about the author
I have always been curious about wine. My mother was a devoted chardonnay lush and growing up in Australia it was in as much abundance in our household as sand in our speedos, barbecues at the weekend and sunshine hitting the low hanging fruit of the hills hoist. I think that perhaps I got the taste for it early, the breastmilk on which I first fed laced in loving small part with some of that Margaret River magic. My father had always made his own beer and so that followed closely behind the West Coast Coolers of late Friday afternoons when neighbourhood friends would come and go and I would sneak sips from whatever mysterious chalices they all imbibed. The beer tasted sour and bitter and the wine sweet and salty and though I was repulsed by it at first I always came back for more. I was curious. I was curious how this liquid had come to be, from what strange fruit had it sprung. I was curious how it made the grownups around me more jovial the more they consumed, more affectionate, more wanting to dance and more willing to let us kids make what mischief we desired.
Many, many years later from suburban beginnings to the big city blues of being a somm in London I find myself curious still; still curious of what strange fruits unfurl the masses, still looking for what makes us more jovial, more wanting to dance and affect… still up to some kind of mischief.
Every bottle has a story to tell. I am merely taking dictation.