We’re having breakfast on our back patio this morning, and I smell something odd. I say to Julie, “what’s that smell? It’s a bit like rotting fruit.” We speculate that possibly the gardener next door is using some fancy composting. I don’t for a moment consider that Gozo is full of vineyards.
See, it wasn’t the smell of rotting fruit. It was the smell of fermenting fruit.
Like so many Maltese farmers (of the full-on and hobby types) seem to, our neighbours a couple of doors down are making wine.
I’m often surprised at the variety of wines that come from Gozo–an island the size of North Pender Island, with a population of 28,000. There’s at least twenty in the shop (this photo from Rabat’s market shows 18). Plus, the house wines in restaurants are often unavailable from the shops–they’re sold directly from the farmer to the restaurant.