SONOMA IN THE AFTERNOON

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SONOMA IN THE AFTERNOON

The spell of Redwoods at Muir lingered as we wended our way into the Sonoma Valley. Its southern entrance, influenced by cool breezes from the Bay, provides a hospitable environment for grapes that yield Pinot Noirs and Chardonnays. The fruit that bear Merlots, Cabernets and Sauvignons thrive further north in the Valley, away from the moderating effects of wind and water.

We drove past lands Sir Francis Drake had claimed for England in 1579, our guide of sixties vintage regaling us with tidbits such that vineyards in this area were an endeavour of priests in the Spanish Missions, late seventeen hundreds; and that the right to produce wine for religious rites enjoyed legal protection during the Prohibition era of the nineteen twenties.

Before long, we entered the Valley. Its contour traced half a moon against a busy sky; low lying hills rolled beyond, pencilling their way along a horizon locked-in by land. We, our Wagon humming along, were entranced in a bubble of beauty all our own.

We stopped for a Tasting at a place that served as a religious Mission a very long time ago. Its religious past is preserved in a modest building at the rear; but the alcohol content of today’s offerings left no doubt this is now a commercial wine producing establishment. Eight one ounce tastings played my palette with a certain delicacy. I was sure these were not communion wines. From a refreshing Pinot Gris, affecting melon and pear, and a robust Viognier, betraying peach and apricot, among the whites; to a full Mourvedre, hinting plum and chocolate, and a smooth Shiraz of lingering blackberry, among the reds, Sonoma wines were on proud presentation and I was in need of fresh air. A still pond on the grounds gave calm retreat.

We took lunch in the petite town of Sonoma, the Valley’s namesake, sampling cheeses in the General Store and munching spicy burritos, under an overhanging shed, orange wedges at the side, red wine in hand.
This quiet town is steeped in a record of earlier times. It was here, mid-eighteen hundreds, where California’s withdrawal from an indifferent Mexico came about, when settlers of the region employed the curious military manoeuvre of confining the governor to his splendid quarters, still extant, long enough to prove that he and Mexico were devoid of authority over them. Whereupon, freedom achieved, these self same settlers fell willingly into the welcoming arms of the then west-expanding USA, whose commander on the coast, General Hooker, ambled into town at the helm of his cavalry, trailing his assorted ladies of comfort softly supporting his troops.

We moved briskly on to our second Tasting at a small boutique style operation. All production phases, except for growing and reaping, are on-site; and the jack-of-all-trades owner was on hand for questions. “Simple”, he avers, “the year on the bottle is the year in which harvesting occurred, September-October in these parts”. Crushing and pressing of the grapes, their fermentation into alcohol, ageing in casks for flavouring, and racking in barrels for filtering, are phases that must take place before bottled rest can occur. My own take away from this information is: I will not, in any current year, purchase a bottle of wine bearing a label from the previous year.

There are currently about fifty varieties of wine produced in this region, our host informed us. I pondered this and concluded: including the eight tastings at this location, I had now imbibed a third of the local varieties, Sauvignon, Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, Merlot and Zinfandel, among others, red and white, offered, in all their potency, unabashedly, in this region.

There was a third Tasting on the schedule, but out of an abundance of caution, Penelope and I demurred and went instead to an exhibition of gardens. Meantime, our honeymooners, the mature pair and the man of silence, a trifle more vocal now, pressed gaily on toward winery number three.

We strolled through the outdoor rooms of the gardening exhibition, which fused sculptures with horticulture into artful offerings of living beauty carrying messages of social and historical import.

The collage themed on Mahatma Gandhi’s saying, “be the change you want to see”, moved me most; and I yielded to its challenge to self-minute the change I would most love to see in my lifetime. In an existential moment for me, simple and pure, I wrote, “an end to all wars by August 22, 2027”.

Toward the end of our visit at these gardens, we fell upon an installation in which wooden structures frame plants of flowering elegance as a plateau for telling the story of the many immigrants who toil hereabouts, providing labour in fields, on projects and at homes . Yet, no viable way has been found to weave their very real presence into the social fabric. A moving story in itself, made poignant by the vignette we were privileged to observe, of a young father, seated in the garden with his boy of a son, earnestly explaining, or attempting to, the elusive meaning of the messages imbedded in the art.

The Wagon was back from the third Tasting and we boarded, feeling it was as well we had chosen the Gardens. The return ride was quiet time, each of us in thought, carrying memories we had been gifted this day. And, all the while, a reprise of scenic wonders from earlier floated by our windows, in reverse order.

And, our Guide kept the best for last. As we neared the City, he successfully urged our barely willing Wagon to a precarious perch, way above the Bay; and, with San Francisco and every one of its environs in clear view for three-sixty, we beheld its signature landmark, the Golden Gate Bridge, in bold and unforgettable relief. There it lay, astride the Bay, like some silent serpentine creature dozing in the late afternoon haze, as myriad miniscule travellers scampered to and fro along either side of its supple spine.


V. Ernest Ainsley
14.12.09

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