smaller lochs with great names, such as Loch Oich and Loch Lochy. Yes, really. Apparently, there are more than 31,400 freshwater lochs in Scotland, which includes thousands of smaller ‘lochans’ (or puddles!). We eventually reached our destination, just shy of Inverness, the capital of the Highlands. Drumnadrochit has become a tourist town, its northern end packed with souvenir shops touting tartans, Highland ‘coos’ and Loch Ness monsters, in every imaginable format. Our end of town is somewhat quieter, and has proved a good central spot for touring the region, and we soon headed out to explore.

On one blowy afternoon, we walked to Urquhart Castle. Once an important stronghold in the wars for Scottish independence, it is now a crumbling ruin moated with vivid green lawns. According to the locals, it’s also the best place to see the Loch Ness monster, which is probably why the carpark was seething with tourists. From a look-out point on the high road, we admired the blue-black inky waters of the loch feathered with white-caps, and decided to forego the age-old search for an elusive ‘Nessy.’ The next day, the surface of Loch Ness was like polished pewter, quiet and calm, as if it had been ironed flat. The clouds had rolled across the sky like a giant quilt, and the loch was spotted with paddleboarders far braver than I, as the water must be icy.

We are en route to Brodie Castle, a National Trust of Scotland property, twenty-three miles east of Inverness. The Brodie Clan has occupied this land for over 800 years, although the present castle was built in the sixteenth century.  It is a Z-plan tower house with 17th and 19th-century additions. “Z-plan?” you ask. As did I. It is a common design in Scotland, where there is a central rectangular tower with two smaller towers attached at diagonally opposite corners, so enemies can be seen approaching from all directions without the need for four towers. The original design was completed in 1567, but it was later converted into a Scottish Baronial Hall, more fashionable in the nineteenth century.

Still, it is a cosy size for a castle and looks much as it did when the last laird, Montague Ninian Alexander Brodie, lived there in the mid-20th century. The house was filled with fascinating memorabilia, and paintings of generations of Brodies. Unfortunately for us, however, there was to be a wedding in the house that afternoon, and we were given limited time to skip through the place before the bride arrived to the skirling of the bagpipes at the front door. Wandered through the grounds between showers (there are about 75 acres to explore), we learned that the 24th Laird, Ninian’s father, had been something of a gardener, and had spent many years cultivating daffodils. Trillions of them. Of the thousands of hybrids he created, some even found their way to Australia. I will surely have to make a trip back in the spring to see them in all their splendour.

On the way home, we drove along the coast for a little lighthouse spotting, and dropped into a whisky distillery at Forres, both of which were at the top of the One & Only’s ‘To Do’ list in Scotland. We have come across plenty of lighthouses on our travels, including a ‘Pepper pot’ lighthouse on Loch Ness: a miniature version of the coastal variety, designed in the 19th century to guide boats into the locks. Along the north coast, the winds off the North Sea can almost blow you off your feet, but here we are protected by a tall hedge of beech trees.

It is also hard to avoid distilleries in this part of the world, especially around Speyside – a ‘protected’ whisky region in the Scottish Highlands, between Inverness and Aberdeen, and south to the Cairngorms. About 50 distilleries are located in this region, and together they produce some 50% of Scotland’s whiskies. Benromach is one of them. A family-owned distillery on Speyside, whisky has been made here since 1898, although it has changed hands a number of times over the years. According to their advertising blurb ‘we recreate the whisky character that once defined Speyside – an award-winning single malt whisky with a delicate hint of smoke.’

Well, it turns out there is zero tolerance for drink driving in Scotland so the One & Only was unable to sample a whiskey flight as planned. But don’t feel too sorry for him, he did buy a bottle of 10-year-old whisky to drink later by the fire. And rather than waste the trip, I taste-tested a flight of gins. Tasting gin at a whisky distillery in the Highlands may sound a bit daft, but I can’t abide Scottish whisky. And I, too, came home with a bottle. The Benromach Autumn Gin blends autumnal botanicals with Benromach’s Classic gin, and is most poetically described on their website:

 ‘Inspired by autumnal walks through local Scottish woodlands, along hedgerows laden with blackberries, this seasonal-edition autumnal gin is rich and rounded with the sweetness of wild Scottish blackberries (along with its leaves) and fresh mists of fragrant pine needles.’

We had a quiet night in…

Another day, another castle. This time, we headed north to Dunrobin Castle, the oldest and most northerly castle in Scotland. For seven hundred years, it has been home to the Earls of Sutherland, and the family still live in a wing of the castle. Boasting a ridiculous 189 rooms, it seems there is plenty of space for everyone. Perched high above the Dornoch Firth, Dunrobin has also spent some time as a boarding school and a naval hospital. And, after many a facelift, this mediaeval castle now resembles a French château, from its conical spies to its Versailles inspired gardens. No weddings today, but the arrival of four huge coaches send us scurrying for the pub.

Our last day in the Highlands was spent at Fort Augustus, at the southern end of Loch Ness. Here, a  flight of five locks and a swing bridge take boats from the Caledonian canal to the Loch. We pause for a coffee by the canal, and later have lunch by the loch, thrilled to watch the passing traffic: a sailing boat, a catamaran filled to the brim with tourists, a huge Dutch barge converted into a floating hotel, a small motor-boat, a narrow boat or two. And behind us, the splendid Fort Augustus Abbey, originally a 18th-century military fort that became a Benedictine monastery and school in the late 19th century, and recently converted into luxury apartments. As we soak up the atmosphere, I nibble at my haggis and cheese panini. Life has got far more sophisticated since we stopped for a pub lunch on the Isle of Skye some thirty-five years ago. Back then, it was a simple haggis toastie!

We drive home along the more remote eastern edge of Loch Ness, through tiny hamlets and over hump-backed bridges, past heather-draped mountains looming above the horizon, the tarns and lochs twinkling in the late afternoon sun. And just in case there has not been enough water in the equation, I’m about to pour a gin and climb into the courtyard jacuzzi behind our wee Scottish cottage by the river…

With thanks to the One & Only & Google Images for these pics.

* from the poem ‘Autumn Rain’ by D.H.Lawrence.

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The Wheels on the Bus

Posted on 5 September 2025 by sheg4184

It has been an extremely long, long-haul flight to London, and I am feeling gritty and grey as we drag our bags off the bus at Paddington. But the sun is shining between showers and sparkling in the puddles, and I can’t stop grinning. We play dodgems with our wheelie-bins as we try to navigate the crowds on the forecourt, to reach the Underground. Its taken a day and a half and almost every form of transport to get here: car, taxi, plane, feet, bus, feet, Underground, feet… but we are here at last, and I am still grinning.

Offloading our bags, we shower and head out to explore our old stomping ground. Nothing much has changed, and although it feels like the population has grown exponentially, we are, after all, more used to our small, beachside town far from the crazy crowds of an international city.

The next morning, we continue the theme and set out to visit the London Transport Museum in Covent Garden. There is a small person at home who is mad about London’s red, double-decker buses. So, as we sit atop the number nine bus from Kensington High Street to Aldwych, we made a video call to Australia to share the moment.

