Katerina Mylona writes Katerina is a globetrotting Chemical Engineer - Oenologist with an MBA, blending scientific precision with winemaking artistry. Her hands-on experience spans vineyards and cellars from France and Spain to New Zealand, the USA, Argentina, and Cyprus. Her leadership helped elevate Cypriot wine on the global stage, earning international awards and recognition. A published author in leading wine and scientific journals, Katerina brings a fresh, eco-conscious perspective to modern winemaking rooted in deep technical and cultural expertise. As the founder of HECATE Wine Experts, Katerina champions the sustainable evolution of winemaking, helping businesses refine their wines, operations, and messaging strategies.
Gateway into the wine world:
An ode to Mavrokountoura
There are well over a thousand grape varieties used in winemaking. Deep Cabernets, flowery Muscats, elegant Pinots, exotic Sauvignons, robust Syrahs, complex Rieslings, distinctive Grenaches, versatile Chardonnays, rich Malbecs—the list is endless. Each one could inspire its own ode. But for me, one rare, little-known Greek variety planted the very seed of my wine journey: Mavrokountoura Kymis.
As a child, I was drawn to the tales of past greatness shared within my family—stories tied to our roots in Kymi, a seaside town on the island of Evia. How wine made from Mavrokountoura grapes once sailed across the Mediterranean to deepen and darken renowned French blends. How the variety, envied for its unique character, was stolen and transformed in foreign soils. How its vines were eventually torn from the land by a silent, invisible invader—Phylloxera, that cruel pest from the Americas—pushing her to the brink of extinction.
Stories woven into my Greek cultural DNA. Drama steeped in pathos, marked by hubris, but—unlike our ancient tragedies—lacking the comfort of katharsis—at least until then.
For years, these stories lay dormant in my mind like winter vines awaiting spring. But as I stepped into adulthood and neared the end of my studies in chemical engineering, those memories accumulated enough heat days to burst. While my classmates made pragmatic choices for their Thesis topics, I found myself quietly drawn to Her. Mavrokountoura called to me—silently, slowly, imperceptibly. She guided me to choose Her as my subject.
I was flooded with questions. Had She truly vanished? Could I find Her? What made Her special enough to inspire such stories? Did She still have a place in today’s wine world? And was it rational to chase Her?
To make the idea more “appropriate,” I reframed the research around the antioxidant effects of phenols, fermentation biochemistry, and how modified atmospheres affect wine aging. That seemed logical enough. Besides, Mavrokountoura’s small, thick and dark-skinned berries offered ideal test samples. Greece's wine industry is active and evolving—I could justify this pursuit. Phew. I could proceed.
But first, I had to meet Her.
Only one label on the market used Mavrokountoura. It was produced by a small family winery sourcing Her grapes from an old vintner’s forgotten vineyard. The only proof of Her modern-day existence laid in his quiet claims. So I arranged a visit—a short drive from Athens to the familiar roads of Evia.
I asked my father to join me. We weren’t particularly close, and time alone with him was rare. On paper, this was a simple academic errand. But deep down, I think Mavrokountoura nudged me to bring him along. And he came.
It was a warm, dry, golden day when we arrived at the winery. We were greeted by the entire winemaking family, even their newborn twins. We sat outdoors, surrounded by calm and sun. I remember my father deep in conversation with the winemaker’s father—both men in their seventies, likely talking about Kymi, the vines and old times. I didn’t need to hear the words; the connection said enough.
And then—there She was.
Mavrokountoura. Tight, healthy clusters of dark, round, plump berries, just as I had imagined. I hadn’t expected to fall in love. But I did. At that moment, a vast new world opened up for me. Roaming the cellar, I could feel Her presence—a quiet power, not elegant, but confident. Complex and bold, yet with a velvety finish that lingered gently, making Her unforgettable.
I left the winery with samples in hand, almost in a trance. It had become more than a research trip. It had become an expedition day of me, my father, and Mavrokountoura.
Back in the lab, the berries were weighed, freeze-dried, dissected, extracted, macerated, fermented, and pressed—She was transformed to Her animated and spirited essence. The air filled with aromas of forest fruit, blackberries, plums, and even of a floral hint. I followed Her evolution closely. As She matured, so did I.
By the time I collected my final data, I knew: I was permanently changed. Infected, in the best way possible.
Our journey had come to an end, at least academically. But emotionally, spiritually, something new had begun. I will always be grateful to Her—for what She taught me, for the doorway She opened to the world of wine (never to close again), and, most of all, for giving me the dearest memory I have of my father. He passed away just months before I presented my thesis.
And so, as with all great loves, Mavrokountoura remains—not merely a variety, but a compass. She grounds me in my heritage, roots me in stories fading in memory, and blossoms in every glass I taste, in every vineyard I walk, in every conversation wrapped in wine’s intoxicating wonder. Through Her, I learned that wine is not just a drink—it is a branch. Between people. Between generations. Between science and soul. Between land and those who dare to feel it.
She is the root cause of all my wine stories. A living tendril through time. A reminder of who I am, where I come from, and what binds us all—culture, land, memory, and love.
The image, made with the help of AI-based editing software, was provided by the author.
