Vino on vacation
Surrealism, ice-cold sherry and plenty of toothsome wine ensured that Jonathan ray’s family holiday to Spain went swimmingly
There are times in a husband’s life when his heart fair bursts with pride. So it was the other day at lunch on holiday in Spain when, whilst everyone else around the table stuck to beer (and I, sadly, to water), Mrs ray sank a whole bottle of chilled Spanish rosé all by herself before tucking into a large digestif of local ratafia with her coffee. That’s my gal!
As the designated – or, rather, pressganged – driver, I could only look on with awed respect as, yet again, my ever-loving proved herself to be a bottle-a-head girl and not some mimsy sourpuss who sticks to one miserly, watery spritz. I’m so sorry, but I seem to be welling up a little as I write.
We were in Cadaqués, that delightful fishing village in the far north-east of Spain famously beloved of Salvador Dalí and his fellow Surrealists, holidaying with two other couples and our respective kids, doing our best to cool down in the scorching heat. Our favoured method was to drink as much chilled white and rosé as we could, interspersed with buckets of ice-cold San Miguel lager. And, well, it worked a treat.
Indeed, we had a wonderful week. The teenagers swam and watched the entire canon of Mission: Impossible films on DVD in preparation for seeing the sixth instalment at the cinema on our return. The adults swam, read and dozed. We played the occasional game of Scrabble and, on one surprisingly energetic day, stirred ourselves just enough to visit the bonkers Dalí Theatre-museum in nearby Figueres. Best of all, we drank oodles of booze, with Spain yet again proving it’s the spiritual home for lovers of fine alcoholic refreshment.
Ice-cold manzanilla sherry was our aperitif of choice. Yes, yes, I know it’s made in the far south and we were in the far north of the country, and it’s probably as grave a solecism as drinking Newcastle Brown in Brighton or Sharp’s Doom Bar Cornish Ale in edinburgh but there is no finer kick-starter to the morning nor appetite-inducer than a tip-top manzanilla straight from the fridge.
Bone-dry fino sherry works, too, but that added salty tang that manzanilla has gives it the edge as far as I’m concerned. It’s great on its own and even better with the small bowls of nuts, olives or fatty slithers of jamón Ibericó that every bar and restaurant plonked down in front of us. I drink a lot of it at home but in Spain it tastes even better.
The Denominación de Origen (quality controlled wine area) in this neck of the Spanish woods is empordà, which comprises some 2,000-plus hectares that run right up to the border with France. As a result, the DO shares many grape varieties with nearby Banyuls and Côtes du roussillon, such as Grenache (white, pink and black and known here as Garnacha or, in the local dialect, as Garnatxa), Carignan (aka Cariñena), Mourvèdre (Monastrell), Syrah and Macabeo.
Most of the production is red but a decent amount of white and rosé is made, too. empordà is hardly Spain’s best-known wine region, I admit, and whilst the heights are
Spain yet again proving it’s the spiritual home for lovers of fine alcoholic refreshment
rarely scaled as they are in rioja, say, ribera del Duero and, increasingly these days, Toro, we came across some toothsome wines.
Our favourite whites were those made from Grenache Blanc (Garnatxa Blanca), especially “Mabre”, made by the excellent association of small local growers known as empordàlia. It was creamy and fresh with hints of peach, spice and herbs. At just €8 a bottle, goodness, we got through a lot of it.
empordàlia’s “Daina” rosé made from Grenache Gris (Garntaxa roja) was also sublime, being delectably citrus-fresh with notes of honeysuckle, wild strawberries and rose petals. Little wonder that my missus insisted on draining the bottle.
Other treats we came across were the Verdejo from rueda made by Marqués de riscal and the Albariño from rías Baixas made by ramón Bilbao. Both these producers are better known for their fine riojas but – like many other producers – have branched out into other regions of Spain and other grape varieties. Oh, and talking of which we couldn’t get enough of the white Valserrano rioja made from Viura (aka Macabeo) by the Bodegas de la Marqués.
We drank plenty of rosé alongside steaming bowls of black rice paella and squid and some fine reds from rioja alongside roast legs of lamb smothered in rosemary and garlic. We also found ourselves seduced by the sumptuously sweet but far from cloying Moscatel de l’empordà and the fuller-flavoured, nutty, honeyed and absurdly moreish Garnatxa de l’empordà.
I realise now that we didn’t drink any cava. But then none of us like it very much. Besides, the enormous, fishbowl-sized glasses of gin and tonic were far too tempting.