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So it seems Frankie was right. What a difference a day does make.
Near on this time yesterday I was weighing up my chances with a day old fish taco as I slurped back my fourth tabasco margarita at a bar in Midtown San Antonio.This musn't have bode well with the fella upstairs as I've woken up this morning with a mild case of hypothermia. In a church. In Mudgee.
Mudgee, evidently meaning " a nest in the hills"(the nest of what beast remains a mystery) is a remote community approximately 266 kms by car north west of Sydney city, 112 kms from Lithgow prison and 26,000 kms from George Bush International Airport.
Until recently Mudgee had been doing quite well for itself as a cattle grazing region until someone, possibly not too unlike myself came along and thought it would be better put to use as a place to make a lot of wine. As a result, the "nest in the hills" is now basically one very large vineyard. - so I'm not all together too disappointed with this mornings findings.
I fumble about for something jacketlike and lurch squinty eyed out of the church into the brisk country air. Being winter, the vineyards I'm surrounded by are covered by nothing more than shrivelled blackened weeds but the fog is thinning out and beginning to lift revealing a vast spread of tumbling golden hills. The unmistakable makings of a Russell Drysdale painting.
Mudgee has over 40 vineyards including several long established organic producers all within about a 20 km radius ( a welcome proximity after the first few tastings have gotten underway) But of course, not all of these make the map, as I discovered on entering vineyard number 2, a rookie on the vineyard trail and an apparent authority on goat milk products. On approach it soon became stonkingly evident the property was a definite work in progress.
I teetered up the driveway (which had become more like a well trodden 'roo trail) narrowly avoiding tumbling down into one of the two murky reservoirs either side and into what bore an astonishing resemblence to a 1970's junkyard. I negotiated my way around a series of disembowelled lawnmowers and rusting FJ Holdens to reach the cellar door, one of the panels had been boarded up and it swung precariously from its hinges as I pushed it open. Inside, the cheap fibro walls had been blackened by an obvious encounter with the smouldering potbelly stove beneath and the once plush leather chairs encircling it could have mistaken for the loose skin of a battle worn cow.
Despite the discouraging first impression I bellied up to the bar in the hope of chancing upon a life changing chevre experience. The refrigerated cabinet was stacked with various cloth wrapped cheeses making their presence immediately known as they bellowed to my olfactory senses.
Enter the white haired farmer...introducing himself as "The Baron". Goatlike in appearance and gruff in manner. Genetically 'PR' challenged, this Baron was clearly devoid of 'lineage'. The much anticipated mandatory cheese tasting followed with creamy morsels of goaty goodness presented on hand torn servings of white "no frills" sandwich bread, washed down with samples of his much less impressive range of wines.
Tastebuds aroused , credit cards severely maimed, "The Baron" cashed up and my cheeses bagged I made the pilgrimage back to my B&B church accommodation, salivating at the prospect of debriefing with a bottle of Shiraz and my new fromage friends.
The fire lit up the deranged look of glee sprawled across my face as I rubbed my hands together with anticipation, nestled into the cosy comfort of the sofa, poured a healthy glass of red and rolled up my sleeves. The gooey white cheese enveloped the knife, I pulled it carefully away from the round and began to plaster it generously across the bread while lifting it slowly towards my mouth. A foreign shape forced my eyes to cross in front of me. I glared down at the protruding offender which seemed to stare back at me from its cheesy mound.... What is this?! Sacre Bleu!!! A hair- and not mine! Several in fact, varying in length and curl. I discarded my creation and lifted the remaining blue mothership on the table before me for further investigation. It was laced with them. The Baron's long white curly wisps of hair, weaving in, out and around the waxy bottom, up through the sides onto the cloth. Disaster!
How does one recover from such a violating experience? Revenge? No, it wasn't the weather for a dish served cold. Sabotage?...perhaps, though I felt he might already be doing a pretty good job of that on his own. My decision was to leave at first light, I wrapped my hairy purchases into a bundle and waited out the darkness, fighting off grotesque images of the The Baron's flaky mane.
As the sun poked through the curtain at 6.43am I headed off into the foggy morning with only one place in mind. The Hairy Dairy. I skulked stealthily along the dusty trail, between the car wrecks and up the stairs. Whilst leaning down to place the bundle at the foot of the cellar door several four legged figures shuffled into my line of sight. An impish smirk crept across my face. My work here was done.
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