Rosalyn D'Mello: Ageless wine & memories from Oz

The countdown has begun Not even a week left until I am scheduled to leave Australian shores to return home By now I have grown accustomed to the discombobulating thrill of journeying between cities attaching myself to each one and thus moving between the certainty of having conquered the last while enjoying the discomfort of the unfamiliar topography of the one into which I have just arrivedWinter vines at the Dominique Portet winery in the Yarra Valley town of Coldstream east of Melbourne in Australia PicAFPSydney felt unknowable for the first two days By my last evening though I felt like an old hand as I wandered through the streets intuitively cocksure of which path to take without having to consult Google It was glorious in fact I had met with Ari an exflatmate from my days at the Khirki Gharana who in less than three weeks will be a firsttime father He was waiting for me at Wynyard We had planned to walk to Barangaroo to see the sculptural installations by the sea Then after a Flat White mdash a peculiarly Australian manner of coffee with a shot of espresso dolloped with a velvety layer of milk mdash we made our way to the Customs House to procure a set of headphones and iPods so we could do the Cardiff and Miller video walk lsquoCity of Forking Pathsrsquo which guided us through discreet alleys and vantage points along The Rocks interspersed with streamof consciousness musings on history and memory Cardiff and Miller had walked these streets before with their camera and sound recorder and had grafted together clips from a range of twilit evenings except sometimes with a musician around a vacant corner playing the cello or the saxophone You were meant to trace their steps both virtually and in real timeAn hour later having rewarded ourselves with a finely crafted beer at a pub we returned the gadgets and strolled towards Chinatown Midway Ari ushered me into a corner and led me down a set of stairs until we found ourselves in a speakeasy a la The Great Gatsby We settled into our whisky and gin cocktails and soaked in the vibeI bit adieu to Sydney that night as I returned to Mosman The next afternoon I set out for Melbourne where I am now on the last leg of my trip Soon I will return to New Delhi and I know I will be overwhelmed once again by the blaring of horns by the absence of silence by the stunning comfort of familiar tongues where my accent wonrsquot seem so alien My hair will have grown my nails are already longer I had forgotten to pack a nailcutter My body will have been marked by all this time and the vicissitudes of the wintry weatherIrsquom not yet prepared for homecoming Irsquom still seeking strange shelter in the warm glow of all the moments that have unfolded like a narrative shaping my journey conflating all sense of home and belonging Today I was whisked off to a winery managed by the husband of the publishing director of Hardie Grant Books who have published my book here As he guided my tastebuds through the nuances of coldclimate wines shaping my appetite for a more acidic cabsauv he spoke of the existence of a lsquoCellar Memoryrsquo an evolved system of knowledge instrumental in the picking and fermentation process The winemaker must attune himself to annual weather patterns to learn when best to harvest Even a day can alter the texture of the wine I marveled at the complexity of such an art But I also wondered if that term could encompass everything had marked me in these three weeksI do not have photos that can illustrate all I was privy to There were intimacies that had emerged that I had not anticipated When upon returning back to the city I waited at the crossing I gazed at the intricate overhead network of wires that held the cityrsquos tram system in place I mused about how the image perfectly symbolised the history of my trip a web of gauzy memories that are already vanishing but that will survive as a part of my bloodstream just like all the ravishingly fullbodied wine I have consumedThe Yarra Valley will remain freshest among them The sight of not bare but quietly blossoming vines and apple and pear trees glinting in the cascading light of the sun then suddenly a downpour and again sun gleaming through the falling run casting rainbows that bridge together two diverse ends of the horizon like a widetoothed upsidedown grin By this time next week I will be back home not changed but altered mdash my imagination as fertile as those naked trees soaking up all the moisture ready to bloom eager to ripenDeliberating on the life and times of Everywoman Rosalyn DrsquoMello is a reputed art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover She tweets RosaParx Send your feedback to mailbagmiddaycom