Wine on the Mind: Yarra Valley '13.

“Started out.. Just drinkin’beer.”  Actually, it was wine (then beer), but the nips were gettin’ bigger.

The time had come for our annual excursion of organised drunkery, this weekend, so we piled into Amber’s  ’63 EH Holden, built for road trippin’, and revved our way over to ‘Vintage House,’ Healesville. Straight-framed, straight-laced driver Bill collected us from our accommodation, and it was all aboard the fun bus of Yarra Valley Winery Tours. Promised a friendly dog and a friendlier winemaker at our first stop, Millers, the dog became acquainted with our crotches, indeed. When our wine man finally, begrudgingly appeared, however, he paid no heed to our persons or our enticing crotches. Amber apologised, “I hope we haven’t come at a bad time,” and was unabashedly told, “I was in the middle of some things.” Wine guy (who was sadly less inviting than his long, reaching eyebrows) skipped the standard offer of his full range of wines and instead asked curtly, “What do you want to try?” We sipped a few awkwardly requested over a crackling radio, and our subsequent purchases still bought us no love. Amber noted the Hawks scarf draped over a railing and asked our new acquaintance if he’d enjoyed the Grandfinal. Our near escape from the inhospitality thus turned into a long-winded history of old mate’s family’s football affiliations. At least we knew the satisfaction of squeezing a little friendliness from a cranky old fart.

There were higher hopes for Round 2 at an old tour favourite - Sticks. True to past experience, our barman was jovial and engaging and happily answered our stupid questions. When Ben described one wine as “a little bit Led Zeppelin and a little bit Hendrix,” wine guy mentioned he’d been thinking of having people write down their own creative descriptions, like such. My description was taken less seriously when I cried from an underdeveloped palette, “This one tastes like a Prima!” That’d be one damned expensive glass of fruit drink.

With lunchtime already upon us, we descended upon Whispering Hills for our third tasting to be followed by our cost-included meal. I wasn't enamoured with the wines there, myself, but the food was to die for! Disappointed when first faced with the simple choices of fish or steak, they proved the tastiest versions of meats and accompaniments that I’d had in a long while. I went the salmon with a pea puree, sweet, spiced beetroot and perfectly crispened potatoes.. Nice work, kitchen peeps.

This is where my busy week at work began to take its toll. The meal heightened my already encroaching fatigue (the barrel of wine may also have had something to do with it), and I spent the remainder of the day struggling to keep my lame-arse, old woman eyes open.  Those lame-arse eyes managed to see the beautiful view when we arrived at Riverstone winery, a beautiful building itself, overlooking the mountains. Judging by the set-up, they were closed in preparation for a wedding, but it was lovely to know a bride and groom were soon be enjoying the same impressive backdrop. There’d be no cold feet with that view.

I perked up a little thanks to the lively host at Coombe Farm, the final winery of the day.  A far cry from our first stop, quick-witted Nicky joked with her customers almost like her livelihood depended on it! While pouring our rosé, she warned in the form of a nursery tune, “This is the reason I have four kids, be careful in the mor-ning.” The woman swore like a trooper and, when spotting an unexpected visitor wandering into her vineyard, chased him with a bottle for our amusement. Now, that’s a reception!
Not surprisingly, this winery was already packed when we arrived. Nicky asked where we hailed from and at the mention of South Gippsland, another tour guide oddly blurted “Fish Creek!” which happened to be the tiny town where Amber and I grew-up. The stout little psychic, decked out in his running suit with a gold chain around the neck and his hair glued to his forehead, asked our driver’s permission, “Can I tell them a joke?” Something so corny it was funny followed, which I have fortunately since forgotten. (Partial to corniness, myself, I may have otherwise repeated it.)

The next tasting was of the cheese variety at Yarra Valley Dairy. Most everything was a perfect flavour explosion, from ash encased goats cheese to a chive infused cream cheese. Unfortunately, we ended on a very stinky, non-refridgerated soft cheese that, to our unsophisticated tastes, bore a little too much ‘old sock’ character and wouldn’t leave our noses for a good while thereafter.

Back at Vintage House, we popped a few bottles that may have been better appreciated sober, and I managed to eat most of a packet of crackers I’d bought from the dairy. We tumbled down to the pub where Ben and Marty befriended every white-haired fellow within elbow’s range. I literally elbowed one old dude behind me who announced that I must be the new bouncer, so his nearby mates entered a phony squabble and asked me to break them up. Funny, country codgers. Amber met up with her ex-step-mother and her partner who live in the area and when I was overcharged for dinner, Glen got up from own his meal to demand my money back, which was very sweet. Usually a comparative health freak, I’d given myself permission to indulge on the finer foods of the the Yarra Valley region. Rather than spending this grant on homemade breads and delicate sweets, however, I went from my packeted cracker gorge to ordering fish and chips for dinner, eating every chip on my plate and some from other people’s. I literally had to be pulled away from the table to stop and we stumbled back to the house for a night of broken, drunken sleep. Our pillows, which seemed lovely and fluffy at first, habitually shifted their stuffing from under our heads and we were all episodically punching them back into shape through the night – except for Marty, apparently, who cleverly folded his over from the start. Another interruption was Ben’s agonised puking, his midnight bathroom whimper heard throughout the house. Poor little fella keeps his body so pure that he threw it out of sorts with a day of abuse!  Somebody also managed to break two wine glasses in the night, which none of us overheard, oddly.

We took breaky at the nostalgic Monroe’s Café, run by the high-spirited gentleman selling raffle tickets at the pub the previous evening. He shook the boys’ hands and confessed, “Your tickets may not have even made it into the draw. I was pretty pissed, last night.” We ate a breakfast for winners, in any case, the scrambled eggs among the most fluffy and yellow I’ve seen.

And now, the dream is over. I will soon forget my lousy pike-out of sleepiness, remembering only the wild times as I overlook the bottles of 2013 and long for the Wino tour of 2014. Thanks for the memories, lads.