The truth is, I’m just mad about London buses too. As we sail along the edge of Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park, past Park Lane and along Picadilly towards Leicester Square, through Trafalgar Square and down the Strand, I feel as if we are driving around a giant Monopoly Board. Of course, it is summer in the northern hemisphere, and all the green spaces are dazzling at this time of year. The parks are thrumming with life – flowers, birds, squirrels, dogs – and the sky is mostly blue. I cry out at familiar sites, as excited as a kid hunting for Easter eggs. We remember previous moments strolling through Green Park, visiting the Royal Academy or popping in for afternoon tea at the Ritz. I nod to Prince Albert opposite the Albert Hall, to Anteros in the centre of Picadilly Circus, to Charing Cross Station and Australia House. I bemoan the old buses with the spiral staircase at the rear and the bus conductors no longer in evidence, only to discover that the new buses have two sets of stairs, back and front!

At Covent Garden, I find myself looking for Emilia Clarke in her Christmas elf outfit and searching for Santa in her shop filled with Christmas decorations. Pointlessly, it turns out. Maybe they will both turn up closer to the Festive Season. Never mind. We are on a mission.

The London Transport Museum, on the south-eastern corner of Covent Garden, is about to open, and I am keen to find a London bus (in miniature, of course!) for a small, eager little girl in Australia. The One & Only is also keen to see the museum’s collection of London transport posters.

Despite a minor dose of jetlag, we skip merrily through the museum, pausing to examine the reproductions of a sedan chair, a horse drawn omnibus, an  elderly underground carriage, and read voraciously about the history of London transport – a history that affected the world.

In the early days, London was dependent on the River Thames, London’s ‘ancient highway’.  Can’t you just imagine it crowded with vessels of all shapes and sizes, from small, sturdy rafts to sleek and speedy tea clippers, to large galleons like the Golden Hinde, and naval warships? Bridges were few and far between until the nineteenth century, so wherries (light rowing boats or barges) ferried customers and their goods back and forth across the river.

Now compressed between manmade embankments, this broad river has been the starting point of many a perilous journey: men heading to war for King and country; traders off to explore and exploit distant countries and continents; convicts and migrants bound for Australia, dreaming of a better world, or merely dreaming of survival. In 1815, steam ships were introduced and passenger traffic on the river increased enormously. Although accidents on this now overcrowded highway were all too frequent, thousands of commuters sailed up and down the river daily.

Back in the days when the river was king, London was so small that it took only half an hour to walk out to the fields of Essex, Kent or Hertfordshire. Today, London’s suburbs stretch to the horizon – or to the false horizon of the M25 anyway, that circular motorway built to contain the ever- expanding capital. And this viral spread largely came about because of the development of transport systems – from Cobb & Co. coaches to horse-drawn tram cars, from overground steam trains to underground electric trains and, of course, to the big red double decker buses. All these methods of transport allowed workers from farther afield to travel daily to the City, until today commuters arrive from Brighton, Bath, and Birmingham. Distances and costs may have soared, but still London has a magnetic pull that ensures more than a million commuters dash in and out of the capital every day.

In those long-forgotten days of the 16th century, few could afford any kind of transport beyond their own feet. Wealthy, well-dressed gentlemen might hire a sedan chair, carried on poles by two chairmen, to prevent their own dainty feet getting muddy. And while that might sound luxurious, I am reminded of a letter my great aunt Edith wrote of riding in such chairs in Peking in the late 19th century, who wrote “I am going to buy Mrs. Cummins chair – but it is the bearers who are so expensive.”  It seems this was a more comfortable option than a cart, however, as “It’s hard work in a cart with children you have to try and “protect from bumps as well as oneself.”

Before the red double-decker bus, there was the omnibus, which arrived in London in the 1800s. This was an enclosed carriage drawn by one, two or three horses. Twelve passengers could sit inside on long benches for sixpence, but there was additional seating on the roof, on back-to-back benches. The driver sat on the front to drive the horses. An unknown traveller in 1833 writes of finding himself ‘jammed, crammed and squeezed’ into a bus with ‘six and twenty sweating citizens… like so many peas in a pod.’ Some would say little has changed!

In the 1830s, the first railway in London was built between London Bridge and Greenwich on a brick viaduct. The steam train knocked the stagecoach into a cocked hat, able to carry multitudes of passengers at a far greater speed than the poor old coach horses could manage. hundreds of horses pulled horse-drawn trams across the city, which had first begun operating in 1861. But horses needed food and stables and someone to clear up the vast amounts of manure they left on the roads. By 1910 they had been replaced by electric trams, the poor old horses put out to pasture.

In the eighteenth century, there was only London Bridge, wich crossed the river from Southwark to the City. Covered in shop-houses, the gatehouse often decked out with  the severed heads of criminals beheaded at Tyburn – supposedly a deterrent to would-be thieves and murderers. These days, some thirty-five road, rail and footbridges cross the Thames from Hampton Court to the Tower of London.  

Back at the Transport Museum, I discover that this beautiful old building with its Victorian iron and glass structure – like a miniature Musee D’Orsay – was originally designed to hold a flower market in 1871, the same one in which Eliza Dolittle collects her violets to sell on the steps of the Covent Garden theatre next door. For a century, the flower market held about 500 flower stalls and employed over 2,000 men.  The flower market moved out in 1974, and the building was reopened as the London Transport Museum a few years later.

It is the end of the summer holidays, and the museum is full of kids eager to explore the old train carriages and clamber up into the omnibus, high above the ground. Eventually jet lag kicks in, and we eschew the crowds and find a quiet pub around the corner to sit quietly for a bit and summon up the energy to wander home. Big red bus? Underground? Shanks’ pony…?

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A Beachside Boil: Flavour, Fun and No Frills!

Posted on 25 August 2025 by sheg4184

While the algae blooms, the sand dunes have been washed away in winter storms, and the Normanville jetty is looking decidedly shabby, since the end collapsed into the sea, the latest offering from Aqua Blue has certainly lifted our spirits. Aqua Blue has been opened a little over eighteen months, and is already a firm favourite with locals and visitors alike. On the first floor of the new Surf Lifesaving Club, the restaurant overlooks the sea and a long stretch of Normanville beach, where you can drop in for breakfast or lunch, enjoy an evening cocktail, or a sunset dinner.

This month, as part of the Fleurieu Food Festival, Aqua Blue is hosting a Seafood Boil every Friday evening. For those of you – like me – who have never experienced a Seafood Boil, here’s a short explanation. Originating along the coast of the southern states of the USA, a Seafood Boil is a communal meal in which a variety of seafood, vegetables, and sausages are cooked together in a large pot of seasoned water, to be shared and eaten in a festive, fingers-only family-style setting.

Friends from Adelaide picked up on it faster than we did and came down to stay for a weekend of wine and seafood. And this communal dining experience proved to be a bundle of fun. Even before the food arrived, we were making friends at the long table swathed in somewhat lumpy black tablecloths. (An explanation of this strange condition will follow later).

Our knowledgeable friend ordered a bottle of Golding’s “La Francesca” Savagnin 2022, a crisp fresh white we had not met before. All the way from the foot of the Jura mountains in France, abutting the south western corner of Switzerland, this white wine grape has a quietly floral and citrusy profile, that promised to go well with seafood, And while the grape originated in France, it has found a happy home in the cool climate regions of Tasmania, the Yarra Valley and the Adelaide Hills.

Savagnin seems to have arrived in Australia by mistake. Apparently, someone thought it was a Spanish grape that was popular at the time – to the dismay of growers who didn’t realize their error until they were ready to make their first batch of Albariño wine, in the late twentieth century, never having heard of this green skinned variation of the Traminer grape. Luckily, despite its rocky start, Savagnin has begun to make its mark, and there are now some eighty vineyards in Australia producing wine from this late-ripening, low-yielding grape.

