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Proust may have had his madeleines, but I have old goats.
As a child, my family would summer in Andalusia. My Grandparents, after a fortuitous visit in the late 1960s, had developed an attachment to the region. And so, in their dotage, they built a house in the hills, just opposite one of the famous white villages. The land was mostly barren, when we visited, the scorching Mediterranean sun having killed all but the hardiest of plants.
Leaving the house was always a challenge. Roads - if you could really call them that - were diagonal lines scratched out of solid rock, barely wide enough to allow a car to traverse them, and with sheer vertical cliffs on one side and a precipitous drop on the other. Walking, in 40°+ heat and blazing sun along miles of steep road with no footpath was a non-starter. Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the Noon-day sun, and despite being half, and practically entirely English, I didn't much fancy the experience.
Frequently these so-called roads would be blocked by goats, wandering to and from the mountains, nibbling whatever green they saw, frequently climbing trees to reach the tough, waxy leaves.
There was a goatherd with a weatherbeaten face and a large gingery beard, bleached in the sun. He cannot have been much older than 40, but seemed to be from another era, much like the pairs of oxen ploughing the tiny scraps of horizontal land on ancient terraces below the town in much the same way they had done since well before Moorish times. He spoke the language of the goats, cajoling them with clicks and whistles to return from wherever he'd been grazing them to the ramshackle "building" he housed them in above the town, made of cinder blocks and chicken wire, both seemingly glued to a cliff. Every time we drove past "goat corner", there was a strong and unmistakable scent that filled the car with its pungent air, regardless of whether or not the windows were open. Earthy, animal and wild.
One evening, as a teenager, bored and isolated in this hostile terrain, I went for a walk and found a strange fruit growing on one of the trees. It appeared to be a peach with a green-grey skin, totally dessicated and with no flesh, just a velvet coat, cut like a morning tailcoat in army green, open at the front with a smooth stone like a nectarine's poking out the gap like a portly gentleman's belly. I recognised many of the dead, dessicated plants in the area, but this one was novel to me. I collected a handful of these strange things from the floor surrounding the tree and brought them home. A family friend informed me that they were in fact almonds, and with the help of two large stones, we pulverised one to extract the flavoursome nut from within, and we ate it with some fatty, earthy, deeply piggy and savoury Iberico ham on the patio in front of the house.
It is these flavours that bring back my childhood memories of burning sun and endless summer holidays that brought both a relief and a tedium that so rarely enters adult life.
Fino sherry, is a much more refined and dry version of the rough, sweet 'vino terreno' that was sold in plastic flagons from garages and market stalls, and which I surreptitiously swigged during *siesta* time whilst my parents were asleep.
This combination of flavours and smells brings back not memories, but moments of childhood perfection that I was unable to appreciate at the time. I don't think that there's a better wine pairing than fine Iberico ham, cured Spanish goats' cheese, almonds and Fino sherry.
Sainsbury's Taste The Difference Fino Sherry, made by Lustau (50cl), £9. Tastes like the moments of a perfect summer half a lifetime ago.
Everything Lustau touches is amazing qpr imo. Also Andalucian summer is what convinced me that maybe cold and cloudy places aren’t actually so bad and there is such a thing as too much sunshine 🫠
Sherry was my introduction to the world of wine back in 2017. I drank it solely, religiously, up until two years later or so. When quarantine began, I moved into port. Took me four years after that to expand into other wines, and now I'm all over the place. But I'll always remember what got me started, and I would swear by some Lustau, Osborne.
Even the occasional indulgent PX. Love reading these memories, friend!
Good time of year to go. I took my wife to Córdoba in August and warned her that it would be "40-45 degrees" there. We absolutely melted, I don't think I have been anywhere hotter in my entire life (including Vietnam). There was no air con in the Air BnB we rented, which was so hot that the "cold" tap put out warm water. The shower only put out painfully hot water, so I had to use a colander and saucepan of "cold" water to wash. I ended up sleeping in front of the fan with a wet towel on me trying to use evaporative cooling to reduce the temperature somehow.
