A dubious morning and a glorious afternoon fade into a multi-hued sunset, and as the air cools with the breezes newly-released from surrounding mountain peaks, I strike a match.
Hisssss…pop.
I try again.
Hissssssssss…pop!
A third time.
Hisssssssssssssss…
Nothing.
Our lovely patio at the Vintner's Retreat has a rather sizeable gas grill, which I've uncovered and scrubbed in eager anticipation of the delicious leg of New Zealand lamb currently resting on our kitchen countertop. But while the grill is most definitely in attendance, it seems that the gas has taken an untimely vacation. I shake the empty canister in frustration, but it's too late to do anything about it.
And so, it's back inside, and to the oven…one of those ultra-safe models, with two wall switches and several multi-limb gyrations necessary to get it started, and in the end we're just barely saved from total surrender (and stovetop cooking) by an instruction manual squirreled away in a nearby drawer. While the lamb roasts, we settle into chairs on the patio – slightly tainted by the smell of uncombusted gas – and toast the solar rainbow with glasses of bubbly from just down the road.
Hunter's 1998 Brut (Marlborough) – Fruity and lightly floral, with yeasty concentration and good persistence despite rather clumsy bubbles.
A few baby fennel bulbs and their stalks go into the roasting pan as the lamb nears doneness, and some interesting local mushrooms – the store's shelf talker revealed no more than "brown" and that they were from Marlborough, but they're certainly better than mass-produced white button mushrooms – sautéed with butter and the rest of the herbs, hit the stovetop. As the aromas mingle, I carefully decant a prize from The Wine Deli in Queenstown.
Te Mata 1985 Cabernet/Merlot Awatea (Hawke's Bay) – As I understand it, this wine dates from the time when Awatea (and Coleraine) were actual vineyard designations, not brand names. And it's certainly the oldest New Zealand wine I've ever tasted. Though the wine is clearly nearing the end of its life, there's good color retention, with no more than the expected amount of fading. Graphite and the dark old wood smell of maturing Bordeaux dominate, though there's a touch of ripe greenness that sets it apart from its Old World paradigm. Ripe and fruity black cherries still linger on a medium-bodied midpalate, though acidity is starting to assert itself over the other elements, and there's still a little unresolved tannin. Drinking this wine, and knowing its honored place in the maturation of New Zealand viticulture, is like sitting at the knee of a grey-haired old gentleman, with button-down sweater and pipe, doling out wise advice right up until his last days. A great joy to drink.
Farewell to the South Island
It's a marvelous accompaniment to the lamb and the mushrooms, a simple but moving concerto of cherished national flavors, and a fitting finale to a wonderful few days in Marlborough. I've learned some things, I've tasted some great wines, I've had some time to just sit and relax…but most of all I've just soaked up the rich flavors of elsewhere. That is, after all, why I travel.
And tomorrow, another journey begins. A new journey, to a place we've already been: the North Island.
Dire Strait
Mimosas made with a little leftover Hunter's Brut are just the right accompaniment for relaxed morning packing. It's not like the road from Blenheim to Picton requires much special effort; after some of the mountain and cliffside drives we've done, the gentle twists of the Richmond Range are merely a cheerful diversion. What's not so cheerful is Picton itself, a dubious town surrounded by a good deal of mountainous and aquatic beauty, but littered with grungy storefronts…though an overcast, rain-threatened morning doesn't much help its appearance). The Cook Strait Ferry Terminal – our destination – is sleeker, but so crowded we have to park our rental ten minutes from the rental office, which is itself a good hike from the terminal; luggage, now including nearly two cases of wine, has become a problem. But in ultra-casual Kiwi fashion, the remoteness of the car doesn't seem to be a matter of much concern to the rental agency, and after a quick check-in we're settled into an airport-like lobby awaiting the arrival of the Lynx.
There was a good deal of disagreement between myself and Theresa when we made the booking; the Marlborough Sounds are supposed to be beautiful, she argued, so why not take one of the slower ferries? I, on the other hand, would have preferred a quick commuter flight. Given today's rather dramatic lack of visibility, and high winds over the Cook Strait that have shut down the Wellington airport, I think the high-speed ferry was a good compromise.