Later, one bottle down, we ordered a bottle of Vermentino from Chalk Hill Winery in McLaren Vale, a variety we discovered with glee in Sardinia last year, which, like Savagnin, has a similar profile to Sauvignon Blanc, typically exhibiting notes of lime, grapefruit and green apple, with a distinctive salty or sea-spray character.  And less grassiness. It proved an even better match with our seafood dinner.

So, enough about the wine. Let’s talk about the seafood. Seated comfortably at our long table, we were keen to start feasting. But first our host handed out given full bib striped aprons and encouraged us to introduce ourselves to our neighbours. Then we were presented with a delicious amuse bouche: a beautifully cooked scallop in its shell. Just one each, unfortunately, as we all agreed we could happily have devoured a plateful. However, there was more to come, and the presentation of our eagerly anticipated dinner proved to be quite a performance.

A team arrived from the kitchen with much pomp and circumstance and proceeded to pour the contents of two huge pots across our make-shift table, having first removed the black tablecloths. This revealed layers of plastic wrap and paper beneath, as well as a slight ridge formed by rolled tea towels to prevent anything slopping over the edges.

As we gasped at the mountain of seafood, the contents of a third pot full of Cajun garlic butter was poured over the top of Moreton Bay bugs, soft shell crabs, huge prawns, New Zealand green-lipped mussels and our own blue mussels, as well as chunks of smoky chorizo, boiled potatoes, and sweet corn. I have never been a huge fan of chorizo, but nor have I had it cooked liked this, and it proved a most enlightening and flavourful experience. And while I was a tad nervous about the texture of the soft shell crab, the flavour was HUGE.

Our host encouraged us to stand and wander as we ate, to ameliorate the opportunities of meeting our fellow diners. Without the bondage of knives, forks and plates, this was no sooner said than done. Picking and dipping, we thoroughly enjoyed the food and the company, quickly making inroads into the hearty mounds of crustaceans and molluscs. And yet, despite a dozen very healthy appetites, there was a surprising amount left over. To our joy, we were encouraged to take home as much as we could carry, and I am here to report that our hoard was converted into a delicious spaghetti marinara for lunch the following day. We also went home with the contact details of some of our new friends!

Although you may have missed the opportunity to join a table before the end of this year’s food festival, we are assured that this may well become a signature event for Aqua Blue. So, if you would like to participate at a later date, keep an eye on their Facebook page. I can absolutely recommend it; it will be well worth the wait.

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Black Sheep Let Loose

Posted on 26 July 2025 by sheg4184

At the end of a strenuous semester of research, writing, travel, and hospital stays, I was delighted to receive an invitation from Mary & Hugh Hamilton to join them for a long lunch at the National Wine Centre in Adelaide, where we would sample some of the best HH wines on offer, beautifully paired with some excellent food. The One & Only had other plans, but I was footloose and fancy free. I accepted with alacrity, and, with great anticipation, I headed off to join an excited bunch of Black Sheep Club Members at the National Wine Centre on the edge of the Adelaide CBD.

Dedicated to promoting the Australian wine industry, the NWC was officially opened almost two dozen years ago, in October 2001. Located on the corner of North Terrace and Hackney Road, the site originally housed Adelaide’s first lunatic asylum, which was built in the 1850s. The stone wall around the periphery was apparently constructed by the hospital inmates and has been heritage listed by The National Trust. In 1938, the asylum building was demolished, and the grounds became part of the Botanic Gardens, and an orchard was planted on the site.

Then, in 1997, it was decided to clear the site again to make way for the first dedicated wine centre in Australia. Resembling a deconstructed wine barrel, the NWC was designed by Adelaide architects Cox Grieve and constructed from rammed earth, stone, timber, and stainless steel. This bright and spacious venue contains an interactive exhibition and educational facilities, as well as a range of bars and function rooms. In the Tasting Room, you can try more than 120 wines from over 55 of Australia’s 65 wine regions – if you have the stamina for that much wine in one sitting! This time, however, we were focussing on Hugh Hamilton’s wines, which were complemented by some delicious dishes created by the expert culinary team at the NWC.

At midday, I wander upstairs to join a profusion of other Black Sheep members in the Exhibition Hall. We are greeted by smiling staff and promptly offered a glass of Drama Queen, HH’s famous sparkling wine made by the smae méthode traditionnelle that is used to make French champagne – a labour-intensive process of creating bubbles, in which the wine undergoes a secondary fermentation inside the bottle. The Drama Queen is a glorious blend of Pinot Noir, Chardonnay and Pinot Meunier that provides a light touch of strawberry colour and flavour – and a lovely fizz! (I have always got a couple of bottles to hand, and I am happy to share, if you happen to be passing.) She fits perfectly with the cold canapés: a smooth mushroom parfait on croutons and a barramundi rillette on toast (a chunky pâté), providing an Australian twist to the French version that was truly scrumptious.

Guests are seated at tables named for the winery’s ever-expanding ‘Flock’ Series: the Scallywag (Chardonnay), the Trickster (Pinot Grigio) and the Floozie (Sangiovese Rosé); the Scoundrel (Grenache Shiraz Mataro), the Villain (Cabernet Sauvignon) and the Mongrel (Sangiovese); The Ratbag (Merlot), the Moocher (Mourvèdre) and the Rascal (Shiraz); the Larrikan (Shiraz Cabernet), and the Disrupter (Grenache). Oh, and don’t forget the Ruffian (Liqueur Muscat). Behind every name, the Hamiltons provide a great story. To hear those tales in all their glory, you will need to visit the cellar door…

In the meantime, we are treated to a sparkling duet from our hosts, Hugh and Mary (the father and daughter team at HH, and the 5th and 6th generation of winemakers in the Hamilton family), who bounce their polished and cheery introduction back and forth to the great delight and contagoius merriment of their audience. (The duo would continue to engage warmly with their guests throughout the meal, both publically and privately, making everyone feel part of a large extended family).

We begin our meal with an entrée of roasted chicken breast served cold with a tarragon aioli and a sweetcorn salsa. It is a tasty dish, but it is outgunned by the Aroma Pagoda, a 2024 blend of Fiano, Frontignac, Gewürztraminer and Vermentino from the Dark Arts series, for which Mary has designed some fascinating labels. This wine goes well with spicy food – Asian or Mexican (hence the salsa). The HH tasting notes describe Aroma Pagoda thus: A Pagoda is a multi-tiered tower, often with a high degree of ornamentation. Our Aroma Pagoda is much the same – layers of exotic aromatics, structured yet elegant, a temple to flavour.

Regarding the four wines blended here, I did some homework and came up with some interesting facts. Fiano originated in southern Italy. Traditionally grown in volcanic soil, it is particularly popular in Sicily. While we don’t have the volcanic soils, we do have the right climate, as McLaren Vale winemakers realized some time ago, when they began introducing Italian varietals to replace the more Germanic styles we had imported in the early years of settlement.

Frontignac is one of the oldest wine varieties, popular with the Romans apparently. Frontignan is the European name for this floral grape variety which produces intensely perfumed wines, similar to Traminer. Gewurztraminer is a cool climate aromatic grape that can add a fascinating touch of spice to a white wine blend. Originating in Alsace, it was popular in South Australia in the 1980s, but generally does better in cooler climates, such as New Zealand’s south island. However, there are still a few vines thriving in South Australia. And Vermentino is a varietal we first discovered in Sardinia a couple of years ago. We absolutely loved it – although the Sardinians were a mite put out when we explained that Australians had sourced this traditional mediterranean grape and brought it to McLaren Vale, where wine makers were producing an Aussie version. Cultural appropriation? Probably – but worth it.

