Erica Verweijen writes I am a former sommelier, who currently works as a wine buyer for Aventura Wines, a wine importer in Amsterdam. I’ve always been fascinated by obscure and nearly extinct appellations. In my spare time, I write stories. I fell in love with the Ramisco grape when opening a bottle of Colares of my birthyear 1977 in 2015.
Ramisco reminiscing
I have been here for ages, soft grains cover my roots. Dried-reed fences protect me from the wind and the ocean. I hear the waves all day long and I have outlived many sunsets. The sand is my sanctuary, clay my foundation. It’s where my roots sprout as I lay down, not to surrender, but to survive.
A long time ago, my brothers and sisters perished under a monster with tiny feet and long wings, where no honeydew sprang from. Who chewed small holes in their roots, so no minerals or water could be absorbed. I was one of his few survivors, thanks to my sole protector, my blanket of sand, where he could neither thrive nor survive.
My biggest threat has been mankind, once embracing me when this pest had decimated my neighbours’ vineyards, then abandoning me when seaside tourism emerged. I have survived many tumultuous storms but I have seen my acreage decline simultaneously.
When I liquefy and ferment, the process of growing up from grape to juice is intense, but I know that I am destined to trade the comfort of the sand for the solid protection of the glass, where I will spend the rest of my youth, puberty, and adulthood. I, of all varieties, should make it to retirement. I thrive in time, I am a late bloomer.
It takes great effort to get to know me. My DNA is scarred by the elements, some call me a rough diamond. Leaving the sand is traumatising, so in my youth I am not easy to understand. I am small and my thick skin makes me an introvert. Everything I have to offer: Dried rose petal, tart red currant, wild strawberries and ripe raspberries, exuberant herbal notes and earthy tones of leather and mushrooms, backed by an ever-present salinity that makes an oyster blush, are first hidden by corrosive acidity and ferocious tannins. In time, I can be glorious and show my true colours. But it takes nearly a decade of patience.
I know I am facing extinction in the near future. I’m hanging on the edge of this cliff, in a rapidly changing world. My coastline, once occupied by lone surfers and fishermen, is now crowded with ephemeral day-trippers who leave ice cream wrappings in the sand. For now, the little acreage that is left of me is protected by mankind. One day I could be swallowed by the ocean. All that remains of me will be treasured in remote cellars. Until that fateful day arrives, I will patiently await the next harvest, shielded from the wind, enrobed by my beloved blanket, basking in sunlight.
The photograph, provided by the author, comes from the publication O Vinho de Colares - Edição da Adega Regional de Colares, by Raúl Esteves dos Santos (1938).
