For my birthday, we decided to drive north up to the Barossa Valley and return to Seppletsfield, producer of our favorite muscat and port. We decided to leave the Laser at home, opting to take the Martin for a spin.
Seppeltsfield. Um, it's off to the left.
This is the storage facility at Seppeltsfield that houses the vast vats of port or "the building where Bakkila would spend all his time."
This pathway doesn't hold any significance. It's therefore a great example of blog bloat - bloggers posting unnecessary pictures in lieu of having something real to say.
Tessa practicing her assertiveness. "Daddy, I'm going in here! I think I saw a cute boy."
The way they used to store port - just toss it behind the shed until it's old enough to serve.
I'll just apologize now. I took a LOT of pictures of barrels.
The way they store port now - toss it in a basement.
This room houses several hundred barrels of port in various stages of aging. Each barrel is opened when it hits 100 years, by which time 2/3 of the liquid is gone. The official story is that the liquid evaporated through a natural process, but I'm pretty sure that "natural process" is a drunk ass named Larry.
We found my year. 1970. I'll be back. By 2070, I should be able to afford a glass.
The guide had to ask us not to hug the barrels. Several times.
Having seen me stand by the Aston Martin, the tour guide thought that I might be in the market for some 100 year old port, which goes for $2k for the "big bottle." As a basis of comparison, the big bottle is about the size of my middle finger, which I was tempted to display prominently upon hearing the price. Older ports apparently hit the $10k mark. I sniffed and said "Oy. I reckon I'd just prefer a Coopahs." Our guide muttered something about "gallows humor" and ushered us in the direction of the more affordable, non-alcoholic raspberry cordial.
Tessa perfected her port tasting etiquette by practicing with raspberry cordial.