At the same time as the layered Aroma Pagoda appears, waiters wae also pouring my favourite Cinderella Chardonnay. This is the moment I know it had been worth the trip to the Big Smoke. Using grapes from the Mount Lofty Ranges, this elegant Chardonnay is only lightly touched by French oak and bears little resemblance to those buttery Chardonnays of the 1980s. And I am delighted to be offered a top up as we anticipated the arrival of the next course.

To showcase the winery’s iconic ‘Pure Black’ – a fabulous blend of Shiraz and Saperavi – it has been paired with a wafer thin slice of wagyu bresaola topped with a smattering of quandong chutney, a tasty morsel of Italy and Australia presented on a crispy parmesan cracker. This amazing wine is rarely seen at wine tastings – which is hardly surprising given its $220 price tag! Destined to be the star attraction on the HH wine list, Pure Black is crafted with incredible care. From 400 barrels of the winery’s best Shiraz, only six of the finest barrels are chosen. Few of us had tasted it before, and all were volubly enthusiastic. And to ensure the joy lasts even longer, Pure Black is now available in a Magnum and a Jeraboam… for a really big party!

Our main course is accompanied by a relative newcomer to the Flock: a 2024 Grenache, nicknamed ‘The Disrupter’. The winemaker’s note explains how the vines are cuttings from the original Hamilton Ewell Vineyard — in what is now the heart of suburban Marion. Migrating south to McLaren Vale, these cuttings have thrived, and have produced a ‘beguilingly opulent’ wine. It is an interesting drop, but sadly it gets lost in the battle of flavours between the celebrated Saperavi ‘Oddball the Great’ and the delectable kangaroo fillet served with a spiced fig chutney.

As the name of this wine suggests, Saperavi is an odd and very unusual grape variety. Dating back 8,000 years, Saperavi is one of the oldest cultivated wine grapes in the world. A native of Georgia, it dwells happily between the Caucaus Mountains and the Black Sea, thriving in the colder climate and higher elevations – and yet it has made itself quite at home on the plains of McLaren Vale, between the sea and the less-than-mountainous hills of the Mount Lofty Ranges. Its name comes from the Georgian word for ‘dye’ which describes these inky black grapes perfectly. Referring again to the winemaker’s notes, I read that ‘the wines are often so intense that we have come to describe this variety as Shiraz raised entirely on a diet of lightning.’

To complete the meal, we are entrusted with a platter of cheeses and dried fruit to share around the table. The tasty Australian cheddar and the delicious Australian blue were accompanied by a mystery wine; a rich, delicious dessert wine that has found another use for the exotic Saperavi. ‘Blackout’ is a 2022 fortified Saperavi that has been matured in Kentucky Bourbon barrels in a Vintage Port Style. The winemaker’s notes on the HH website are positively poetic and I couldn’t hope to describe it any better myself:

Blueberries, figs, burnt caramel. Spices vie with muscatels, butterscotch, and freshly roasted coffee beans. Intense, dense, full; it’s as close as imaginable to drinking a chocolate mudcake.

And on that note, it is time to call a taxi, having celebrated in style the end of a very busy semester…

*Thanks to Mary Hamilton for allowing me to reproduce these photos from the Hugh Hamilton website. As you may have guessed, I was far too busy eating and drinking and making new friends to remember to pick up my phone and take a single photograph.

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Roadkill

Posted on 20 June 2025 by sheg4184

Such small, sweet, chocolate brown corpses,
crumpled and bloody by the side of the road.
So maligned by the residents
who snarl about invasive species and say
‘they do enormous damage to native wildlife…’

On this remote archipelago of ground dwelling birds,
where the immigrant carnivore is king:
rats and cats, ferrets, stoats… and possums who
devour the eggs and fledglings of native birds,
spread disease, and damage crops.

So what about the damage we do?
Converting all that wilderness to farmland
for the sheep and cows we will devour?
Demolishing forests and natural habitat
to grow grapevines for more wine?

Easier to blame those desiccated carcasses
along the verge.
At least some will be recycled:
soft possum fur knitted with merino to make woollens
for another an invading species.

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The Oddity of Old Words

Posted on 3 June 2025 by sheg4184

I am meant to be working on a conference paper entitled ‘Conversing with the Past’. But I got distracted by one of those odd Facebook postings: a definition of an unusual and old-fashioned word. “Balter.”

It is, apparently, pronounced BOLL-tuh. Have you heard of it before? I hadn’t either. Apparently, it comes from a Middle English word that originated in Northern Germany. It is also related to the Danish baltre, or boltre which means to roll, tumble, gambol, romp. Balter is defined by Merriam-Webster as an archaic verb meaning to dance or tread clumsily, while the Facebook definition says:  to dance gracelessly, without particular skill or grace, but perhaps with some enjoyment. Well, that was me in the 1980s. The type of unco-ordinated but enthusiastic dancing destined to embarrass the pants off our teenagers thirty years later…

As a small girl, like every other little girl who has ever clapped eyes on a tutu, I always fancied myself as a ballerina. A year of ballet lessons put paid to that dream, as even I had to acknowledge I hadn’t the discipline or co-ordination to make it to Sadlers Wells. Country dancing in Primary School was fun, but not so popular after the age of ten when ‘coolness’ became more important than joy.  And while I loved Scottish dancing, the long ribbons were a pain to wind up my calves and tie firmly – and lethal when they inevitably came undone in the middle of a reel.

Like all of us entering adolescence in the late 70s, and early 80s, pop music was our staple diet. Lots of synthesizers, electric guitars and a steady drum beat. At eleven, my friends and I would crank up the record player in the living room and dance about to ABBA, Boney M and ‘I Will Survive’ for hours – in clogs, too, the prescribed shoe of the time, bizarrely considerd cool in my circle of friends.

By the time we were old enough to hit the discos, we’d developed our own individual styles of ‘balter’, unencumbered by any knowledge of those slick, professional moves we now see on every music video since Michael Jackson released his Thriller album.  Despite our lack of sophistication, these were happy times full of happy music that lifted the heart and the feet.

While co-ordination may have been an issue with some of us, no one could have doubted our gleeful enthusiasm. Perhaps I did look like a whirligig on spin cycle, but I had the time of my life – and plenty of exercise – leaping around the dance floor to all those catchy dance tunes. Disco music, it turns out, can provide a bigger dose of dopamine and a more natural high than any drug on the market. I miss that!

My teen years arrived, to the tunes of waltzes and polkas, as we undertook ballroom dancing classes in the school hall. Our partners were either pre-pubescent and shorter than most of us, or man-sized and yet to be introduced to deodorant. And of course we were all dressed in drab, unflattering school uniforms, so I don’t think any of us felt like Cinderella swanning off to the Ball.

Then, we discovered the Discothèque, the home of pop music, flashing lights and the glorious, glittering disco ball, madcap dancing and extravagant outfits. For the younger dance enthusiasts, those too young to get through the door of the adult nightclubs, there was the junior version: the Blue Light Disco. These police-supervised dances, free of drugs and alcohol, originated in Australia in the 1980s and were popular for young teens well into the 90s and early 2000s, before mobile phones became the new social platform.

