I'm not exactly homesick, yet I'm drinking in terrain that I've been missing.
I'm visiting the States and have subwayed and sashayed across the island of New York, skipped through various crisp New England leafdoms (with borrowed dogs!), run barefooted amongst throngs of shorebirds along the Florida gulf, window-shopped with the tourists and homeless on Chicago's Michigan Ave. And in California, to paraphrase Paul Simon, I've been Golden-Gated, Napa-Valleyed till I'm blind. I miss all of this in Margaret River. America's landscapes and cityscapes live in me and I'm indescribably refreshed by being here.
And every day I open multiple bottles of Cloudburst and taste what is now home. And I'm wondering about the whole idea of that. Is it in the bottle, or in my head? I've met with some super-educated palates here, with long histories of tasting Margaret River wines, and everyone has claimed they taste my particular terroir and the various distinctive qualities of Margaret River. I drink and smell the bush, hear the ocean, see my children, my wife, the sky, the landscape. Am I delusional?
Can a random taster with eyes closed intuit, envision, get the lay of my land, the energy that enfolds my enterprise? I honestly don't know. I do know that wine connects in so many profound ways. And on this mad crazy whirlwind journey across the States and back again, Cloudburst is connecting me with my heart, my home, and my land.