Wine reviews by an appreciative amateur.
Sweet gold grass spikes my ankles as I walk through the makeshift car park. “A hay field full of Range Rovers,” I text my boyfriend. “Couldn’t be more Ibiza if it tried.”
At the top of the dusty camino a villa looms: eye-stretching expanses of white surrounding a massive stone tower. Jasmine bushes leak perfume over the steps to the entrance. “This is what the south of France smells like,” the woman ahead of me says, a small blonde child hanging from each hand. “I wish I had a camera that could capture smells.”
Palm fronds shiver against the enamel sky, magenta bougainvillea splashes a wall.
Through an open door lies a vaulted central room with corridors running away in three directions. Someone has stuck an expensive astronomical telescope casually in a corner. Perhaps the same person who parked the double-suspension white carbon fibre mountain bike on the stairs. Down a corridor, past a door marked “Sniper” I emerge into a courtyard. A Moroccan-style tiled pool shimmers. Gleaming white Funktion One speaker stacks guard the DJ booth. At one end of the lawn women in striped jumpsuits and scarlet lipstick mix Grey Goose cocktails and pour lemonade for the kids careening between emerald grass and turquoise infinity pool.
This is an Ibiza that rarely makes the travel section, much less TV specials. It’s an atavistic yet hypermodern melange of bohemianism and raw capitalism. Psychics, ex-soldiers, acupuncturists and entrepreneurs mingle poolside. Naked children dash past women whose faces fed Harley Street retirement funds. A seal-coloured whippet takes a graceful piss on a gold pouf.
Nyetimber Classic Cuvee bubbles palely in my glass. The afternoon sun softens by degrees. Strangers strike conversations. If all goes to plan, Daniel will be the 58th person to make a commercial space flight. While he waits, he’ll sell you a seat on the shuttle, or a speedboat he designed. “Get rid of public transport,” he advises. “Only allow Formula One.” His other proposal for cutting carbon emissions? “Buy me this house. I promise to not heat it. That will reduce my footprint.” He sparks a Marlboro Light with an unapologetic grin.
I compliment Victoria on her Omega watch, a gift from her days as an employee. “Omega is owned by Swatch,” she adds. “When you work there, you always have to wear two watches. The higher-end one on your left wrist; Swatch on the right.”
From her I also learn that Calvin Klein employees are contractually required to have straight hair and nude manicures.
Lotta catches this: “I play tennis. I can never get my nails short enough.”
She was poached out of sporty early retirement (sold her restaurant in Chamonix) by Nyetimber CEO Eric Hareema. Because “you can’t ski every day” she now lives in France and is the brand’s European business development manager.
Selling English sparkling wine in the home territories of Cava, Prosecco and Champagne is an ambitious, even ridiculous venture. Yet Nyetimber makes oddly perfect sense in a tableau that calls to mind the Exile on Main Street sessions, minus the heroin. It’s posh, eccentric, rebellious and privileged, like the Stones. Too polished wouldn’t cut it but Nyetimber neatly strikes the note between luxe and louche. As Victoria remarks, there’s no competition when you’re being yourself.
Song: Rolling Stones ‘Loving Cup’
Quote: “Everything itself. / The sea is water. Stones are made of rock. / The sun goes up and goes down. A success / without any enhancement whatsoever.” ~ Jack Gilbert ‘The Other Perfection’