Welcome, fellow story lovers.
Every map in my Atlas charts a different kind of territory in my life. Some are grand, imagined worlds built from scratch; many of which are yet to be introduced. Others are found in the quiet corners of our own world, steeped in history. This story is of the second kind, a field note from a trip to Madeira as part of my work in wine, where I found a narrative aging in a bottle.
It's an exploration of how a single object can be a portal, and how every vintage of wine has a story to tell if we only listen closely enough. This is Part 1.
This story begins in Madeira, it begins with you.
You are on a tour of Blandy's Wine Lodge in Madeira, where history hangs heavy in the air. As you walk past barrels older than yourself and vintages of Madeira wine in bottles that predate your parents, you feel the weight of time pressing against you. The intoxicating aromas of the lodge blanket you; a peculiar blend of varnished and polished wood, dust that has gathered over decades or even centuries, and the ever-present "angel's share" of the enchanting wines aging gracefully in the rows upon rows of stacked barrels that inhabit the upper lofts of the building.
Unfortunately, the tour is coming to an end. You can see the obligatory gift shop looming, and it will soon be time to enter the real world again. The ever present hustle and bustle of cars and buses leans in through the exit door, trying to permeate your current wine-aroma-infused bubble. Already you can feel the magic of the tour wearing off. The buzz of a phone in your pocket pulls you back to a chain of unread messages about dinner plans. A fragment of a remembered argument about maps and menus splinters the quiet. But before you get too lost in thoughts of what awaits outside, the tour guide leaves the room momentarily, and you decide to close your eyes and take in one last deep breath - to really take in the entire experience of this place in every way possible to you.
Suddenly, you are disrupted. Not by the beck and call of your group, but instead by a trembling old Portuguese man speaking in English. His tone interrupts your meandering mind and brings you back to the present moment. It isn’t the tour guide from before. You surmise that this must be one of the other members of staff. He is small and he has a cheeky wise-cracked grin about him. He invites you to follow him back into the vintage cellars where the older bottles are kept. Keen to keep the magic from waning and to hold back the modern day, you join him.
The cellars he leads you down into are a treasure trove, housing countless bottles of bygone vintages, each neatly arranged behind protective wire screens and gleaming cabinet doors of varnished wood. As you descend deeper, you notice the vintages are regressing, taking you on a journey back through time. The longevity of wine, particularly fortified wines like Madeira, has always fascinated you, but to see it evidenced with each passing step brings a jolt of excitement that catches in your chest. Each bottle is a relic, a fragment of history preserved in liquid form.
As if sensing your thoughts, the little man remarks with a twinkle in his eye, "They're not merely a part of history; they can recount their tales if you listen closely. Uncork one of these bottles, take a sip, and the wine within will share its memories - It's a taste of history itself."
He beckons you down further into the warren of glass bottle lined tunnels and you notice the vintages are going back further than you had realized was even possible. The glass bottles, with their stylised chalk white markings show that the wines are dating back to the 1950s now. Images of your grandparents living their young lives flash through your imagination. Noticeably there is also a faint murmuring coming from somewhere, and you start to hear what sounds like small, tiny whispering voices, as if from a defunct speaker. The sound doesn’t seem to have any particular origin, instead it is reaching out of the shelves and pinching and pulling at your ears, inviting you to come closer. You shiver with uncertainty almost as if there is a presence there. Perhaps this little old man is right. Perhaps these bottles do have memories.
The walk continues further and the bottles show a carousel of dates. The 1900s, the 18th century… You’re amazed at how that’s even possible. As you pass down the rows, wines start leaping from decade to decade in bigger jumps - 1845, 1820, 1805, 1801, and then another century disappears in your wing mirror. The numbers become barely visible on the glass from centuries of wear and tear, of hands passing over them like feet on smooth worn stone steps, but you can just about tell the last wine you walked past was from 1795. Finally you arrive at a small few bottles resting on a stone shelf. There’s no price next to them - the bottles are clearly priceless. The glass is all misshapen and bent. The writing on the bottle is almost non-existent; you can see a few white spots where the etchings of an old date are just about showing, and the black wax cap holding the cork seal in place looks as though it has been applied again a few times in its life.
The little old man encourages you to lean in closer, and as you do, you start to hear a different world emerging from the shelf. As if the world you currently inhabit is having the volume lowered and is being cross faded with an entirely different soundtrack. Sounds of crashing waves and battles, cannon fire, and that all-consuming roar of life at sea, with its constant scrubbing of decks and trimming of sails, with the barked orders to men who sleep in cramped, tiny quarters.
You get closer, and the whispering voices resolve into the creak of rigging and the snap of canvas. The smell of dust and old wood is washed away by a blast of cold, salty air. For a dizzying second, the stone floor beneath your feet feels like a rocking deck. You smell the sea. You blink, and suddenly, you're there!
In front of you, a merchant captain, weathered and grizzled, stands defiantly on the deck of his ship. The wind whips at his coat, carrying the salty spray and the cries of seagulls across his weather beaten face. The captain's heart pounds in his chest, mirroring the rhythmic crashing of the waves against his ship's hull. He knows he's outgunned and outnumbered, but he won't surrender just yet, not while there is still a chance he can lose them in the dangerous reefs just over the horizon.
He barks orders to his crew, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and determination. The sails are trimmed, the few remaining cannons that had survived being tossed over the side are loaded with barely tenable shot. A tense silence falls over the merchant ship, broken only by the creaking of the rigging and the lapping of the waves.
The pirate ship is drawing closer, its black flag snapping in the wind like a grim omen.
And there, on the high seas of a memory uncorked, we'll leave our captain for now, with pirates on the horizon and the taste of history on our tongues.
This idea, that inanimate objects can hold stories, fascinates me. It makes me wonder about the secret histories of the things that surround us every day. Its why I become such a geek anytime I enter a museum, an antiques store, a local car-boot sale, my parents attic.
I'd love to know: What's an old object you've encountered that felt like it had a story to tell? A grandparent's watch, a worn-out book, a piece of sea glass? I'd be thrilled to hear about it in the comments.