Chloe Bargery writes Chloe Bargery is a WSET Diploma student, wine communicator, content creator (@uncorkedwithchlo) and budding wine writer, based in London. Using her background in advertising and copywriting, she enjoys creating evocative and informative content to spread her excitement about the world of wine. She was inspired by a recent trip to the bodegas of Jerez when interpreting the theme of ‘An ode to a grape variety’.
Whispers from the solera
My barrel creaks against the others stacked beneath it. Tucked away in this lofty cathedral, so silent I can hear the flicking legs of a spider as it hurriedly weaves a new web above me. The nights sometimes feel endless. When the tourists have left and the winemakers have hung up their aprons, we remain here under our blankets, waiting for the morning light to flood in from the high windows, quietly reminiscing, reflecting on our youth.
I remember the days on the vine like they were yesterday. Thirty years ago now, maybe forty... I lose track. It’s hard to know where my memories end and the stories of others begin. I was born under the Levante wind, its arid heat intensifying the scorch of the sun beating down on us. That unrelenting summer stretched on. On the rare occasion that a cloud passed overhead, you could almost hear the soft sighs of relief ripple down the vine. A quick lick of salt across your skin marked the passing of Poniente, Levante’s elusive cousin; he would ruffle our leaves as he charged through, always with somewhere better to be. When the heat got almost too much to bear, we would stretch our roots deeper underneath the crust of the soil to be greeted with a modest gulp of water that was dutifully rationed out. We were all indebted to old Albariza for his painstaking efforts to conserve what little water he could, yet knew we were at the mercy of his willingness to share.
That never ending summer, we exchanged tales we’d heard of vines from faraway regions that were creating unimaginable flavours - grapes that tasted of raspberry and plum, rosemary and thyme. I never found out if they were true. The idea of it made me self conscious of my plainness, ashamed of my inability to be distinctive. We heard whisperings about grapes that had leapt to fame on the world stage, their names in bold letters, adorning the labels of rows of bottles in the markets. Every time I heard such a story, I would daydream about being known, about diners in restaurants specifically asking for a glass of me. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy and I would hang there on the vine, silently resenting our work for its excruciating conditions and our apparent lack of recognition. In retrospect, I suppose we’d had it easy, that our lives were simple compared to some, that there was no expectation of us except to stay healthy for when the time came to be picked. My yellow-green berries swelled and sweetened, until eventually autumn crept in and the harvest began.
My real journey, however, started in the bodega. After pressing and fermentation, we were shown to our barrels. They called it the solera but to me, it was a memory ladder, a slow descent into depth. The flor veiling us from the headspace above, I surrendered to a gentle slumber beneath it. After a few years, they let the air kiss us and we transformed into a magnificent caramel elixir with exotic perfumes of dried fruits and the earthy warmth of toasted nuts. Every so often, friends would move on and new faces would join in their place. Each time they blended us, a nervousness would hang in the air between us all - the fresh-faced youth and the mellow elders initially apprehensive of each other - but with time, we would learn to live harmoniously.
Word in the bodega is that the young people are drinking sherry again. Oh, how fickle fashion is! For so long, we were forgotten here in our dusty, chalk-scrawled barrels. The wheels kept turning but the winemakers were growing despondent - even the walls seemed to sigh with weariness. When bottles were filled, it was the last you heard of them. You could only hope they were being drunk. Now, there’s whispers of excitement in the air. The resident mice seem to scurry about at a quicker pace, as if they’re getting ready for guests to arrive. The world has once again taken an interest in our craft. It’s been a slow rumble… nothing like the heyday of the seventies… but it’s there, creeping in, spreading a jitter of anticipation throughout the place. You can make out the eager voices of freshly trained staff and if you count the footsteps going past, you can calculate how many more tourists have paid for ‘visitas guiadas’ that day. I won’t get overexcited, though - I’ve been around long enough to know better. Once the tides turn again and this new wave of fame crashes, I’ll still be here, stoically stocking the vibrant tapas bars of my home in Andalusia. I am content that no wine will be able to pair with the piquancy of an anchovy-threaded gilda as brilliantly as a briney Fino. I know that a glass of rich Oloroso alongside your jamón ibérico at sundown will make the flavours dance flamenco on your tongue. Of course, a sherry trifle at Christmas without sherry is just, well, a trifle.
I will continue to rest in the hush of the cathedral, quietly passing history from barrel to glass. You may not know my name but you will always remember my style. I am Palomino and if you take the time to truly taste me, you will find sun drenched days, the breath of the Andalusian wind and the ghost of centuries past.
Photo: an Amontillado solera.
