A Bus Full of Slightly Drunks

I woke up to my alarm and a weak, gray, far-too-early-in-the-morning light on Thursday. I was going on a day trip to the Hunter Valley wine region, and it left early. But even the prospect of delicious wine tastings did nothing to elevate my spirits as I dazedly stumbled downstairs and lingered absent-mindedly in the shower.

The rest of the city didn’t seem to have fully awakened yet, either. Glebe Point Road was eerily but pleasantly quiet when I walked along on my way to Central Station at 6:30. Most of the shops and restaurants were still shut, and only a few people were about. The chaos picked up a bit along the main thoroughfare of Broadway, as did my pace when I realised my relaxed gait likely wouldn’t get me there on time.

I needn’t have worried. I stood for what seemed like ages outside the Central YHA, compulsively checking my watch. My tendency to impatience, quickened by the earliness of the hour, was provoked as the minutes slowly ticked by and the bus still didn’t appear. It finally pulled up 20 minutes late. That was another 20 minutes I could I have devoted to precious sleep. So I was not particularly receptive to the couple already on the bus who tried to strike up conversation.

In response to the driver’s query, I announced that I was from the US. The man of the couple said, “Oh! Small world! We’re from Boston.” I can recognise an American who hasn’t left the country much by how utterly shocked they are to meet another American outside the US. I’ve heard loads of American accents around Sydney and knew a fair few compatriots in London and Dublin. So to me, it only qualifies as a small world if the other person is from Minnesota.

The man exhibited further evidence of insularity when he started talking to the Scottish couple we’d picked up. He twisted round in his seat and immediately asked them something about Braveheart. I think I visually cringed. It was a line of conversation so deeply rooted in popular culture stereotype that I couldn’t believe he’d actually pursued it. But, setting the tone for the day, D answered him in a friendly manner.

In addition to the free-flowing wine, the tour group itself made the trip quite fun. We had three Americans, a woman from Hong Kong who was dressed head-to-toe in glittery and bejewelled clothing, the Scottish couple and three older sisters from Northern England. The sisters were especially jovial, referring to themselves as “Ten Pound POMs.” They’d all immigrated to Australia after World War II, taking advantage of the 10-pound fare offered to anyone with a British passport. One stayed; the other two had since returned to England and were now visiting their sister. I was called upon to show my support of Liverpool FC when one of them introduced herself as living near Manchester and added, “If you’ve heard of Manchester United.”

The tour guide kept us entertained on the two-and-a-half hour drive with further historical anecdotes. Of particular interest to me was the Hawkesbury River. G told us that on a visit to Australia, Mark Twain had referred to it as Australia’s Mississippi. It was quite a bit wider than the part of the Mississippi I’ve cycled on the East and West River Roads, and it was missing the sheer drop-offs with which I’m familiar. But the rolling hills and the fairly similar vegetation made it a decently apt comparison.

It was still gray when we reached Lindemans, the site of our first tasting. A heavily made-up, blonde-dyed young woman lined 10 glasses up on the bar and filled them with splashes of a sparkling white. The Hunter Valley is known for its Semillon and Shiraz, so each vineyard included samples of each. But after tasting seven to 10 wines at each of four places, particulars of type, body and taste escape me. Nothing at Lindemans was particularly good. Most of the wines were quite young, 2007 or 2008 vintage. The more experienced wine connoisseurs wrinkled their noses at most. They complained of the excessive sweetness and the tannin.

Next up that morning (it was still only 11.15) was Tempus Two. We parked alongside a surprisingly modern building. The exterior was painted black with slanted steel supports stretching angular white shade awnings overhead. The interior was similarly contemporary. Incongruously darkened against the morning light, the focus of the room was the wall of wines at the back. A bright orange/pink illuminated panel provided backlighting for the bottles lined up against it.