The ship arrives, just a bit late, and though we're not pushy enough to secure the truly prime seats up front in this rather dramatically large vessel, we manage a pair of window seats near the starboard side, the better to view the last of the South Island. Then, with little fanfare, we're off…at a decidedly pokey speed for now…north along the Queen Charlotte Sound and then eastward into the narrow Tory Channel. Menacing rocks protrude into a foggy nowhere, until the last rough outcropping recedes and we're completely isolated in a grey-hued sea of gently oscillating motion. Nothingness is on every horizon, and even the water is murky and opaque.
Clearly, it's time for lunch. Assorted comestibles from Savour are unpacked, to the jealous glares of a few fellow-travelers noshing on dry sandwiches from the onboard café, and we surreptitiously flout the "no alcohol" rule by uncorking the counterpart to the morning's mimosa mixer:
Heading west at West Head
Hunter's 2002 Gewürztraminer (Marlborough) – Crisp and spicy, with lychee and ripe pear drizzled with cashew oil and dusted with rose petals. A nice, easygoing gewürztraminer with just enough acid to be pleasant with food.
Theresa chooses to take a post-prandial nap, while I explore the ship. Near a small game arcade, I'm approached by a curious young boy who strikes up a conversation; he's as bored and restless as I am. In what may be one of the great coincidences of all time, I learn that he's from Norway, and that he and I share the same name, though of course he spells it differently. The only other "Thor" I've ever met was a dog (that took a few rather large chunks out of me, and had to be put to sleep), so this is somewhat of a revelation. We chat for a while – he's enjoying New Zealand nearly as much as I am, though he doesn't have much of an opinion on malbec as a blending grape – and as the ship describes a wide arc around Sinclair Head on the southern tip of the North Island, we say our farewells.
The wind has cleared the gloom a bit, and the coastline of Fitzroy Bay, to the east of Wellington, is just barely visible. And soon, so is Wellington itself. Rising sharply up the surrounding slopesides are bright, multi-colored homes surrounding a dense knot of tall commercial buildings; already much smaller than Auckland, it seems cramped and restrained by its geography, as if the island itself were conspiring against expansion.
Expansion has been managed, however, along the two highways that escape Wellington to the north. After collecting our luggage from a cramped terminal, and our rental car from a haphazard rock-and-dirt "lot" underneath a columned overpass, we're soon speeding northeast (and endlessly upward) through a lush, extremely green landscape of hills absolutely littered with houses. It's an easy drive, and we figure we'll be in Martinborough within the hour.
Rim shot
I yank on the parking brake as hard as I can. The car shudders backward, then halts; the brake probably isn't meant for stopping on such steep slopes, though we're in a designated pull-off area. Theresa leans against her door, taking large gulps of air into a face that's almost as green as the surrounding mountains. On the other side of the road, bent and twisted shrub-like trees descend in an unbroken vertical line to some fog-shrouded valley far, far below. The space between the road's left lane and the cliff can be no more than a foot.
The road to unwellville
Across the valley, we can see the thread-like ribbon of road we've ascended, the twistiest and most gut-churning drive of the entire trip. What baffles is that we'd literally had no choice; no ill-chosen shortcut, this road is the only way to get from Wellington to Martinborough, allegedly a regular weekend destination for Wellingtonians. Well, let me say it for the record: they must have strong stomachs…and good life insurance. Because this road, winding up, around, and down the other side of the Rimutaka Range, is a killer.
The stunning natural beauty that surrounds us is hard to deny, but it's hard to pay attention to as well, with each turn carrying the potential for life-ending inattention. Nonetheless, we crawl our way along the hairpin turns, limiting our more violent cringes to those moments when a large truck comes careening around a corner from the other direction. A long time passes before the road straightens – certainly much more than the hour we'd so innocently predicted back in Wellington – and when it does, at Featherston, it emerges onto a gentle, mostly flat grassland criss-crossed by trees and long, straight country roads. This is the Wairarapa, home of Martinborough and its vineyards. It looks like Kansas. This is New Zealand's answer to Burgundy?
Oh, Kaye
Martinborough, the town, looks to be something that belongs a little west of Kansas. It's a theoretically pretty, though currently somewhat dilapidated, town square, with one and a half short commercial streets with a vague gold-town feel and a cluster of houses radiating out from the square and its 1.5 epicenters. Taking up pretty much all other available space is a seeping flow of vines, though their scope is hard to encompass on first glance, as vertical variation is almost nonexistent. There's no question what industry sustains Martinborough.