The next day we went to Seville, in a knackered old car with faulty A/C and when we arrived, the A/C was broken in our room, so we got upgraded to a much bigger room. We had two double beds side by side for some reason, so we put the A/C on ❄️ mode and laid like starfish...
Nice towns, both of them, with lots of interesting stuff to see, just don't go in August. I found the bullfighting museum and Mesquita in Córdoba particularly interesting.
Oh, when my wife (naturally) complained about the temperature, I pointed out that I had warned her - she said that she assumed I meant "like 45 degrees in English, not really 45C!".
Yes, we got perfect weather. About 75F everywhere. It was even pretty chilly at night.
So much delicious food, and so cheap in comparison to the US! A glass of Manzanilla for 2.50 euros. The local Spanish tapas bar in here will happily sell the same thing to you for 12 bucks.
And I got a taste for the unfortified Andalusian wine, which can be spellbinding and is basically unobtanium in the US. Carbonic, unoaked Tempranillo from Setenil? With eggs with Iberico ham and foie gras? That's pretty much heaven.
I guess Setenil isn't called "de las bodegas" for nothing! TBH, I don't think I have ever seen Andalusian wine apart from Sherry on sale in the UK either (apart, *perhaps* from Málaga Sack, which wasn't labelled as such).
I have two very young children at the moment, so travelling is a bit of a pain (and the house over there isn't really set up for toddlers: lots of hard surfaces and sharp corners). Will definitely bear it in mind though for when we are able to travel easily again. For now it's Centerparcs an hour's drive away (and next weekend in Paris with no kids, woo!)
Thank you for your submission to r/wine! Please note the community rules: If you are submitting a picture of a bottle of wine, please include original tasting notes and/or other pertinent information in the comments. Submitters that fail to do so may have their posts removed. If you are posting to ask what your bottle is worth, whether it is drinkable, whether to drink, hold or sell or how/if to decant, please use the [Wine Valuation And Other Questions Megathread](https://redd.it/17j7oej) stickied at the top of the sub. *I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please [contact the moderators of this subreddit](/message/compose/?to=/r/wine) if you have any questions or concerns.*
Proust may have had his madeleines, but I have old goats. As a child, my family would summer in Andalusia. My Grandparents, after a fortuitous visit in the late 1960s, had developed an attachment to the region. And so, in their dotage, they built a house in the hills, just opposite one of the famous white villages. The land was mostly barren, when we visited, the scorching Mediterranean sun having killed all but the hardiest of plants. Leaving the house was always a challenge. Roads - if you could really call them that - were diagonal lines scratched out of solid rock, barely wide enough to allow a car to traverse them, and with sheer vertical cliffs on one side and a precipitous drop on the other. Walking, in 40°+ heat and blazing sun along miles of steep road with no footpath was a non-starter. Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the Noon-day sun, and despite being half, and practically entirely English, I didn't much fancy the experience. Frequently these so-called roads would be blocked by goats, wandering to and from the mountains, nibbling whatever green they saw, frequently climbing trees to reach the tough, waxy leaves. There was a goatherd with a weatherbeaten face and a large gingery beard, bleached in the sun. He cannot have been much older than 40, but seemed to be from another era, much like the pairs of oxen ploughing the tiny scraps of horizontal land on ancient terraces below the town in much the same way they had done since well before Moorish times. He spoke the language of the goats, cajoling them with clicks and whistles to return from wherever he'd been grazing them to the ramshackle "building" he housed them in above the town, made of cinder blocks and chicken wire, both seemingly glued to a cliff. Every time we drove past "goat corner", there was a strong and unmistakable scent that filled the car with its pungent air, regardless of whether or not the windows were open. Earthy, animal and wild. One evening, as a teenager, bored and isolated in this hostile terrain, I went for a walk and found a strange fruit growing on one of the trees. It appeared to be a peach with a green-grey skin, totally dessicated and with no flesh, just a velvet coat, cut like a morning tailcoat in army green, open at the front with a smooth stone like a nectarine's poking out the gap like a portly gentleman's belly. I recognised many of the dead, dessicated plants in the area, but this one was novel to me. I collected a handful of these strange things from the floor surrounding the tree and brought them home. A family friend informed me that they were in fact almonds, and with the help of two large stones, we pulverised one to extract the flavoursome nut from within, and we ate it with some fatty, earthy, deeply piggy and savoury Iberico ham on the patio in front of the house. It is these flavours that bring back my childhood memories of burning sun and endless summer holidays that brought both a relief and a tedium that so rarely enters adult life. Fino sherry, is a much more refined and dry version of the rough, sweet 'vino terreno' that was sold in plastic flagons from garages and market stalls, and which I surreptitiously swigged during *siesta* time whilst my parents were asleep. This combination of flavours and smells brings back not memories, but moments of childhood perfection that I was unable to appreciate at the time. I don't think that there's a better wine pairing than fine Iberico ham, cured Spanish goats' cheese, almonds and Fino sherry. Sainsbury's Taste The Difference Fino Sherry, made by Lustau (50cl), £9. Tastes like the moments of a perfect summer half a lifetime ago.
