Dry Encounter of the Thirst Kind

In a lingo filled with guttural sounding words to the tune of “achtung”, “mein Gott” and “Schweinehund”, the noun “Riesling” is one of the German language’s more joyous components. I have always found Riesling to be a precise, pure sounding word evoking images of brisk forest streams full of clear water foaming over clean white pebbles, a pristine green mountain forest lying beneath glaciers and a blond German damsel, straight from her fortnightly shower, picking daffodils next to a Gothic cathedral.

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Young, Willing and Very Able

I wanted wines from the World Cup vintage, not fleeting virginal un-wooded Sauvignon Blancs or Chenins, but something that had been given the full monty. Autolysis and batonage and wood, and time.

Fortunately in the release-them-quick environs of the South African wine industry, this is not hard to find. Actually, it is immensely easy. All you have to do is look like a writer, hack, blogger kind-of-thing, walk into a winery where you happen to know the owner-manager-PR-poppie, and Bob’s your Auntie?+¦-+???+¦-ú?-¦?+¦-+?-+..an unlabelled bottle of 2010-whatever is yours, on the house.

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