Gazing upon this majestic liquid of seemingly ancient times past, I begin to wonder where I can even begin. After all, what shall a mere mortal, having spent such a brief tenure on this planet possibly have to remark on a monument such as this? A veritable monolith before me, having braved the inexorable passage of time and emerged not worse but rather quite better for the wear.
And from a purely temporal perspective, one can only dare to imagine the state of our world at the time of its extraordinary Inception. All that it has seen and endured since being plucked from its mother roots. Thomas Edison had just filed his patent for the movie projector, the first baby is laid in an incubator, the common drinking straw makes its first appearance, and the very first recording of a classical music performance was taken. The first modern ballot was cast while Jack the Ripper held London in his gruesome clutches, meanwhile Van Gogh with ear freshly lopped off had not yet caught wind of this wondrous new writing instrument, the ballpoint pen.
Tasting wines like these are once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, and these are indeed the moments which make one feel. Remember. hurt. yearn. Revel. They force....no, rather inspire, reflection on one's own past. And with each heaven-sent drop a transcendence; a liquid out of body experience vividly echoing so many precious moments long forgotten.
The distinct crack of maple bat against the dusty baseball cover, hurdling its way into my freshly oiled leather mitt at my first little league game. Rewarded for my game-winning play with a handful of my mother's best English Butter Toffees, held in my hot little hand like discovered treasure. Returning home to a roaring fire and the comforting blanket of spruce and cedar, the crackle of embers scintillating the ears while warming the eggnog on my lips. The fiery cinnamon, clove, and anise dancing about to the waning glow.
Or to lazy days at the seaside; the smell of fresh roasted coffee, so sweetly bitter as the seeds of a Chambertin grape heralding the century's greatest vintage, wafting from the kitchen and swirling together with warm breezes of salty Ocean air. The luxurious nuttiness of fine Marcona almonds flirting with sumptuous handfuls of dried figs, sultanas and decadently rich prunes briefly interrupt sordid tales and witty accounts as the intoxicating scent of cuban maduros slowly burn the night away. Sips of aged cognac trickle down the tongue like the ripest of tangerines, the exhilarating bite of blood orange evoking East Indian expeditions of centuries past. The flavours all so unearthly they are more of fable than truth.
To the brisk mornings spent at a friend's castle, with walls thick with history, glories, horrors, haunting like the flavours in this glass of impeccable Port. Floating around me as a presence, a feeling more than a tangible. Strolling through the grounds in autumn, the scent of fresh leaves covering the mossy ground, the fresh dew glistening against the fallen wood. Like the rich mahogany wall panels covered with ancient tapestries, their musk beguiling and timeless as their heritage.
Wines such as these are best expressed with emotions rather than words. Of impressions from a fantastic voyage rather than sterile facts, points and potentials. Because moments like these have nothing more to do with mere wine. They are experiences unto themselves. Moments where time stands still and yet all time seems to run simultaneously. These are indeed exceptional and rare, and to be cherished by the privileged few fortunate enough to partake. Of course I could spend pages revealing in the positively intoxicating beauty of this extraordinary specimen, however one absolute truth forces me to brevity; the beauty of it all lies on the palate of the beholder. I've already written my story, so it's about time to start on yours as well.