Tasmania - What a Grape Place!

Recently, I was in Australia in search of the Holy Grail. Why? Because I was planning to fill it with the best wine that this dry antipodean continent had to offer.

My mission here was not to wallow in decadence, but rather, meet the challenge the Australian Tourism people put to me: Cut through the hype and bring us back a bottle of the best plonk you can find.

Everywhere I turned, brochures of the Hunter and Barossa Valleys were shoved at me. But when pressed for the low-down, those 'in the know' whispered out of the corner of their mouths that the word on the street was to head down to Tasmania's fabled Tamar Valley for some truly superb vintages.

But why Tasmania, you may ask. This pine-green island the size of Ireland lies in the weather-beaten underbelly of the Australian mainland. Long the black sheep of the Australian psyche, Tasmanians, have always generally kept to themselves, pursuing a mostly pastoral existence in the rich dark soil of this temperate land. Quieter than their loud northerly brethren, they also managed to keep a few of their best secrets to themselves - until now.

I took an overnight ferry from Melbourne across the stormy Tasman Sea and found myself the next morning standing in the quaint town of Devonport, blearily asking for directions to what was refered to in hushed tones as The Tasmanian Wine Route.

"Follow the Tamar," people kept saying with a wink without elaborating as if they were leprechauns telling me to chase the end of the rainbow. The Tamar, of course, is northern Tasmania's main river, going from the open sea for a 100 kms to the region's biggest town, Launceston.

For much of that distance, it is more than a km wide, and flows through the bossom of the stunning Tamar Valley - reputedly the home of some of the finest Pinot Noirs and Rieslings to be found anywhere in the Southern Hemisphere.

As I drive my rented Ford Falcon over the eucalyptus-clad hills and into the eden-like Tamar Valley in search of the humble Tassie vineyards, I smack my lips in anticipation of a good glass of unpretentious wine. Nothing is easier to befriend than this; make that a bottle.

I'm also reminded of a quote by Alan Richman the noted NY-based wine critic: "As I approach the collectors' Bordeaux, I do not know whether to bow or kneel or swoon. In New York, collectors speak of this St. Emilion in tones that men of more rational passions reserve for their mistresses: sommeliers possessing one of the near priceless bottles parade it past ogling customers enthralled by the sight of a wine they will most likely never taste.

“They are a new class of needful rich, whipped into a frenzy by wine writers who stress the importance of owning wine rather than the pleasure of drinking it."

So that's it then: wine appreciation has reached new heights of apoplexic hype. You can hardly pop a cork these days without attracting 'connoiseurs' like flies who will tell you exactly what they think about your choice of wine with a slew of pretentious adjectives, whose meanings are, frankly, unidentifiable.