And what about our inspiration? Those wonderful dance movies of the 1980s and 90s? Grease, Saturday Night Fever, Dirty Dancing, Fame, and Footloose, all iconic, all inspirational. We knew all the words to all the songs, even those on the B-side. I admit, some of the plots may have been a little thin, but the music got into our blood. Then Flashdance arrived, which provided my first experience of hearing my own name on the big screen. We had nothing else in common, Alex Owens and I, apart from a penchant for legwarmers, but then we weren’t the only ones keen on those fabulous fashion accessories back then, heaven help us. Yet I was certain they gave me the Midas touch as I leapt and dived down the hallway, as agile as any show-off goalie, determined to imitate the extravagant moves of Jennifer Beales. Surprisingly, no agents came knocking at our front door, to add me to their list of potential talent…

But I’m procrastinating again. Time to stop dipping into my childhood, conversing with the past and get back to that conference paper. Oh by the way, before I go, balter can also mean ‘tousled or matted hair’, which is doubtless what we all sported after a sweaty evening on the dance floor!

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Heading South

Posted on 16 April 2025 by sheg4184

The South Island of New Zealand contains some of the most spectacular scenery this amazing country has to offer – and certainly the most variety. The snow-capped Southern Alps run the full length of the island, dividing it in two and creating a photographer’s fantasy world of mountains, lakes and rivers, glaciers and fiords. Apart from the bat, New Zealand is home to only introduced mammals such as the stoats and weasels, possums, wallabies and deer, none of which are particularly welcome. However, we did spot a few native birds (although their numbers are being decimated by the aforementioned feral predators) most notably, the spectacular karearea or falcon.

Back to geography. On the east coast, the climate is relatively dry and temperate, and generally cooler than the North Island. The interior, abutting the Southern Alps, is dry & rugged. In fact, it’s the driest region in New Zealand, despite large networks of braided rivers. These shallow, broad waterways are made up of multiple channels that diverge and reunite across a gravelly riverbed, and are inclined to shape-shift during flooding. They are also popular with fly fishermen in search of sea trout and salmon. Remember the ABC travel and fly-fishing series ‘A River Somewhere’ with Rob Sitch & Tom Gleisner?  In the late 1990s, they introduced us to a wonderful selection of rivers all over the world, including the d’Urville and the Tongariro in New Zealand.

Over thousands of years, some of these braided rivers – such as the Rakaia, Rangitata and Waitaki – have created the fertile Canterbury Plains, as they drag debris from the Southern Alps. Farming has converted the Canterbury Plains into a pretty patchwork of fields and woodland. Just south of the tidy and elegant city of Christchurch, now almost recovered from the effects of four major earthquakes and more than 11,200 aftershocks from September 2010 to the end of 2011.

On the left hand side of the island, the thin strip of rugged and rocky coastline between the Tasman Sea and the Alps, has the highest amount of rainfall in New Zealand. Incessant rain and low-lying cloud may have created hectares of wondrous waterfalls and rainforests, but sadly, they also blocked our view of the two glaciers, Franz Josef and Fox, in much the same way they had immersed the Milford Sound in thick fog when the One & Only drove up in search of wondrous scenery he had been anticipating with great excitement. Weather can be very disappointing.

In this neck of the woods, three huge national parks – Fiordland, Mount Aspiring and The Aoraki/Mount Cook – contain the highest peaks in New Zealand, that rise to 3,000 mtetres high, and have become the country’s most popular centres for hikers, mountaineers, rock climbers, and photographers. And, as a focal point for tourists to stay, Queenstown sits comfortably amid these glorious mountains. It is a beautiful city and the adventure capital of New Zealand, with its opportunities for bungy jumping, sky diving and paragliding, remote cross-country skiing, white water rafting, jet boating and long distance mountain-bike tracks. (Although I must admit that the biggest adventure I had was falling down the stairs in our Queenstown accommodation, which luckily caused no greater damage than an impressive purple bruise from knee to ankle.) For the less intrepid, there are boat trips along the gorgeous Lake Wakatipu, scenic flights up to Milford Sound and beautiful drives up into the mountains or down the Kawarau Gorge into Central Otago’s wine country.

As usual, despite a flurry of guide books, we have largely stayed off the beaten track and ignored many of the travel writers’ hot tips. It has, nonetheless, been a wonderful trip. We met up with cousins in Christchurch and reconnected with a much missed friend who has been living a stone’s throw from Dunedin, since we all lived in the Philippines.  The One & Only was keen to look for lighthouses, so after a couple of days of R&R in Outram, we headed south for the Catlins.

The Catlins is a roughly triangular area of some 730 square miles in the south eastern corner of the south island. Sparsely populated, its rugged coastline is populated by caves and blowholes, fur seals and shipwrecks, long sandy beaches, and clifftop shrubbery blown almost horizontal by the wind. Two lighthouses guard the coast at Nugget Point and Waipapa, so you may guess where we headed first.

The first Europeans to arrive in the Catlins were the whalers and sealers in the early 19th   century. By the middle of the century, this densely timbered region had also become popular with loggers. The land they cleared to feed the timber mills could then be used for sheep and dairy farming.

We struck a beautiful day for driving through the region, with only the occasional brief shower to dampen our enthusiasm. Calm and sunny, the day belied its more dramatic days of wind and wild weather that blows off the sub-Antarctic ocean. We took a stroll along an almost empty beach at Kaka Point, then trudged a few hundred metres along the narrow cliff path to Nugget Point, past a colony of fur seals way below us, to nod to the lighthouse perched high above the sea-battered rocks below.  Waipapa, in contrast, sits on a low-lying promontory, Nearby, a sole fur seal had pulled itself up the sand dunes to lie among the long grasses, where the One & Only nearly tripped over him.

From the Catlins we drove on through farmland riddled with sheep, which seemed to be filling the paddocks in plague proportions compared with our dusty, dry paddocks at home, where flocks are a fraction of the number size, forced to survive on a scant diet of grass and salt bush that usually needs to be supplemented in winter. Here, the pasture is so lush, all year round, that it is hardly surprising that New Zealand lamb is exported in bulk to British supermarkets.

While our sheep must deal with the oppressive, dry heat of South Australia, the cattle and sheep down here in southern Otago face extremes of heat and cold, not to mention the fierce winds blowing in from Antarctica. Having stripped the countryside of its native forests, it has been necessary to build shelter belts – rows of tall, densely planted trees to form windbreaks, to protect animals and orchards from sun, snow and the prevailing winds. Poplars and pines are often used for their height, while these trees may be interspersed with a low-growing species, to thicken the shelter. These strange (to us) long, tall walls of foliage are apparently best if they are at least twice as long as they are high.

We spent the night in Invercargill, then made our way to Lake Manapõuri, where I had a date with my pen and a book shop.

The town of Manapõuri is, to use the local parlance, a wee thing, clinging to the edge of a glorious, glacial lake, and looking over the water to some very dramatic mountains – when there is neither fog nor rain to impede the view. It proved to be a most peaceful and serene corner of the world, with a population of only about 250 inhabitants. Here I was able to spend a couple of quiet, unhurried days writing, while the One & Only attempted to explore Milford Sound.