A businesslike older woman, dressed in a black imitation of a chef’s button-up coat and black glasses, conducted the tasting. She had an air of superiority about her, making it clear that she was not particularly fond of having to give samples to an uncouth busload of tourists. She didn’t have so much cause to be snobby; out of the six or seven wines we sampled there, only the Merlot was very impressive. The hushed opinions that my fellow tasters expressed back on the bus echoed my own thoughts. The winery was new to the Hunter Valley and just seemed to be trying too hard.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was tipsy. How? I’d only been drinking tiny samples! But I’d had 14 of them, and they add up. Mixing the variety of red, white, sparkling and dessert wines probably contributed to the effects. The lunch break that followed our Tempus Two visit seemed perfectly timed. Unfortunately, our lunch stop was at the Blue Tongue Brewery. But my condition, and, more convincingly, the condition of my pocketbook, made it possible to avoid buying the six-beer tasting paddle.

Instead I ate my packed lunch and talked with the other people who’d chosen the light lunch option. These were the driver and the three English sisters. All of them proved to be quite interesting and distracted me from the beer quite nicely. The food and the entertaining conversation helped to clear my head a little before we all boarded the bus and drove the short distance to the Oakvale Vineyard.

Here we were seated at a long, round, dark wood table rather than standing at the bar. The feel couldn’t have deviated more from the flashy nightclub atmosphere of Tempus Two. Oakvale was more like an airy family farmhouse. The wines here were more pleasing as well. A heavy-set man dressed in a black collared shirt embroidered with the Oakvale name explained the difference.
“These are actual Hunter Valley wines,” he said as we sipped one of the samples. “Those other places use grapes from all over. If you ask them where their grapes are grown, they kind of dance around the answer.”
D, the Scotsman, agreed.
“They either don’t know or they won’t answer you,” he complained, referring to his recent experience at Tempus Two.

My imbibing and their proximity to me at the table led me to strike up a conversation with the American couple. Despite their earlier cringe-inducing comments, they weren’t so bad. We’d all had to introduce ourselves on the bus that morning, a gentle coercion I’d resented in the still-pretty-small hours but which I appreciated now. I’d briefly summed up my job search saga then, and we talked about that and the strange barriers to graduate studies that both I and the other American woman were encountering.

The man in charge of the tasting offered to pour us a sample of anything on the list that hadn’t been included in the seven varieties we’d tried. I asked to try the Peppercorn Shiraz and deemed it the best wine of the day. I became convinced that I’ll need to export some of it, despite Oakvale not shipping internationally. It’s just a matter of figuring out how to get it out of this country, into France, out of France and into the US. Simple.

Drayton’s, one of the oldest vineyards in Australia, was our last stop. They were in the midst of ongoing renovations, so their cellar door was actually a small tin-roofed temporary building. The man presiding over the tasting was originally from Northern England, to the delight of the sisters and the Scots (and me).
“Where’re you from, anyway?” D demanded, hearing the man’s definitively non-Australian accent.
“Between Newcastle and Durham,” he explained. His football allegiance was questioned. It lay with Newcastle, and I had a second opportunity to declare my support of Liverpool. He retorted that he’d once forced someone who’d come dressed in Liverpool kit to take it off before he’d pour them a sample.

The 10 wines included in this tasting ensured that most of it is a blur in my memory. I talked to the American couple a bit more. I think the Chardonnay was good. Then I promptly fell asleep when the bus started rolling back towards Sydney. The trip wasn’t so much fun after I woke up. I felt fine, but we’d arrived in the city centre at the height of rush hour gridlock. This prompted me to walk home from where G dropped the American couple rather than waiting out the ride back to my pick-up point.

Despite the long walk home, I'd enjoyed the group experience of this group tour much more than the Penguin Island tour. That probably has much to do with the fact that I was surrounded by people from the UK, which I dearly miss. They, and my relative inexperience with wine sampling, made me much more tolerant of being guided. The grumpiness with which I’d greeted the morning had dissipated with the wine and the hour. I enjoyed becoming better acquainted with everyone at the same time as I increased my familiarity with Riesling, Semillon, Merlot and Shiraz. It was quite a welcome break from Sydney and makes me hopeful for the guided dive experience I’ll be doing in the Great Barrier Reef next week.