Category: Wine Tourism

Y. Radhika, writer, photographer and World Bank employee, shares her travel experiences as she shifts gears from South India to Virginia, a southern state in the US, in search of wine.

Virginia is the last bastion of the South, alias the old order, in the United States. An aristocracy still exists, horses are a passion, cotillions and debutantes have survived modernity and even a paltry royalty is alive, wine surely follows.

So, when Satish, the intrepid heir to the Vangal clan of Madras, and I, plotted to give our brethren a taste of southern (Asian or American?) royalty, we began at the very beginning – a foxy jaunt into the rolling hills and meadows followed by some heady wine tasting.

Surfing from homepage to homepage on the Internet, looking for succor, I chanced upon these descriptions of Oakencroft — “one of Virginia’s most scenic wineries……with vistas of the Blue Ridge Mountains…..and a lake with Virginia water fowl fronting the winery”. Truth be told, the name appealed more than all the other descriptions–English castles rose in front of my eyes, the mixed aromas of wild roses, water, oak, grapes and wet earth assailed the senses. Calling Satish, I presented a reasoned argument for this tumult. “It’s close, clearly a good place. Can we get some people together?” I blurted.

Lisa, our southern belle; Laura, our southern Italian bella; the South Indian crew of Satish the Intrepid, “Pineapple” Ponappa and I : this was our final draw. The day began like any other weekend, at noon, with a brunch of vadas, sambhar, dosas, idlis and paysam. How does one explain what is South Indian food? Ferment, ferment, ferment was our message to Laura. Dosa is to the humble lentil and rice grain, what wine is to the green grape. What’s light is what’s right in the south, said Satish, with the supreme confidence of one who sees no northern opposition in sight. Who is a South Indian for that matter? He or she who answers “geero” when asked what would be the result of subtracting two from two, such was the general consensus.

Having settled our regional identities and safely ensconced in Satish’s Volkswagon bus, we set off from Washington on I – 65 to catch Route 29. As Satish’ navigator I proved to be ineffective and begged the “nag”avator, Ponappa, for help. Meandering hopelessly past several signposts, traffic crossings, neighborhoods and strip malls, past farms and green pasture on either side of the road, we propelled ourselves at rapid speed past other drivers towards Charlottesville, Virginia, the closest town to Oakencroft. Here and there we chanced upon distractions such as this charming blue Beetle whose red tail lights were obligingly turned on to disarm me further. “Speed up”, I shrieked to the ever-obliging Satish, who throttled the bus, leaping and bounding with abandon, while I attempted to ogle the creature through my camera lens. After several unfruitful attempts, Satish was able to get close enough for me to get this picture and for Ponappa to get an eyeful of the blonde driving the distracting creature.

One exhibit says, “It may take years for a tree to grow to its full capacity, but only minutes to cut it down”. Food for thought, that. The archaeologist too would be delighted with the kind of treasures that lie almost casually scattered around and about. Be it cave paintings or cave temples, or several-storied cavelike palaces, or ornately carved temples on the tops of mountains, there’s something for everyone. We must admit though that the heat and the crowds sapped our enthusiasm. We climbed only the Pandava caves, viewed the mountain-top temple built over a sheer gorge with awe through a telescope, and avoided the rest. There was one cave, which was a narrow crack in the wall where you could only go in single file. It has an exhaust fan to ventilate it but it had alarming looking dust covered “sadhus” sitting with tridents outside and far too many people crushed in single file for us to dare to venture in.

A less charming but equally fascinating sight were these bikers heading towards a bikermela, or at least this is how Ponappa explained the hordes of motorcycle mommas and papas grimly riding off toward the sunset. “I hope he doesn’t take a dislike to me” I said only half-joking as I quickly got a picture of this grim reaper on his mo’bike adorned with the requisite black flag. Biker types were never known to be drawn to me, even in my university days.