I also found time to drop into ‘Two Wee Bookshops’ on the corner of Hillside Road and Home Street. And ‘wee’ is the perfect word to describe both the bookshops and their diminutive owner, Ruth Shaw. Ruth published her memoirs ‘The Bookseller at the End of the World,’ in 2022, in which she intersperses memories of her adventurous and often heart-rending life with tales from her tiny second-hand bookshops. We had been reading this fascinating book as we drove south from Auckland (I read aloud, while the One & Only navigates the winding roads), and I was thrilled to realize that the bookshop is still in existence, and has actually expanded from two wee bookshops to three, with the addition of a small garden shed – the Snug – set up for the men, as well as a table of assorted titles under a canvas canopy. In fact, despite the nomenclature, I watched as customers wandered happily from one space to the next, regardless of age or gender!

The first ‘shop’ looks like a gypsy caravan, and is painted as brightly as Kizzy’s own, if you are old enough to remember Rumer Godden’s beautiful book ‘The Diddakoi’. Ruth has filled this one with books from New Zealand authors, both fact and fiction. Across the lawn, the children’s bookshop, complete with a child-sized door – I set off the bell when I forgot to duck at the entrance – was filled with an assortment of books for children and young teens, as well as a soft toy library, to which Ruth devotes several sweet tales in her book.

I arrived on the doorstep on a damp and mizzly morning, eager to meet this quirky author, bookshop owner and sailor, yet feeling a certain apprehension. She knew me not at all, but I had read aloud intimate details of her life. I felt oddly like a voyeur. At least, until we had exchanged a few minutes conversation and found so many common interests that I farewelled her as an old friend and soulmate, and she reciprocated with a huge and affectionate hug. I also took away a book by a New Zealand light house keeper for the One & Only and a promise that Ruth will be in touch when she comes to Australia. And she signed my book – or rather, wrote me a short essay on the title page!

A final note, before I leave you to plan our next trip to New Zealand: don’t forget that like Australia, NZ is in the southern hemisphere, so if you are visiting from the north, don’t forget to reverse the seasons. Summer coincides with Christmas and July is the coldest month of the year. Oh, and did I mention the glow worms…?

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Pinot Noir: Otago’s New Gold Rush

Posted on 6 April 2025 by sheg4184

For two weeks we have been rambling through New Zealand’s south island, zigzagging from Christchurch to Queenstown, back to Dunedin and down through the Catlins to Invercargill, west to Lake Manapouri and Milford Sound, north to Cromwell and over to the west coast glaciers via Wanaka and the Haast Pass. With glee and boundless enthusiasm, we have discovered a abundance of orchards and vineyards, wonderful friends and picturesue towns, fur seals and flightless birds, and some truly ‘majestical’ scenery. At each place we stopped, we decided this was where we would live… and this… and this.

One unexpectedly successful stop was Cromwell, situated at the confluence of the two rivers, which has made it a hub, or rather a crossroads for the region. I realized this before reading it in the guide book after by-passing the town several times, en route to Queenstown from Christchurch, from Queenstown to Dunedin via Alexandra and Roxburgh, and from Arrowtown to Wanaka and the West Coast.

Cromwell was originally established during the gold rush of the 1860s. Later, as the gold ran dry, the area became known for its orchards and market gardens – which are still numerous – and later again as part of the Central Otago wine region. Today, the area is overflowing with luscious fruits and boutique wineries that thrive in the warm, dry climate. Across Bannockburn and the Cromwell Basin and along Lowburn Valley on the western banks of Lake Dunstan – which has proved a particularly successful locale for growing Pinot Noir grapes – we admire acres and acres of orchards and vineyards.

And Cromwell’s river banks are also the home of the only surviving population of Chafer Beetles in the world, which has led to the naming of a local wine: Beetlejuice Pinot Noir! But more of that later.

For a hundred and twenty years, Cromwell grew incrementally, but since the construction of the Clyde Dam in the 1980s – NZs second largest hydro-electric dam built downstream of the confluence of the rivers Clutha/Mata-Au and the Kawarau – and the subsequent creation of Lake Dunstan to the north, Cromwell has grown exponentially. This vast engineering project meant relocating the town centre and many of the town’s original buildings, so they would not be flooded by the new lake that would submerge 200 hectares of town and farmland. The Historical Precinct has preserved some of those historic buildings as museums, artisan businesses, cafes and restaurants.

Meanwhile, we have pitched camp at a lovely B&B on an established cherry orchard ten minutes south of Cromwell. Our welcome note invites us to wander at will and enjoy some of the produce grown in the greenhouses behind our studio room. Joyfully, we help ourselves to some tasty tomatoes, and fresh lettuce and herbs as needed. The One & Only is blissful – have I ever mentioned how much he adores tomatoes? Sometimes more than me! Also, our breakfast eggs have been laid by the chooks we can see from the back door, where Coco, a small, black and very polite young dog, quickly becomes a constant visitor.

We decided to use this lovely spot as a base for three nights while we explore the area and visit a winery or two, and there are plenty to choose from. En route to Arrowtown, a picturesque old mining town on the Arrow River, just north of Queenstown, we spot a familiar name. Chard Farm wines somehow found their way to Manila many moons ago, and I am inclined to revisit them in situ. We book a tasting for the following day, and in the meantime, I will track down one or two others…

Driving up the Kawarau Gorge we remark on the oddity of finding a Scottish Highland landscape in New Zealand, mixed with escarpment vineyards that remind us of the vineyards on the steep slopes of the Moselle, along the border of Luxembourg and Germany. The narrow track to Chard Farm, we later discover, was the original track between Cromwell and Queenstown, with a precipitous drop to the river below. From one look out point, we can see the original commercial Bungy jump off the Karawau bridge, where the kids are still bravely launching themselves towards the glacial blue waters 43 metres below. The grapes are almost ready to pick, but in the meantime, thy have been veiled in netting to prevent the birds from stealing the crop. The Chard family originally used this land as market gardens for feeding the miners panning for gold in the gorge below. It was converted to vineyards by vintner Rob Hay in 1987, and has grown into a substantial family-owned winery with six vineyards in the Cromwell basin and Gibbston region, specializing in Pinot Noir.

We reach the enormous wooden cellar door – the building resembles a Tuscan farmhouse – and introduce ourselves to Dominic, a softly-spoken wine lover who provides some beautiful and poetic descriptions, that make me wish I had recorded his spiel. We are not surprised to learn he is also a musician.

This region is ideal for Pinot Noir, we are told. This tiny and rather finicky dark red grape has a long list of prerequisites, like women searching for the perfect partner. If all its requirements are met, however, Pinot Noir will generously produce complex and elegant wines. Originally from Burgundy, the Pinot Noir grape has found another happy home in Otago, which apparently provides all the necessary conditions to satisfy this fastidious fruit, such as well-drained soils, long days of sunshine and cold, crisp nights.

Growing up on the full-bodied, ballsy reds and heavily wooded Chardonnays of South Australia in the 1980s, I have yet to develop an appreciation for the more subtle, flirtatious arts of Pinot Noir. In Otago, however, I have been re-educating my palate to good effect.

We begin with a Pinot Noir rosé, as Dominic describes the ‘layers’ of this ‘breakfast wine’. (Well, it is barely 11am.)  This Maria Rosé 2023 is a dry, Provençal style rosé, left only briefly on the skins to give it a mere blush of colour. The flavour? Fresh berries with hints of lemon sorbet. 

As he pours us a 2023 Swiftburn Sauvignon Blanc, Dominic talks of tropical aromas such as lychees and passionfruit, and similar clean, crisp flavours with a burst of gooseberry. To my delight, there is definitely a lighter touch of herbage (which I think of as lawn cuttings), than an Australian Sauvignon Blanc offers.

