CROATIA’S Pelješac Peninsula
IF I COULD DESIGN A PERFECT DAY IN food-travel heaven, this would be it: A gentle hike on a mountain trail, overlooking vineyards heavy with fruit. A meet-up with a winemaker and a lingering visit to his cellars and tasting room. Perhaps a breezy float on the bay to take the heat out of the day. Then a long picnic lunch of shellfish just plucked from the sea. Lucky for me, today IS that day. I’m standing with six companions high on a rocky slope on the Pelješac Peninsula — a 70-kilometre finger of dolomite that probes the Adriatic Sea just 90 minutes outside of Dubrovnik. Behind me lies the tiny Croatian village of Ponikve; to my left and right, Mediterranean gardens dappled with citrus and olive trees. Scarlet poppies and white and blue wildflowers tumble from the dry stone walls, and the air is fragrant with sage, rosemary and heather.
The trail beneath my boots is a historic one, part of a strategic military road built by Napoleon’s generals during France’s short tenure here early in the 19th century. But human settlement on the peninsula reaches back into prehistory: Neolithic artifacts have been found in caves nearby; remnants of Illyrian, Roman and Slavic civilizations scatter the countryside. As we climb, the gardens with their miniature post-mounted shrines give way to small olive groves, and the spire of a stone chapel appears above a family vineyard. The view broadens at the crest of a hill, to reveal acres of terraced vineyards spilling down the mountainside to Ston Bay, and Mljet Island silhouetted against the sky.
As we spiral down the mountain, the village of Ston itself appears in the distance, fronted by a checkerboard of salt evaporation ponds and backed by a stout stone wall that snakes for five kilometres through the hills. The wall — Europe’s longest — was built in the 14th and 15th centuries to protect these salt ponds as well as the overland access to Dubrovnik, whose wealth as an independent republic for 450 years depended heavily on this salt source.
The trail ends abruptly at a roadside verge dominated by a white SUV. The truck’s owner, a tall thirty-something with an impressive hipster beard, thrusts his hand in my direction and introduces himself as Ivan Miloš of the Miloš Winery — whose family has farmed this cleft in the hills since the 1400s.
Ivan’s four-wheel-drive proves to be a necessity as we lurch our way up a steep incline into the 37 acres of vines that make up the Miloš vineyard. Although small in scale, the winery can stake a firm claim to fame in what has become a world-renowned wine producing region. Wine production was communal, of course, when Croatia was part of communist Yugoslavia. But when the regime began to crumble with the death of President Josip Tito in the early 1980s, Ivan’s father, Frano Miloš, was one of the first winemakers to privatize, and today exports wines to Canada, the US, the UK, and the EU. Then, as now, the family focused on the cultivation of indigenous plavac mali grapes, a naturally occurring hybrid of the grape known as zinfandel in the United States ( crljenik kašteljanski in Croatia).
Plavac, meaning “blue”, and mali, meaning “little” in Croatian, is an apt description for these small thick-skinned grapes known for producing powerful, tannic red wines. We climb down from the truck for a closer look at the young grapes and to admire, too, some of the beautiful rocks that have been incorporated into the dry stone walls of the terraced slopes. The Miloš vineyard is strictly organic, aided in the quest for natural pest and disease management by the stiff breeze funnelling through the ravine as well as the companion cultivation of indigenous herbs that is practiced by the Miloš family. The grapevines grow on limestone and dolomite sandy soil with no irrigation — a low-fertility scenario that results in limited yields and high quality grapes. All culture and harvesting is done manually for the winery’s annual production of 40-50,000 litres of wine.
Ivan is a winemaker of the modern variety, with a Master’s degree in viniculture from Zagreb University supplementing the deep traditional knowledge gleaned from years of working at his father’s side. He is as expert as he is engaging as he tours us through the small production facilities and cellars of the winery, and settles us down to a wide pinewood table for some sampling in the tasting room.
He pours first the Stagnum Rosé 2015, made uncharacteristically of grapes from the oldest vines in the vineyard, creating a higher-than-average complexity for a rosé. The wine is full-bodied, bone-dry, and delicious with pomegranate flavour.
Next up is the Plavac 2012, made with grapes from young vines and aged for two years in old oak. The only Miloš product available in my home country of Canada, this wine has the strong tannins that I adore and has good aging potential.
More Stagnums are poured, made again from the oldest (35-year-old) vines in the vineyard. The longer aging of the Stagnum 2007 produces a garnet coloured wine with softer tannins, herbaceous and earthy flavours, and a big finish. The tawnier Stagnum 2005, with its earthy, spicy flavour, drinks like the premium wine that it is.
We finish up with a sampling of the Miloš’ gold-medal-winning olive oil, an early harvest oil with a big grassy bouquet and a nice peppery finish. Then it’s off to the shop to ponder our baggage limits and make difficult decisions among the wines, olive oil and herbal teas on offer.
…The Miloš vineyard is strictly organic…
The Pelješac peninsula harbours other appellations utilizing the plavac mali grape — most notably the excellent wines produced in the Dingač valley — but by now the day has worked up a full head of steam and our bellies have worked up a similar appetite. We head for Mali Ston, the tiny village located near the isthmus connecting the peninsula with mainland Croatia, where we’re happy to take to the water with shellfish farmer Denis Dražeta for a breezy tour around the artisanal oyster farms marked by black buoys in the bay.
In short order, we tie up at a pier on a small island. Through the shoreline bushes, I can see a long picnic table laid with glassware and red seat cushions and napkins. But before we can advance further, Denis pulls up a rope dangling from the pier to show us the shellfish growing there, and to explain the process of oyster farming. It’s a practice that has remained little-changed here since Roman times.
Cultivation begins with collection of wild spat (larvae) of the European flat oyster ( Ostrea edulis), which are planted on ropes suspended in the bay and left to grow. At 18 months of age, the juvenile oysters are inspected, sorted and cemented back onto the ropes, where they continue to mature until they are harvested at three years (along with the mussels that have volunteered as ropeside companions).
We’re anxious to sample them, but first we are treated to another firm Croatian tradition: short glasses of homemade rakija (fruit brandy) offered to guests as a welcome drink. Denis’ version is a deep purple elixir crafted from mulberries fermented for the traditional 40 days; it wafts with a strong and lovely herbal bouquet and a taste that is fruit-forward with berries.
Oysters on the half-shell are up next: large and well-textured, these are meant for chewing and savouring, with a taste that is pure sea essence. Then it’s mussel stew from a Dražeta family recipe that our host is happy to describe while he cooks. The key, he says, is to boil the mussels in sea water until they open, add them to a sauce of “good” white wine and onions sautéed in equally good olive oil, then finish with chopped garlic and fresh parsley. The simple preparation produces inarguably the best mussels I have ever tasted, and we pick the fish kettle clean, mopping up the sauce with thick slices of rustic bread.
There’s Denis’ homemade wine still to sip — a commendable libation — and jokes still to share. Later on, I’ll circumnavigate that medieval wall that protects Ston. I’ll join a rowdy group of soccer fans in the village square cheering Croatia’s team to victory in a World Cup football game on TV. But for now, I’m full and drowsy — and content to wallow in the deliciousness of this perfect day.