Drinking Wine and Avoiding Silly Little Dogs

Junior developed a taste for power cords.  He chowed down on the night light in the hallway and gobbled up charging cords like they were going out of fashion.  When he wasn't seeking electrocution he munched on pieces of gravel from the garden,  seeking a canine/gravel equivalent to a seabird with a belly full of plastic. I kicked him out of my office and shut the door, quietly letting Senior in to lie in the sun as I worked while Roger and Junior waged a war of attrition in the rest of the house.  If the shreds of sticks, gravel and power cords scattered all over the floor when I came out for lunch were anything to go by, Junior was winning.

By the time I finished work it was clearly evident that Roger and Junior needed a break from each other.  Or Roger did, anyway.  Junior was entirely unrepentant, full of beans and enough gravel to make it dangerous for him to swim.

We put away everything that could possibly be chewable, hopped on our bicycles, and pedaled off along the rail trail to the Hastwell and Lightfoot cellar door for a spot of wine tasting with a comfortable view over winter vineyards.

Past fat sheep diligently controlling the grass between the vines.

H&L had a sheltered table looking out over sturdy gum trees with vineyards beyond.

 

A very nice man introduced us to H&L's signature wines.  Not being much of a wine person myself, I donated my tastes to Roger who, to his credit, sacrificed himself to ensure nothing went to waste.  Along with the wines came a platter of local hams and cheeses with juicy olives from H&L's own orchard. 

Om nom nom.

All finished!

 

Sun shone warmly through the window while outside fat clouds, pushed by a cold wind, trailed shadows across the vines.  We dawdled for an hour or two, in no hurry to go back to whatever awaited us in the world of puppies and masticated power cords.

The very nice man brought us coffee and house-made brownies with berry compote.

It came with coffee, I promise.

Then he brought us fortified wine with house-made caramel fudge.

T'would be rude to refuse.

 

Unfortunately wasn't possible to set up camp at the cellar door forever.  A bottle of wine fell into my pannier as we ambled out the door and rolled our bicycles back along the rail trail and up the hill to Castle Chompalot.

Roger, having had a double dose of wine tasting, elected to walk the 500m back to the rail trail.

Fat cattle enjoyed fresh grass down by the creek.

 

Back at home Junior redeemed himself with the sheer enthusiasm of his greeting. Roger, somewhat mellowed by good food and wine, sat with him on the couch.  "You better be good," he said.  "Your owners are on their way home and they will need electrical cords when they get back."

Junior didn't care.  He snuggled up and went to sleep, sucking happily on a piece of gravel from the garden, exhausted by his morning's excitement.