Finla Mor Pinot Noir 2022 is hand-picked pinot at its best, and I am not the only one to notice, it seems! Complex, provocative aromas and flavours include plums and black cherries, with a certain peaty smokiness due to having spent some time in new oak. Dominic calls it grumpy: it’s an earthy wine with attitude, and a savoury twist of black pepper. He describes it as an autumnal wine, one to be drunk in a large leather armchair. We try other Pinot Noirs, but this remains my favourite.

When we reach the end of the official tasting, I plead to try the Chardonnay before we go. Chard Farm produces two Chardonnays: the 2023 Closeburn, fermented in a steel tank, and its companion, Judge & Jury. This has been named for two rocky peaks across the river, and has been lightly aged in Acacia wood barrels. No prizes for guessing my favourite!

Driving back down to Cromwell, we spot a new housing estate going up on the edge of town. To one side stands a huge and ancient spruce, known to locals as the Wooing Tree. It was almost cut down to make way for a new vineyard in the 1980s, but the owners gave it a stay of execution, and instead gave its name to that vineyard. Recently, most of the original vines have been transplanted down to the western edge of Lake Dunstan, but happily, the developers have allowed this piece of the town’s history to remain intact, and the Wooing Tree Winery has built a new cellar door and restaurant on the edge of town, beside a couple of remaining rows of Pinot Noir vines, and a view of the celebrated tree.

Here, we stop for a wine tasting and a lunch of sharing platters. The One & Only takes the red route, which meant a diet of pure Pinot, including the aforementioned Beetlejuice. I, on the other hand, get a mixed bag: a dry ‘Blondie’ blanc et noir bubbles to start (blanc et noir is a French term for a sparkling wine made from red pinot and white Chardonnay grapes); a lightly wooded 2019 Chardonnay; a surprisingly smooth 2024 Pinot Gris, a tasty Gewürztraminer and a late harvest of the same. I haven’t tasted a Gewürz wine in decades, and those South Australian versions I favoured in my youth now seem overly sweet and spicy. The Wooing Tree Gewürtz has only the mildest dash of sweetness. Even the late harvest dessert wine has laid on the sugar with a gentle hand, and, in my more savoury maturity, I find both eminently drinkable, and the perfect end to our Wooing Tree experience.

And all this to accompany a delicious lunch of salmon rillettes and toast, flavourful lamb koftas with olives and Greek salad, and a large bowl of kumara chips.

As we head homewards, we give a wave to the giant fibreglass fruit sculpture on the edge of town – a nod to Cromwell’s original orchards of apple, nectarine, pear and apricot. It may be missing the latest horticultural additions, such as a bunch of grapes, but then there are plenty of the real ones along the verge opposite, in front of Wooing Tree’s new cellar door.

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Craggy Range Revisited

Posted on 2 April 2025 by sheg4184

It is fourteen years since I first met David Peabody; fourteen years since I sipped my first Craggy Range Sauvignon Blanc; and fourteen years since I first wrote an article about this inspirational family-owned winery. Since then, Craggy Range wines have continued to develop and mature, and this iconic winery is now considered one of New Zealand’s best.

I got to know David Peabody, his family, and the Craggy Range wines rather well over the next few years, often gathering for a casual BBQ in their tropical Manila garden, for a party at our 39th floor apartment overlooking Manila’s Pasig River, or at a favourite restaurant that sold Craggy Range wines. But it was not until this month that I finally managed to fulfill a long held dream to visit the winery.

As we drove down the Waimarama Road from Havelock North, it suddenly became apparent why the winery is called Craggy Range. To our right, the rugged Te Mata hills towered above us, their rocky outline sharply jagged. To our left lay a softer landscape of vineyards and orchards, neatly arranged on the banks of the Tukituki River, tucked beneath the Ruahine Ranges that lie between the river and the sea. Tranquil and remote from the hustle and bustle of city life, the serenity was captivating.

I have told the story before, but to recap…

David Peabody is the son of Brisbane-based entrepreneur, Terry Peabody, the man responsible for establishing the Craggy Range winery in 1998, at the southern end of Hawke’s Bay, on New Zealand’s North Island. It all began in 1993, with a gem of an idea to start both a winery and a family legacy. The idea took hold, and the family joined forces to explore the possibilities.

According to David – and the Craggy Range website – their search for the perfect location took them through Europe, America and Australia, before finally crossing the Tasman Sea to New Zealand. Here, Mr. Peabody Senior found the perfect opportunity to realize the dream, and pioneer some truly elegant wines, with the renowned Master of Wine, Steve Smith. Terry’s only proviso? They would not buy an existing vineyard but would start from scratch. On virgin soil so to speak.

Together, they chose two prime locations: farmland at Gimblett Gravels, an ancient river bed near Havelock North, where they would plant Chardonnay and Syrah grapes, and another piece of farmland in Martinborough with the perfect soil for Pinot Noir and Sauvignon Blanc. And so, the legend began.

Today, the Craggy Range cellar door and restaurant is a popular destination for wine connoisseurs and foodies alike, situated in the oldest wine making region of New Zealand. Driving through the impressive gates, we are greeted by the sight of a substantial edifice, a monument to Peabody’s dream to build a legacy he hopes will last a thousand years. The collection of stone buildings includes a wine cellar, a cellar door – more of a tasting venue than a sales area – and a top notch restaurant, ‘Terroir.’

On a more domestic scale, a family of oversized charolais cows now lie on a manicured lawn beside a small the lake. These bronze bovines are the work of acclaimed British sculptor Paul Day, who has been reported as saying that, while the winery can appear imposing, the family grouping ‘softens the experience’.

Wandering into the tasting room, we were greeted by the Wine Experience Manager, Michael Bancks, who offered us a glass of wine, and a table near the window, where we could sit and admire the surroundings before the tour. The One & Only chose a rosé, and although I usually opt for the CR Chardonnay, I decided to revisit their Sauvignon Blanc instead. While I’ve never been a huge fan of Sauvignon Blanc, I do love the Craggy Range version. And, as the 2023 Te Muna Sauvignon Blanc was recently named 11th in the World’s Top 100 wines, I decided it was time to veer from the road most travelled. It was worth the detour. It is indeed a beauty. Glass in hand, we followed Michael through the building, pausing in the chilly wine cellar to admire the neat rows of barrels of their Bordeaux style blend and flagship wine ‘Sophia’.

Apart from wine making, there is also a focus on regenerative farming and providing wild-life corridors through the vineyards. And in 2020, Craggy Range embarked on a project to plant over 100 hectares of native trees on the Martinborough vineyard to improve the biodiversity there, and the quality of the land.

The label beside one photo in the entrance hall states that ‘our ambition is to create wines that comfortably sit alongside the great wines of the world. We were humbled to be included in the Decanters 2015 “worlds best Syrah” tasting, alongside a handful of the world’s most iconic producers.’ In the photo, the Craggy Range 2011 Le Sol stands between a La Landonne and a Penfolds.

Then it was time for dinner.

In 2018, Terroir, the Craggy Range restaurant received 2 chefs’ hats for its top quality food. (Awarded by the Australian Good Food Guide the prestigious ‘hats’ have been given to the best restaurants in Australia and New Zealand since 1982.) The restaurant was also named Winery Restaurant of the Year in the 2020-2021 Cuisine Good Food Awards, in recognition of Head Chef Casey McDonald’s fabulous use of seasonal Hawke’s Bay produce alongside Craggy Range wines.

