Ode to Assyrtiko

There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold

And she's buying a stairway to Heaven

When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed

With a word she can get what she came for

My sixteen-year-old self could never have imagined quoting Led Zeppelin to describe the moment I met the grape that changed my life. Yet there I was, island-hopping under the blazing July sun across the Aegean, on assignment to write about native Greek varieties. And as the golden light bathed the path before me, it felt oddly like a stairway.

Santorini in the summer swells with visitors. So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself alone in a quiet alley of the old port, surrounded by shut doors.

“You’ll only find local fishermen here, resting for the afternoon,” said a voice. I turned to see a barefoot kid kicking a worn-out football.

“Rest is what I’m after too,” I said. “See, I’m a reporter, here to write an article—but it’s too hot to go on.”

“An article about what?” the boy asked, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

 “A special grape called Assyrtiko.”

A smile immediately spread across his face, and with unpredictable certainty, he pointed to a door just a few yards away.

There's a sign on the wall, but she wants to be sure'

Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings

In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings

Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven

Before I could say more, the boy was gone. I turned to the door. A sign read: Fishermen only beyond this point.

“Well,” I thought, “I’m fishing for a story after all!”

Inside, smells of basil, lemon zest, fried fish and tomato filled the air.

“Eat or drink?” asked a gruff woman, wiping down a table.

“Just a coffee and a glass of water please,” I said, sensing eyes fixed on me.

The place was clearly a local lunch spot. Fishing nets, an icon of the Virgin Mary, and a rusty anchor adorned the walls.

“What’s a young capital boy doing here?” the woman asked, her tone now softer.

I explained I was researching the terroir of Greek islands, expected later that day by a wine producer for a tasting.

Her eyebrow rose at terroir, but she smiled. “I didn’t catch all that, but if it’s wine you are after, I know just the right guy.”

She moved away and I swear I heard her hum a tune. She leaned over and whispered something to a man across the room. He stood, drained his glass, and walked toward me.

And it's whispered that soon if we all call the tune

Then the piper will lead us to reason

And a new day will dawn for those who stand long

And the forests will echo with laughter

“You’re writing a wine story?” he asked, pulling up a chair. “You’re in the right place. This is where it begins.”

“This tavern?” I thought. Sardines and octopus didn’t exactly scream wine heritage. But I stayed quiet.

“We belong to a small country. A rocky promontory in the Mediterranean that has nothing to distinguish it but the efforts of its people, the sea, and the light of the sun. Now look at this island—blessed by light, shaped by fire. Fishermen, farmers, carpenters—none of this was handed to us. We fight for everything.”

He motioned to the woman. “Bring us a bottle. And two glasses.”

“Santorini is the result of an eruption,” he continued. “No water. Just stone. The roots have to fight to go deep. The winds are brutal—so strong our ancestors shaped vines into baskets to protect the fruit. The sun burns us as we prune and harvest, for just a trickle of wine.”

The woman returned with a bottle—no label—poured two glasses, and said, “I liked last year’s more, but this one has character.”

“This is my pride,” he said. “Assyrtiko from Cavalieros. Vines over 100 years old. It’s not ready yet, but this place gives honest feedback. Go on—taste.”

The first sip struck like a blade. Intense citrus, wild herbs—thyme, marjoram, oregano—faded into seashell and wet stone. Then a wave of sea salt washed over everything and pulled me back for another taste.

I must have looked stunned. He laughed. “I better get moving, I have work to do. I will see you in the vineyard!” he said, and vanished.

And as we wind on down the road

Our shadows taller than our soul

There walks a lady we all know

Who shines white light and wants to show

How everything still turns to gold

And if you listen very hard

The tune will come to you at last

When all are one, and one is all

To be a rock and not to roll

Much has already been written about Assyrtiko. Greece’s flagship. The queen of whites. But few speak of the canvas behind the painting—the volcanic soil, salt-laden winds, the burning sun, and above all, the human soul.

I left Santorini with a bittersweet feeling and many thoughts. What is wine, really? Do we appreciate the sweat behind a label? Is ageing wine worth it—or should we seize the moment and share a bottle with friends?

“This might not be a story about tannins or lees,” I thought, “but about the important things.” Passion. Simplicity. Innovation. Nature.

As I stepped off the ship and headed for the city, I could still feel the island's energy on me. A golden light glowed from my bag, coming from the only thing I brought back: a bottle of Assyrtiko from Santorini.