Wine has always existed somewhere between the real and the mythical.
Long before designations of origin, laboratory analyses, or tasting notes, people tried to explain wine through stories. The ancient Greeks believed the vine was a gift from the gods. Dionysus, the god of wine, traveled the world teaching how to cultivate the vine and transform grapes into something mysterious and alive. Wine was not just a beverage: it was a force linked to celebration, nature, and transformation.
But even the gods came after something older.
In Greek mythology, the Titans existed before the Olympian gods. They represented the primordial forces of the earth: the sun, the ocean, the sky, and the passage of time. They were not benign figures of civilization, but rather embodiments of nature's most powerful elements.
Viticulture, in many ways, continues to respond to those same forces.
Every vineyard begins with geology. The soil determines how the vines struggle, how deep their roots must search for water, and how the grapes ripen throughout the season. Long before the winemaker makes a decision in the cellar, the land has already begun to shape the wine.
In the Canary Islands, vines grow on volcanic soils formed by ancient eruptions: black ash, basalt, and solidified lava. These landscapes give rise to vibrant, energetic wines with a mineral tension and sometimes a slight saline note that seems to reflect the Atlantic winds.
In the Gredos Mountains, the story changes. There, the vineyards are planted on granite, quartz, and sometimes decomposed slate. Garnacha grown in these soils tends to display a lighter, more ethereal character, with a delicate aromatic expression that reflects the altitude and the stone.
Further north, in Ribeira Sacra, the vines cling to steep terraces of dark slate above the Miño and Sil rivers. In these dramatic landscapes, Mencía acquires a precise and vibrant character, with floral notes, fresh red fruit, and a pronounced mineral core.
And in Rioja Alavesa, the limestone and clay soils tell a different story. These vineyards typically produce wines with structure and tension, where depth and freshness coexist in perfect balance.
Today we use the word terroir to describe this relationship between the land and the wine. But the idea is much older. Long before the modern language of wine existed, people already understood that the land left its mark on what grew on it.
Many of today's most restless winemakers are simply returning to that idea: working old vineyards, cultivating local varieties, and intervening as little as possible in the winery so that each place can express itself clearly.
Perhaps that's why wine still retains something mythical about it.
Not because the gods still walk among the vineyards, but because each bottle is still shaped by the same forces that existed long before us: stone, earth, sun, and time.
And when we open a bottle from places like the Canary Islands, Gredos, Ribeira Sacra, or Rioja Alavesa, we're tasting more than just grapes. We're tasting landscapes, history, and the quiet work of those who believe that the land itself should speak.
In that sense, wine has not lost its myth.
It has simply returned to Earth.
