It was on the map but, as we came around the mountain, the village wasn’t there. A set of bells sat, incongruously, on the side of the road, and the only building, a tower, rose up from the center, stalwart against the mountains. All else was gray, blasted, like a bomb had hit it. It was deathly quiet and, in the car, my parents, who had their own experience of bombs a little over 20 years earlier, were deeply moved.
It was the summer of 1964 and we were four countries, a busted fan belt, flat tire, blown piston and two-times run-out-of-petrol, away from the foggy English morning when my parents packed me, my brother, and a lot of camping equipment, into our little Zodiac car for a trip with a caravan of their friends across the ‘continent.’
I was 8 years old and had never tasted wine.
The night before, we had crossed from Germany into Austria, making camp in utter darkness, awakening to fields of green, enveloped by the magnificence of snow-capped mountains, and the heady sizzle of sausage and bacon from the camp stove, before heading for Italy down the steep Brenner Pass where our not-so-hardy Zodiac stalled...
Read the full article published in the 2024 Jancis Robinson Wine Writing Competition here.
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