With such outstanding recognition from our most noted critics, where else were we going to celebrate my birthday, as we travelled through the Land of the Long White Cloud?

We decided on the shared menu – five courses for only $95pp – and our taste buds were indulged beyond belief. I heard someone mention the new Craggy Range ‘Giant’s Estate’ gin. So,‘yes please’ to one of those, garnished with juniper berries and a slice of dehydrated orange. We decided it was safer to skip the wine pairing, or we feared we might have found ourselves sleeping among the vines – which might have proved a cold, damp end to a lovely evening! Our abstinence also allowed us to concentrate on the food.

As we walked into the restaurant – packed to the gunnels even mid-week – we spotted more of Day’s bronze sculptures. This time, it was a family of chooks – or, more specifically, a group of Rhode Island Reds, seven times their natural size, the rooster standing about seven feet tall. And Day was right, they do soften the otherwise formal landscape of the Craggy Range grounds.

Our waiter guided us to our table, at a window overlooking the kitchen. Perched on surprisingly comfortable bar stools, we were introduced to the chef and the waiting staff, who promptly delivered a serve of the extremely moreish potato focaccia, which I could happily have eaten until filled to the brim, but then I would have missed out on several mouth-watering dishes, all created from local produce: from figs with buffalo curd and shiso (a herb from the mint family) to a fresh and zesty ceviche, to roast halloumi with a burnt honey dressing. More than a degustation ‘taster’ but not so large that we quailed at the thought of ever getting through the menu, we were indulged with a toothsome array of tastes and textures. In retrospect, I’m sorry we chose not to savour the matching wines, but then we didn’t really need reminding of how much we enjoy the CR Chardonnay or the glorious Sophia, and the One & Only was perfectly happy with a large glass of CR Riesling while I sipped on my G&T.

The main course was a mouth-watering shoulder of roast lamb, accompanied by crispy roast potatoes and Brussel sprouts, an almond cream and the last of the sugar snap peas from the kitchen garden. Colour, aroma, taste and texture, this dish had it all.

Sadly, dessert proved to be my Waterloo, but I did manage a teaspoon or two of the lemon posset (a cold, creamy dessert, flavoured with lemon), which provided a lovely tangy note on which to finish a truly superb dinner. Dashing through the rain, we both swore we wouldn’t need to eat for a week. At least. But it had been a momentous introduction to the various wine regions of New Zealand where we hope to discover a few new friends and favourites!

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Alex Down the Hobbit-Hole

Posted on 27 March 2025 by sheg4184

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.” ~ JRR Tolkien

When Peter Jackson decided to make a film (sorry, three films) based on Tolkien’s book, ‘The Hobbit’, he went back to the farm in New Zealand where they had created Hobbiton for the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. The original set had been a temporary structure and had included only the exteriors. Hobbiton II has become a much more grandiose and permanent affair. In 2023 they even added two ‘real’ Hobbit holes that can be entered and explored at leisure (n.b. tall humans aka ‘wizards’ should duck.)

For those of you who did not grow up reading the Hobbit, or have somehow missed the movies, here is a brief summary:

The Hobbit, or There and Back Again was published in 1937. Unlike its sequel ‘Lord of the Rings’, it was written for children, a fantasy adventure by English author J. R. R. Tolkien. The tale is set in ‘ancient time between the age of Faerie and the dominion of men’ and it begins in the ‘The Shire’, the rural homeland of Hobbits, set in a remarkably peaceful corner of Middle Earth.

‘Hobbits are – or were – a little people about half our height and smaller than the bearded dwarves’. The Hobbit in question is Bilbo Baggins, a ‘well-to-do’ and ‘respectable’ Hobbit whose family had lived ‘for time out of mind’ in the Shire. Bilbo is a sedate and sensible Hobbit, a wel-fed homebody who is happy to sit by his fire with his pipe. That is, until his sedentary life is rudely interrupted by an elderly wizard, Gandalf the Grey, and a company of bumptious dwarves, who are on a journey to reclaim the Lonely Mountain and all its treasure from the fierce dragon Smaug. An who have inexplicably decided that this small, unadventurous Hobbit is the perfect addition to their company. In the manner of all good fairy tales, they succeed in their quest, but not before encountering many adventures. Of course.

I have long wanted to visit Hobbiton, so when we finally settled on a time to visit New Zealand, I made sure to include a trip to ‘the Shire’. Serendipitously, it coincided with my birthday.

Hobbiton is only a two hour drive south of Auckland, near the town of Matamata on New Zealand’s North Island. The entry site includes an expansive car park, café, shop and bus stop. At our designated time, we boarded the bus with about twenty other keen Tolkienites and were driven through the farm to ‘the Shire’, an area somewhere in the middle of the property. Our guide, Aimee, an enthusiastic young lass from Lincoln (the English one) and was full of interesting stories about the creation of Peter Jackson’s Hobbiton set and its evolution into a tourist attraction. On a short video, we were welcomed to the property by the owner, Ian Alexander, and Peter J. himself.

For the next hour we rambled across the gentle slopes that comprise Hobbiton, with its wee round doors set into the hillside, a scattering of chimney stacks perched precariously atop, of which several were smoking. Miniature vegetable gardens, flower beds, orchards and ponds helped to create the image of a bucolic world in miniature. And eventually our path wound to the top of the hill, where sat Bag End beneath a huge, gnarly (fake) tree, a bench seat in the front garden on which rested Bilbo’s diary and his ‘enormous, long wooden pipe’, perfectly made for blowing ‘beautiful grey rings of smoke’.

The pièce de resistance, however, is the relatively new addition to Hobbiton, a pair of Hobbit Holes through which visitors may wander and explore the home of a ‘real’ Hobbit.

Oh! the delight of strolling down a rounded passage into a comfortable Hobbit hole, where no detail has been omitted, no comfort overlooked. Like a grand doll’s house, there is a real fire in the grate and the mantlepiece is topped with the Bagginses family tree. In the children’s bedroom is the cosiest of bunkbeds built into the wall. Circular windows look out over gardens and in the bathroom, a child sized copper bath. Down another passage to the kitchen and you step back in time to a kitchen before the fitted variety took over the world: a wooden table where someone has just finished baking pies, a wall hung with copper pots, a blackened range, a walk-in pantry filled with kegs of beer, boxes of vegetables, baskets of fruit, jars of pickles, and large rounds of cheese. On the dresser, a tray has been prepared for afternoon tea.

The whole tour is a joyous return to childhood fantasy; a world in miniature; the three dimensional recreation of a favourite book. The only thing missing – sadly – is the Hobbit himself. And yet, the whole time there is a feeling that somehow… if you don’t blink… just around the next bend in the path… you might bump into him.

Each tour is perfectly choreographed so that, despite the continuous flow of buses, one tour never overlaps another, and you feel that it is all being done just for you. At the end of the tour, we cross the bridge by the mill to reach the Green Dragon, Hobbiton’s own public house. Here we are offered a glass of ale, stout or cider – or ginger beer for those below the drinking age – from a kindly barmaid. If the sun is shining there is seating in the garden. If it is wet, there are plenty of comfy sofas and chairs within.

On arriving a little while later at our B&B, we were delighted to find DVDs of all the Peter Jackson movies, and watched with glee as Hobbiton came to life, filled, not with tourists but with real, furry-footed, jolly, diminutive Hobbits.

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