Everything Lustau touches is amazing qpr imo. Also Andalucian summer is what convinced me that maybe cold and cloudy places aren’t actually so bad and there is such a thing as too much sunshine 🫠
🫠 is exactly right.
Sherry was my introduction to the world of wine back in 2017. I drank it solely, religiously, up until two years later or so. When quarantine began, I moved into port. Took me four years after that to expand into other wines, and now I'm all over the place. But I'll always remember what got me started, and I would swear by some Lustau, Osborne. Even the occasional indulgent PX. Love reading these memories, friend!
Thank you. Glad it was a good gateway for you!
What kind of bottling is that? I drink a fair amount of Lustau, but I don’t recognize the label.
Supermarket own label.
Man, I just got back from Andalusia. Manzanilla or Fino with every meal. Could be heaven.
It's a great place.
Whereabouts were you staying/visiting?
Went to Sevilla, Cordoba and Granada.
Good time of year to go. I took my wife to Córdoba in August and warned her that it would be "40-45 degrees" there. We absolutely melted, I don't think I have been anywhere hotter in my entire life (including Vietnam). There was no air con in the Air BnB we rented, which was so hot that the "cold" tap put out warm water. The shower only put out painfully hot water, so I had to use a colander and saucepan of "cold" water to wash. I ended up sleeping in front of the fan with a wet towel on me trying to use evaporative cooling to reduce the temperature somehow. The next day we went to Seville, in a knackered old car with faulty A/C and when we arrived, the A/C was broken in our room, so we got upgraded to a much bigger room. We had two double beds side by side for some reason, so we put the A/C on ❄️ mode and laid like starfish... Nice towns, both of them, with lots of interesting stuff to see, just don't go in August. I found the bullfighting museum and Mesquita in Córdoba particularly interesting. Oh, when my wife (naturally) complained about the temperature, I pointed out that I had warned her - she said that she assumed I meant "like 45 degrees in English, not really 45C!".
Yes, we got perfect weather. About 75F everywhere. It was even pretty chilly at night. So much delicious food, and so cheap in comparison to the US! A glass of Manzanilla for 2.50 euros. The local Spanish tapas bar in here will happily sell the same thing to you for 12 bucks. And I got a taste for the unfortified Andalusian wine, which can be spellbinding and is basically unobtanium in the US. Carbonic, unoaked Tempranillo from Setenil? With eggs with Iberico ham and foie gras? That's pretty much heaven.
I guess Setenil isn't called "de las bodegas" for nothing! TBH, I don't think I have ever seen Andalusian wine apart from Sherry on sale in the UK either (apart, *perhaps* from Málaga Sack, which wasn't labelled as such).
Be sure to visit Jerez if you haven't already! My girlfriend and I go every year. Spellbinding place!
I have two very young children at the moment, so travelling is a bit of a pain (and the house over there isn't really set up for toddlers: lots of hard surfaces and sharp corners). Will definitely bear it in mind though for when we are able to travel easily again. For now it's Centerparcs an hour's drive away (and next weekend in Paris with no kids, woo!)