Young and Crazy: Making Wine in Mojdež, Montenegro

“Now, we go.”

That was the warning we got before we threw on our clothes, ran out the door, and headed into the mountains with our landlord. He had told us he was going up there to make wine, and asked if we wanted to go along for the ride. Our answer was a given.

First, though, we had to stop at a garden store, half of which sells alcohol-making supplies and equipment. I feel that this is probably normal in the region, where homemade wine and rakija (sort of like schnapps) are commonplace. There were stills, wine jugs of all different sizes, vats, grinders, and other contraptions that turn fruit into liquid glory.

After we picked up a few large jugs, we were on our way up the mountains, occasionally at vertical angles that I wasn’t sure cars could actually handle.

We arrived in the village of Mojdež, and were greeted by a huge stash of crates that once held thousands of pounds of grapes. No one told us this, but it was fairly obvious. It was also clear that people had been hard at work long before we ever stepped into the arena.

We were introduced to our landlord’s friend, Pero, who possesses a very animated personality full of boisterous laughs and plenty of happiness that can certainly be attributed to the quality of life he maintains. He’s there in the middle along with our landlord and yours truly.

Pero took us into his workshop, which was full of large vats of naturally aging grapes. We’re told that each of the smaller ones holds 500kg of grapes, and the large one he keeps for himself holds a whopping 1000kg (over one U.S. ton). Unlike other operations we’ve seen, Pero has upped the game a bit and uses a small motor to siphon wine out of the vats and into jugs.

Each vat has been sitting and fermenting for three weeks, and gets poured into our large jugs so that it can age for another three weeks, before it gets turned over and aged for another two months. When that process is done, you have finished product.

On this day, though, it was all about the “young and crazy.” That’s what they like to call wine when it’s at this particular point of the process, since it tastes like juice but will get you drunk before you even realize you’ve been drinking alcohol. While most of the wine went into jugs, an extra bottle was filled as a bonus, and we all passed it around a few times.

After we filled and moved 100 liters into our landlord’s car, to take home and age locally, we were invited into Pero’s garden and house. We were greeted by more magnificent views and a very large garden that houses several beehives, and grows everything from peppers to grapes, and kiwis to mandarin oranges.

Pero took us to the back house, where they were soaking freshly harvested olives for eating; and because this is how they do in such a place, there also just happened to be several aging legs of home-smoked, drool-worthy prosciutto hanging next to us. (Blame the blurry picture on my heightened sense of longing and desire to steal these and run away, screaming in delight as I escaped with armfuls of cured meats.)

Back outside, we were invited to sit down and try the local spring water. Or was it his bottle of limited edition scotch whiskey? Or was it strong coffee? Or was it homemade candied figs? Apparently it was all of the above.

I thought the candied figs were soaked in honey, but I was quickly corrected and told that all cavity-producing qualities came from the simple combination of only two ingredients: sugar and fig. I’m not sure I’ve ever had anything so sweet, and I’m lucky that my teeth didn’t start falling out while we talked.

After sitting and enjoying each other’s company – and Pero and his wife’s assortment of homemade goodness – it was time to go, and we drove back down the mountains. Once we arrived back at the house, we moved all of the jugs inside and poured them into larger jugs, which are used for aging the wine for the aforementioned periods and letting nature take its course.

Before we went back up to our flat, though, we were promptly sat down at the patio table. We were done with drinks for the day, but we were told to eat. Our landlady brought out some incredible homemade pasulj (beans and pork ribs in a sort of stew), lightly seasoned fresh cabbage, and a basket of fresh bread. So, we ate. And it was wonderful.

As we drank and ate and drank, and later on in the day ate and ate and ate, we were once again blessed by the surrealism that is life in Montenegro. While it’s not all candy canes and unicorns – nowhere is – this place possesses a spirit that is nearly impossible for me to describe. People simply love to enjoy life here, and to appreciate the natural beauty and offerings that surround them.

Whether it’s homemade wine and rakija, or figs and olives straight from the tree, or making honey right in the garden, or simply sitting and talking and enjoying each other’s company, the soul of this place is something that grabs ahold of you and doesn’t really want to let go. And neither of us have any problem with that.

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