À LA FIONA
writer and photographer FIONA STOCKER
In 18th century England, landscape designer Humphry Repton would leave a red leather book with the landed gentry whose estates he was about to transform, with copperplate notes on the landscape he had designed for them. In the watercolour illustrations, his clients could lift delicate paper flaps which showed what they had before, against the glory to come.
In the book for the Welsh country house Stanage Park, Repton wrote that everyone wants “a certain degree of magnificence”.
In 21st century Tasmania, the grounds at Josef Chromy’s winery south of Launceston draw much from classical designs like Repton’s: formal gardens surrounding a house, giving onto parkland and then wilder nature, all of it including natural elements sculpted to suit the overall design. On the Chromy estate, lawns sweep down to a lake and rotunda, and steel wine silos shine like trophies, giving onto the ranks of vineyards, farmland and mountains.
Passing along the terraces at the Chromy restaurant, we amble through the garden and find a grotto-like corner. Dappled sunlight filters through trees, promising to pick out the colours of the wines swirling in our stemmed glasses.
We’ve come with a group of friends who have been walking at the Walls of Jerusalem. On their return to lower elevations, they’re in search of epicurean pleasure and have booked a wine tasting and lunch through a tourism agent. The hands-off nature of the deal, and the upscale, corporate nature of the Chromy enterprise, means that we won’t get to chat with an actual wine maker. This tasting involves a sheet of notes, and a preliminary chat with a cellar door server who will then leave us to sup on our own. The hikers pepper her with questions, as they’re teachers and have a thirst for detail. She gives considered answers which pay due homage to the esteemed Chromy wines.
My first ever taste of Chromy, soon after coming to Tasmania, was a remarkable pinot noir, a ribbon of velvet flowing down the throat. But this is not on the table today. The wines are accomplished but not outstanding and I suspect come from the Pepik range, marketed as “fresh and easy-drinking”.
It’s only when the teachers make noises about buying cases and freighting them to Queensland that our host goes off to fetch a bottle of vintage. This sparkling rose has been on lees for four years. Toasty brioche notes spring from the bulbous, fluted glasses, emanating from grapes which have yielded every last whit of their flavour into tiny pink pools of nectar. To me, this drop is clearly elevated over what we’ve tasted so far. But the teachers prefer the sparkling cuvee. This proves that teachers don’t know everything.
Soon we’re heading to the terrace and more of that dappled sunlight, for lunch. The Chromy kitchens have been a home-ground for many a standout chef and the menus are a fiesta of local produce. My entrée is “grilled Rannoch farm quail, parsnip and buttermilk sauce, bruised leeks, spring peas and aromatic pickled peaches”. One can easily imagine Repton feeling at home here, with bruised leeks and pickled peaches having an 18th century provenance about them.
The roasted market fish with poached crayfish, sparkling velouté and saffron fregola is a popular choice for main course. But I have gone for a linguistically smoother wood-grilled lamb rump, salsa verde, buttered cos lettuce, smoked potato, bottarga (fish roe) and caper-berries.
For dessert the poetry continues with brown butter and almond doughnut, seasonal berries, vanilla bean ice cream, candied lemon and black pepper meringue.
And yet, despite the lyrical menu and the best efforts of the chefs, the memory of this meal has faded quickly. This is not a criticism of the food but, rather, a philosophical enquiry as to whether, in the midst of any delightful experience, we can still be in a desolate place. Does grief affect the appetite? It has been a difficult time. My husband and I have both lost a parent in the past year. Grieving and struggling through this transitionary time, we’ve faltered in our enjoyment of life and our tenderness with each other. This lunch faded quickly from my memory, perhaps because of that unhappiness.
What I do remember is the comforts of the garden. The shushing of wind in trees. The play of bees on buddleia. Beautiful wines caught in the play of sunlight below branches.
After lunch we take a stroll. One of the teachers, filled with a surfeit of mountain air and invigorating chardonnay, lies down on the sloping lawn and rolls towards the lake. It’s an expression of joy rather than a wish to end it all in the water.
Great garden designers know the secrets of keeping us happy. Small pleasures, great vistas and a degree of magnificence to remind us of better times to come.
Fiona Stocker is a writer based in the Tamar Valley. She has published the books A Place in the Stockyard (2016) and Apple Island Wife (2018). For more information, see fionastockerwriter.com.