Keely Cho writes originating from New Zealand, land of Sauvignon Blanc, cheery people and abundant sunshine. A love of wine and reasonably fast public transport led me to London. Tumbling into the city in the spring of 2023, I hightailed it to my interview at 67 Pall Mall. Hired immediately and handed my grape pin and tie, I have been a sommelier ever since. However, not fully satisfied I had mastered my studies, I set out last August to apprentice under different winemakers. It was in Kartli, under that beautiful autumn sky and the falling oak leaves I found the secret to good winemaking. Hard work and endless cleaning. A big thanks to Patrick, Keti and the team at Chateau Mukhrani. Didi Madloba!
A gift thought forgotten
At the beginning, a maiden stood.
Fiery autumn hair, painted around an inscrutable face.
Delicately. She wove herself along the Mukha tree.
Draped in a leafy robe swaying gently in the forest breeze, she then bowed her slender bronze arms to the ground.
“My gift to you,” she smiled, with far-away eyes.
You try to recall.
Who was she?.
A benevolent goddess promising immortality? Or...Eris with the apple of discord?
“A gift from the Gods,” she murmured.
“Worship my gift, and, in turn, me. But never forget, if you accept, there are only three who can tame it. The earth, the heavens and man.
Promise, and I will influence the course of human civilisation.
In the passing of time, one day you will understand.”
Plump spheres. The colour of a clouded night sky. A slender scarlett stream pierces from its fogged skin onto your outstretched palm.
Like man, it bleeds red.
Like the goddess, it is an enigma.
Unsure, you lower it gently into a clay jar whilst you ponder.
There it rests.
As the seasons change, the leaves once more turn green and grasping tendrils reach towards the heavens. Strong roots make an exploration of the earth, coerced by the tender warmth.
Inspired, the sun emerges daily over the Tsiv-Gombori, before slumbering in the Black Sea.
Mineral rich streams trickle from the momental Caucasus Mountains nourishing the greedy seedling.
Glaciers revolt, before sinking, defeated, into the Enguri Basin.
The Föhn winds carry both hope and despair down.
You are impatient, rushing to the amphora you take a greedy gulp.
In the spiced body you feel the Khorumi, a war dance embodying the courage of warriors of old .
The pitch-black liquid courses through your body as its unyielding strength still holds your throat.
You stumble backwards,while the divine laughs above.
Time does indeed pass.
When taming the plant, the Neolithic Shulaveri-Shomu people began the age of agriculture.
Invaders came, all determined one after another, to conquer the Cradle of Wine.
First the Hittites, then the Urartians, the Medes, Proto-Persians, and then the Cimmerians.
It was named Colchis in the west when Jason and the Argonauts fled with the Golden Fleece, and called Iberia in the east.
The Kartvelian tribes and Greeks traded the gift; stocking the holds of their billowing fleets.
Alexander the Great brought his mighty armies, and afterward came the Roman Empire.
In the third century, Saint Nino of Cappadocia heralded in Christianity, and converted the nation.
Gilded tamed vines then wove up the reliefs and pillars of churches. Intertwining ever upwards along with man’s devotion to God
Empires rose and fell.
And yet the dark liquid waited within its clay chamber, undergoing its final metamorphosis.
So you slept and dreamed, slumbering through the passing eons.
Then you remember her.
Rousing, you glimpse the gentle rays of spring sun illuminating the forgotten amphora.
Breaking through the crumbling seal you take a tentative sip.
A harmony of black plums and lively red cherries on the nose.
Accompanied by a bass line of dried cloves and toasted fennel.
The chorus; wild violets and swaying freesias and wood smoke dancing with your tongue.
An echoing symphony, resonating long after that last drop. Reassuring power wrapped with a ribbon of black silk.
And you remember, misty dark berries that you once held.
A Damascene moment now softened into living poetry out from inside its impenetrable chamber.
A golden ball led by a single string guiding you to the light.
“Its name is Saperavi,” you feel her whisper in the breeze. “The first to be tamed by the patient man. But not the last.”
Then at once you understand.
Mastery of the vine has taught mankind mastery of themselves.
Gaumarjos!
Photo caption: 'The author working hard on a qvevri to coerce stubborn native yeasts at the Chateau Mukhrani marani'.
