“Wine is the most civilized thing in the world.” – Ernest Hemingway
I live in the southwest of France, so wine is big here. I am close to three major wine regions, Cahors, Bergerac and the well-known Bordeaux. So today’s P&P is all about wine!
I also have an exclusive discount for you for my photography. You can use the code WINETIME in my Etsy shop to get 25% off anything :)
I have always loved the Hemingway quote below as it’s from one of my favourite books that he has written. I had never eaten oysters until I was in my late 40s and went to the west coast of France for a holiday with my daughter. We sat in a typical restaurant with our bare feet in the sand and ate oysters with slices of freshly baked baguette and drank white wine.
This quote came to mind straight away as I have never come across something so perfectly described before. It was like drinking the sea.
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
“As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.”
That’s a short quote so I thought I would also share a beautiful poem that I found recently.
Pablo Neruda beautifully captures the essence of wine in a way that feels almost intimate, like he’s describing a cherished lover. He portrays wine as something rich and sensual, using vivid, almost tactile imagery to compare it to the curves and textures of a woman’s body.
The way he describes its ingredients and flow makes you feel like you’re experiencing something more than just a drink—it becomes a symbol of indulgence, passion, and deep connection. It’s Neruda’s gift, really, to turn something as simple as wine into something so deeply human and evocative.
Ode To Wine by Pablo Neruda
Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth, wine, smooth as a golden sword, soft as lascivious velvet, wine, spiral-seashelled and full of wonder, amorous, marine; never has one goblet contained you, one song, one man, you are choral, gregarious, at the least, you must be shared. At times you feed on mortal memories; your wave carries us from tomb to tomb, stonecutter of icy sepulchers, and we weep transitory tears; your glorious spring dress is different, blood rises through the shoots, wind incites the day, nothing is left of your immutable soul. Wine stirs the spring, happiness bursts through the earth like a plant, walls crumble, and rocky cliffs, chasms close, as song is born. A jug of wine, and thou beside me in the wilderness, sang the ancient poet. Let the wine pitcher add to the kiss of love its own. My darling, suddenly the line of your hip becomes the brimming curve of the wine goblet, your breast is the grape cluster, your nipples are the grapes, the gleam of spirits lights your hair, and your navel is a chaste seal stamped on the vessel of your belly, your love an inexhaustible cascade of wine, light that illuminates my senses, the earthly splendor of life. But you are more than love, the fiery kiss, the heat of fire, more than the wine of life; you are the community of man, translucency, chorus of discipline, abundance of flowers. I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine. Drink it, and remember in every drop of gold, in every topaz glass, in every purple ladle, that autumn labored to fill the vessel with wine; and in the ritual of his office, let the simple man remember to think of the soil and of his duty, to propagate the canticle of the wine.
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