In this entry to our 2024 wine writing competition, Richard Hough writes about a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape given to his Italian father-in-law. See the guide to our competition for the rest of this year's published entries.
Richard Hough writes Originally from Glasgow, Richard Hough has lived in Verona since September 2011. He is particularly interested in the region’s history, football, wine and culture. He is the host of Book Club on the Italian Wine Podcast and the author of Notes from Verona, a self-published collection of diary entries from locked-down Italy.
The problem with French wine
“Gar-fag-nana!” I repeated to the exasperated ticket inspector, no doubt mangling the pronunciation of the remote Tuscan region.
I was 19 years old and on the last leg of a four-week Inter-Rail trip, the climax of which would see me reunited with my Italian girlfriend who I hadn’t seen for nearly two months!
Finally, an English-speaking passenger who had been observing proceedings explained: “Garfagnana is the region! Which station are you going to?”
I had no idea. I was sure Garfagnana was the name that Nadia, my girlfriend, had given to me when we last spoke on the telephone a few weeks earlier.
I rummaged through my rucksack and found my notebook.
“Garfagnana.” I read. “Garfagnana”, I repeated for good measure. “Wait a minute! Castelnuovo! Castelnuovo di Garfagnana!”, once again mauling the pronunciation.
The ticket inspector and passenger exchanged glances - finally they understood!
I’d spent the last four weeks backpacking across the Benelux, France and northern Italy and, with the arrogance of youth, pompously regarded myself as a citizen of the world, at ease with local customs, capable of blending in anywhere. Of course, with my appalling grasp of the language and textbook gap-year look, nothing could have been further from the truth. “Castelnuovo is the next stop. We’ll be there soon”, the helpful English-speaking lady informed me.
The train journey between Lucca and Castelnuovo di Garfagnana was, without question, the most beautiful stretch of railroad I’d encountered in four weeks of travelling across Europe. The single-track line followed the lush Serchio Valley. While the steep-sided hills loomed on either side, the river itself was never far from view. At one point the valley opened up spectacularly to offer a spine-tingling view of the Ponte della Maddalena, known locally as the Devil’s Bridge.
Just a few hours before I’d been caught in a massive tropical rainstorm in Lucca while venturing from the train station into the walled town in search of a florist. Soaking wet, I barged into the shop to be met by a torrent of invective. Notwithstanding her inexplicable anger at my appearance, the florist prepared a massive bouquet of coloured margherite for a fraction of the price I’d paid for the bottle of wine.
The bottle of wine was his idea. We were staying overnight in Avignon and my travelling companion suggested I pick up a bottle of local wine to take as a gift to my future father-in-law. Great idea, I thought, as I blew the best part of a week’s budget on a single bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Growing up in suburban Glasgow in the 1980s, I knew nothing about wine (except the tonic variety), but this one looked reassuringly expensive and, the vendor assured me, it was a good vintage.
The following evening, I said farewell to my companion at the Gare de Marseille-Saint-Charles, as his journey took him westwards, towards the Spanish Costa Brava, while I would be heading east, towards Milan then south to Florence, Lucca and, finally, Garfagnana.
With the bottle carefully stowed away in my rucksack and the massive bouquet of flowers under one arm, I thanked the guard and the helpful lady and disembarked at Castelnuovo di Garfagnana, where Nadia was anxiously waiting for me on the platform. After a rushed greeting, she led me to the station bar where her dad was waiting for us. He shook my hand and made small talk in his rough but endearing English before guiding me to the waiting Alfa 145 for the final leg of the journey, to the remote mountain village they called home.
The flowers were extremely well received by my future mother-in-law. The wine not so much. The bottle was briefly inspected and then unceremoniously placed on the kitchen cabinet beside the coffee machine, where it remained unopened for the rest of my stay. He’s saving it for a special occasion, I thought optimistically.
In the years that followed, I returned regularly to that house in the mountain village above the Serchio Valley. The years passed, but the bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape remained unopened. Every now and then I’d encounter it, when I was sent to the drinks cabinet to get a bottle of limoncello or to collect the good wine glasses on Christmas Day. Of course, by then I understood that bringing my future Italian father-in-law a bottle of French wine was a massive faux pas. For him, Italian wine was superior and preferably something from Tuscany. He was naturally suspicious of anything that came from outside his village. God knows what he thought of me!
Anyway, he had his own local wine supplier who he’d visit once a year with a friend from the village. They would order a truck load of wine to be delivered in massive 54 litre damigiane. Each year I’d decant the stuff into litre bottles for the table, under his watchful supervision to ensure that not a drop was wasted. I was never able to pinpoint the precise location of the producer (somewhere towards Lucca, my father-in-law would explain vaguely), but the wine was always delightfully quaffable, even though it sometimes seemed to come out of the bottle in lumps. A fiasco (or two) would unfailingly appear on the table at lunchtime and then again at dinner. It was part of that simple but warm hospitality that is so familiar to Italians. On special occasions, he’d tolerate something else, a bottle of Spumante perhaps, or a Chianti Classico, but only ever Italian.
My father-in-law died on Christmas Day 2022. He was a robust 92 years old and his passing left a massive void in that house overlooking the Serchio Valley. When we returned to the village the following Easter, I dusted down that old bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape. Clos des Papes 1990, the label read. A decent vintage, so I’m told. I had bought it all those years ago as a youthful five year old!
I carefully uncorked the wine and let it breath for as long as our patience would allow. We dusted down the best crystal and I poured three glasses of the deep ruby wine. I swirled the musty liquid in my mouth. It had a luscious velvety texture, despite some lingering sediment, and intense pepper and mouldy-earthy flavours with just a hint of something liquoricey. I proposed a quick toast to my father-in-law and then, leaning back in my chair, reached for a fiasco of his vino da tavola. Maybe he had a point after all!
Image by Constantine Johnny via Getty Images.