Wine as slouch-hatted gaucho in tattered pants

Firstly- apologies on Tim's behalf for the lack of updates. He and I have both recently started full time jobs (he's fixing people, I'm licking rocks), and I guess we're slowly getting used to this 'work' concept we've heard so much about. Enough with excuses though- let's get on with it.

Imagine this: a limp-wristed, clean-nailed, quiche-eating effete ponce in a ruffled shirt, plus fours and golf shoes arrives at an rowdy outback pub and asks for a glass of ice water. This, give or take a burly man in a torn singlet, is what can happen if you go wine tasting in the Barossa Valley for the first time. You expect a mild day in the Autumn sun with some lovely wine, but it can get serious quickly when you come face to face with a broad shouldered shiraz blocking your path. Bold, rugged, rough edged and gravel-voiced, this is not a wine to be toyed with.

I grew up among these kind of bottled blokes, so on a recent trip to Argentina (purely in order to write this post) I was keen to head down Mendoza way and introduce myself to a bottle or two.