Tag Archives: Wine tourism

The eight-hour journey to the Sahyadri mountains had left everyone cramped in the sweltering minibus hungry and tired – a deadly combination for us, fledglings to Indian travel and transport. Nothing could alleviate our choleric temperament, or so we thought. But the longing to experience an Indian version of wine tourism, however, kept me energetic to some extent. 

The exuberant myriad of blues and greens from the gentle slopes covered in foliage to the clear cloudless sky and the sparse peppering of red and purple hibiscus around the valleys and the edges of the serene waters of Mukhne Dam would certainly make for a very successful Gogh painting but wasn’t enough to put our exhausted minds to rest. The cool consolatory breeze did lift my spirits a little but presently, all I needed, in fact, all we needed, was some sustenance. So you can imagine the gargantuan wave of relief and delight that washed over us as we entered an amalgam of various smells of seafood and garlic wafting in the warm kitchen air and the musical sounds of sizzling meat in butter.

 

Unfortunately, this paradise would have to wait. Lugging our suitcases up the staircase we reached the topmost floor of the cottage to a promising view of the picturesque landscape around us. My hunger-crazed brain really needed a minute to fully take account of the breathtaking view ahead.

A huge verandah furnished with a few sofas awaited us, looking into the greenery outside. There was no civilisation for miles! Just endless grassy knolls with paddy fields circumscribing the lake and a lone shack in the midst of the planes with wild roosters crowing excitedly on the roof to harmonise with the baritone soulful mooing of a huge chocolate cow.

Just below, however, was the prized  Vallonne Vineyard with small bunches of sour little grapes scattered among the vines here and there. To be honest, this looked fairly ordinary compared to the majestic mountain range before us. An embarrassingly ferocious growl broke this reverie as I realized how empty my stomach was.

The menu looked enticing but we were sceptical that the food would really be as succulent as our other senses perceived; there wasn’t any civilisation for miles and this also meant no marketplaces! However, every gastronome out there will agree that the food here tastes even better than it captivates any other sense. 

The different white and rosé wines to accompany the huge buttery lobsters and the spicy tender chicken were also surprisingly good for a vineyard that isn’t so old. The food was happily received and induced everyone into a peaceful slumber in the lull of the evening breeze. But being in a place so far from the bustling throngs I was used to with only an orchestra of crickets to accompany me made it too irresistible to explore.

 

Thankfully, a trip had been arranged with the owner of the vineyard to do a little wine tasting and try and scrutinize the grapevines as intelligently as possible to look at least faintly interested in his passionate and proud raving about the complex process of winemaking.

His unusual assortment of wine (especially the dessert wine) had caught the sight and taste buds of millions across India and this rapid success had given him hopes of exporting into foreign countries too, to aid the very slow growing economy of India.

Unfortunately for him, he was cut short because July was not the harvesting season and so the grapes were still too tangy to be tasted. This meant I would have more time to appreciate the undervalued Indian countryside which was equally as resplendent as any Tuscan landscape.

The wan glow of the full moon had completely metamorphosed the cool emerald shades of the hills from the brighter, more ebullient sunlight even though it wasn’t quite dusk yet. The swollen clouds overhead shed a slight mauve hue on the slopes as the pearlescent moon competed against an orange setting sun, reflecting a fine rainbow sheen on the lake and as Mukhne Dam rippled in the short bursts of the wind, a kaleidoscope of colours danced and glittered on the otherwise still waters.

An eerie silence cloaked us in all directions, a sharp contrast from the city of Bombay, and this reminded me again with a thrill that we were completely and utterly alone — save for the kitchen staff. The path to the lake meandered past the wet grass and slopes, as my footprints were left imprinted onto the blood red clay, and the lonely shack with two farmers toiling endlessly on a marshy paddy.