With only one wrong turn, we manage to find our way down a pair of unpaved roads to Vynfields, another cottage amongst the vines. This one, though, is completely isolated, its only immediate neighbors ordered rows of riesling, a pretty flower garden, and a garage where the owners keep their vineyard equipment. It's a beautiful, colorful place, with a large, open room encompassing the kitchen, dining area, and living room (complete with fireplace), two bedrooms, and a relaxing patio with a wood-fired grill. On the table is a basket of fruit, and in the fridge are a bottle of wine made (by Voss) from the surrounding vineyards and a few necessities – milk, eggs, etc. – provided by the owners.
Villa pergola
The aforementioned owners, Kaye and John, wander down the dirt road from their rather majestic white house, something straight out of the Old American South with its expansive, multi-floor and decoratively-trimmed verandas. They're an exceedingly attractive couple (Theresa nudges me in an effort to stop my staring, which restraint lasts only until Kaye starts to talk), warm and engaging, and once they learn of our special interest in wine, our social plans for the days ahead are quickly reshuffled as they invite us to several events.
Garlic in the Old West
But tonight, our plans are firm. A walk around Martinborough – mostly deserted on this weeknight – and a stop at the local grocery store are a way to pass the few minutes before dinner, though the latter provides some amusement; they can only get fresh fish once per week, and in response to a request for garlic, a shopkeeper responds, "we can't get that."
Well.
We make a quick trip back to Vynfields to drop off our garlic-free groceries, and return to the town square for dinner at one of the very few area places open on weeknights, The Martinborough Hotel. Inside a frontier-themed exterior not entirely unlike John and Kaye's house are a charming bar and a homey, elegant "bistrot" with a long list of local wines, but specializing in pinot noir. We settle into a window-side table, and notice that Edward Donaldson of Pegasus Bay is at a nearby table, deep in conversation with a pretty girl. We don't disturb him.
The food is, frankly, a little dull – the danger of a lack of competition – with a plate of local and semi-local delicacies (mushrooms, bacon, pickled eggs, apples, gooseberries, catfish, and a ceviche of grouper) being of only mild interest. Much better, at least in conception, is the venison in bitter chocolate sauce that follows; unfortunately, the meat is a bit overcooked, slightly dulling the effect. But it's a perfect match for the wine.
Making new friends in Martinborough
Martinborough Vineyard 1996 Pinot Noir "Reserve" (Martinborough) – Plum and mixed cherries with light fennel on a deep, rich earthy foundation. Builds with air and time – the last glass is the best – from somewhat tight and difficult to powerful, full-bodied pinot with no lack of tannin, acid, or stuffing. Give it five more years, at least. This is wonderful wine, though not for the faint of heart.
Service at the bistrot is a little pushy, though it improves as the evening goes on, and after a too-cold coconut crème brûlée, we eschew coffee for some after-dinner libations.
Voss 2002 Riesling "Late Harvest" (Martinborough) – Clean, crisp, and clear, with no discernable botrytis masking its honeydew and limestone flavors. Not entirely unlike a run-of-the-mill auslese, which sounds more disparaging than it's meant to be; this is good wine.
Macallan Scotch Whisky 18 (Highland) – The absurdly high price of Scotch in the U.S. keeps me from drinking as much of it as I'd like. Thankfully, despite its ultra-remote location, New Zealand prices remain reasonable, and thus I have the opportunity to indulge. Sweet pear and smoked earth, very lightly peaty, with somewhat spicy sea salt. Pretty and smooth, a gentle Scotch that will neither excite nor offend.
We emerge onto a dark and almost desolate street. The town square looks a little foreboding, a little shady, even – though in the circumstances, it's absurd – a little dangerous. Silence is everywhere. Martinborough, already a sleepy little town, is fast asleep at 11 p.m.
![[leaving the South Island]](http://www.wineloverspage.com/graphics/tci_leaving_south_island.jpg)
![[West Head]](http://www.wineloverspage.com/graphics/tci_sound_rocks.jpg)
![[Rimutaka Range]](http://www.wineloverspage.com/graphics/tci_wellington_twisty_road.jpg)
![[Vynfields]](http://www.wineloverspage.com/graphics/tci_martinborough_villa.jpg)
![[statuary at the wine bar]](http://www.wineloverspage.com/graphics/tci_martinborough_wine_bar.jpg)