I lost my heart in Jerez, among the bodegas, hidden tapas and a glass of ice-cold manzanilla on the beach. Since then I know: some wine destinations you don't visit, they keep calling you.
Text: Magda van der Rijst | Image: Pexels
Every morning I check the weather in Jerez online, almost always seeing cloudless skies there. Each time I resolve to go that way more often. I lost my heart there almost forty years ago, although I knew sherry longer. I grew up with it. My mother drank Harvey's Luncheon Dry, we drank sherry tonic in the 1970s and in 1987 I made my very first press trip to Jerez. And what a trip it was. Sherry was celebrating its heyday, it was unstoppable in the Netherlands and in Andalusia the harvest was celebrated with journalists from all over the world.
Mr Sandeman himself
I fell head over heels. Instead of joining the big group, I, with two Dutch colleagues, stupidly happened to get into David Sandeman's car. And he liked it. At official events, the legendary ‘man with the cape’ quickly got bored and piloted us to the secret parties. We had drinks in hidden tapas bars and saw an impromptu flamenco in a quiet alley. We raced through El Triángulo, the sherry triangle, tasted in bodegas big and small and had lunch somewhere in the deserted countryside. In Sanlúcar, we drank ice-cold manzanilla on the beach with fresh sea urchin. Fino, amontillado and oloroso, almonds and jamon flowed everywhere. I became enchanted by the white albariza base, the magisterial soleras and, above all, the unique flavour of sherry. Never again did I want anything else.
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