On my mind

MY vain attempt to launch a new career in viticulture in Burry Port and make the town the Napa of Carmarthenshire ended up with an inedible grape which, when trampled in my garden and lovingly cultivated on the back of my garage door, produced a cheeky wine with the bouquet of the compost heap, accompanied by a rich cabbage flavour and the robustness of a mature leek.

So it is a delight to be staying for my second week in Trumpland, in the iconic Napa valley on the family vineyard (although unfortunately not my family).

The Napa Valley is saturated with vineyards and wineries offering wine at around $30 a bottle on average.

I soon realise that I am out of my class and vintage compared to my usual purchase of an unknown multi-blended chardonnay in the supermarket.

Apparently in 1976 the French wineries experienced a massive grape induced hiccup when an unknown Calistoga winery beat them in a blind tasting competition.

It was the beginning of fame for the Napa Valley and the previous lush green pastures now delight the artist and wine connoisseur with an almost unending vista of vineyards.

It seems the first vines in the valley were planted by a group of Spanish explorers who were members of a Franciscan mission, with the wines no doubt used for sacramental and medicinal purposes, and not pleasure, allegedly. Ironically, the name Calistoga was coined when the slightly inebriated Mormon, Sam Brannan, wanting to make the place the “Saratoga (famed for its hot springs) of California” blurted out “I will make this place the Calistoga of Sarafornia”.

I often wonder what would have happened if the Franciscan and the Mormon had just settled for a diet coke from the local store.