that hath been cool'd a long age
in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green
Dance, and provincial song, and sunburnt mirth,
Oh, for a beaker of the warm South..."
John Keats, Ode to a Nightingale
Mile after mile of vineyards hang with lush, valuable fruit as we drive by in the hot sun. Each vine here produces 4-6 bottles of wine, with an average retail price of $52.69 in the Napa Valley. It was about 90 degrees today and great for final ripening, but there's a possibility of a little rain on Saturday. Rain is bad news at harvest time. Almost as bad as hard freeze a bud break, according to my wine expert traveling companion. Describing it in crude terms, the parched grapes are happy to slurp up water in September, bloating up and ruining a growing season of carefully condensed sugars and the fruit essence needed for fine wine. It's easy to forget this place is about agriculture on the most basic level. Mother Nature is in charge.
Anyway. I'd write more tonight but I've been sitting here for an hour and the wireless connection is primitive-- there's only so many hummingbirds I can look at while waiting 20 minutes for a photo to load. Mineral water is calling. Stories and photos later.
Love from Wine Land.
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