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‘Absolutely.’
Just as he had when they’d headed off for their sunset cruise, Christos slipped his palm into hers and, weaving in and out of the crowds of holidaymakers that had already descended on Oia that morning, he guided her down the street towards the archway that led to the main road.
‘Jump on.’
Suzie stared at the decrepit scooter parked at the kerb, which in a former life could have been blue… or grey… but was now the colour of rust. She had never ridden a scooter before, either as a driver or a passenger, and a swirl of trepidation rotated through her chest at the prospect of doing so for the first time in a place where the rules of the road seemed to be interpreted as merely loose guidelines.
However, Christos had already thrust a helmet into her arms and was sitting astride the battered old scooter waiting for her to join him. She inhaled a breath and climbed on behind him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist as they joined the flow of cars, Jeeps, vans, lorries, taxis, and tourist buses, every one of them determined to get to their destination in the shortest amount of time possible.
Once again, she marvelled at the fact that for such a small island, the traffic was so surprisingly, and worryingly, hectic, and she was relieved when, after only a few kilometres, Christos turned onto a quieter road and they were able to leave the crowds behind. She relaxed immediately, loosening her vice-like grip around Christos’ waist and tipping her head back, revelling in the caress of the early October breeze that carried with it the fragrance of warm baked earth and a waft of Christos’ sandalwood and leather cologne.
No matter which way she looked there was a view that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a travel brochure; tiny hamlets nestled into the hillside, crumbling windmills surrounded by clusters of palm trees, flounces of bougainvillea draped over wonky stone walls, fields of low-level vegetation trained into what looked like over-sized bird’s nests, all watched over by an infinite blue sky with not a cloud in sight.
Ten minutes later they arrived at a small family-run winery, its car park deserted but for a couple of shiny new motorbikes that had been parked in the shade of a pomegranate tree, its fruit dangling from the branches like Christmas ornaments. Christos dismounted, hooked their helmets over the handlebars and pointed to a pair of wooden gates with polished brass signage, behind which was a whitewashed building with an expansive marble terrace. The terrace was home to numerous tables and chairs that were sheltered from the sun by several inter-connecting pergolas wrapped in foliage.
‘Welcome to the Alexandros Winery. Give me a minute, I’ll be right back.’
‘No problem.’
Suzie sauntered onto the terrace, surprised to see that only two of the tables were occupied, both by couples who only had eyes for each other as they tasted a selection of wines, each one paired with a seemingly constant stream of elegant white plates showcasing the most exquisitely arranged food. Suzie’s tastebuds tingled as she anticipated joining them, but to her astonishment, when Christos returned he was carrying a picnic basket in one hand and a wine cooler in the other.
‘This way.’
Trying hard to douse her disappointment, she took the cooler from Christos and followed him into the vineyard, the rock-strewn pathway causing her to stumble slightly, until they arrived at the perfect spot and all thought of the stylish restaurant on the terrace evaporated. Someone – she assumed the owners of the winery – had placed a small bistro table in the dappled shade of an ancient olive tree and set it for dining à deux. Christos placed the picnic basket on the blue and white-checked tablecloth, pulled out one of the chairs, and invited her to take a seat.
In front of her was a panoramic sweep of the Santorini countryside consisting of the low-level “bird’s nest” vegetation bordered by a parade of lemon and olive trees. Over a fence to her right was a small field in which a couple of donkeys were grazing languidly on a patch of yellowed grass, their tails swishing and their ears twitching.
It was the most beautiful vista.
‘This vineyard belongs to Michalis Alexandros, but it’s been in his family for three generations, and they make the best wine in the whole of Santorini. I have some here for you to taste, along with a selection of Greek mezze prepared by Petros, one of my fellow… One of my friends from Athens who came here to pursue a long-held dream to train as a chef.’
Christos opened the bottle of white wine, poured an inch of the pale lemon-coloured elixir into each glass, and raised his in a toast, his dark brown eyes meeting hers with such intensity that a zip of electricity shot through her whole body, causing her breath to catch in her throat. It really wasthemost romantic of settings, and she wondered why he’d chosen to bring her here, not to mention arranged with the owner for them to have such an intimate lunch.
‘Yiamas, Suzie!’
‘Yiamas.’
She took a sip of the wine, savouring the crisp, fresh acidity that danced across her tongue followed by flavours of lime, bruised apple, and a hint of honey, and finally a discernible earthiness that lingered on the palette long after she’d swallowed.
‘What do you think?’
‘I love it.’
‘Can you taste the mineral-like tang?’
‘Actually, I can.’
‘It’s because the grapes are grown in volcanic soil, which has a high mineral content. See these black pumice stones?’ Christos stooped to collect a rock the shape of a small rugby ball from the ground and handed it to Suzie. ‘Believe it or not, they’re part of the vineyard’s natural irrigation system. During the night, when the temperature lowers, they absorb moisture from the air, which they then release over the course of the following day. The arid conditions mean there’s a much lower yield, but the grapes are of excellent quality and produce this amazing wine that’s popular all over the world.’
Suzie glanced around her. Despite having an uninterrupted view of the surrounding area, she couldn’t see the snaking avenues of vines she expected to see in a vineyard, their leaves fluttering in the scant breeze.
‘So where exactly does Michalis grow his grapes?’
Christos’ forehead creased. ‘Well, here, at the vineyard, of course.’
Now it was her turn to look confused.
‘Ok… ay.’
