2. Pinot Recon: Martinborough Wineries

Apr 27

Apr 27, 2025

[Mission Log #002: Pinot Recon – Urban Extraction Required]

The day began at 3:30AM, when my brain—still operating on Eastern Standard Betrayal Time—decided that sleep was for cowards.

I lay there blinking into the darkness, contemplating my life choices, jet lag, and whether I had officially turned into an airport cryptid.

Thankfully, after an hour of existential dread, I managed to fall back asleep for a bit and woke up at a far more reasonable, semi-human hour.

When I eventually emerged from our hotel room, I had the strange and delightful realization that I had nowhere urgent to be.

No security lines.

No screaming overhead announcements.

No frantic sprinting to a gate as a uniformed agent closes the door in my face.

Just me, my husband John, and the siren call of a slow hotel breakfast.

Breakfast at the Rydges Hotel turned out to be a cultural adventure all its own.

I made the tragic mistake of asking for coffee with cream—a perfectly normal, innocent request in Canada—and was immediately treated like I had asked for a unicorn smoothie.

Turns out, in New Zealand, “cream” is for desserts, not coffee.

They use milk.

They do not acknowledge our North American addiction to hi-fat, guilt-ridden half-and-half.

Also, their coffee isn’t “filtered” like our basic diner drip; it’s espresso-based, rich, strong, and judgmental.

Food-wise, breakfast was like crashing a very polite British fever dream.

There were eggs and sausages (familiar), blood pudding (less familiar, suspiciously dark), and fruits like stewed apricots and poached pears, which made me feel like I had wandered into a Jane Austen novel but somehow still in my husband’s sweatpants (wearing his clothes due to not having any of mine).

And then there was Marmite.

Friends: Marmite is not molasses.

Marmite is an evil, salty paste that tricks your mouth and your hopes and dreams. One tiny taste and I understood 400 years of British emotional repression.

By 9:30AM, John and I were standing outside the hotel where salvation pulled up in the form of Simon, our guide from Zozo Wine Tours.

Simon arrived in a cute little van, smiled warmly, and within three minutes proved himself to be the most knowledgeable man in New Zealand, if not the world.

You could ask Simon about literally anything—grape varietals, tectonic plates, Māori history, the agricultural policies of 19th-century sheep farmers—and he would casually drop a TED Talk-level explanation without blinking.

Joining our micro-squad was Mina, a lovely solo traveler from Japan, who was somehow already better dressed and more charming than both of us combined.

We left Wellington behind, heading northeast into the hills, winding past Kaitoke Regional Park (aka “Middle-earth Lite”) into Pakuratahi, and then over the Rimutaka Range.

As Simon drove us through the winding mountain roads, he explained the area’s deep Māori roots: this land was part of the great journeys of the original Polynesian settlers who navigated thousands of kilometers across the Pacific Ocean in canoes. Just incredible.

At one point, as we looked across the valley, Simon pointed out a formation on the distant hills:

Three overturned canoe shapes on the horizon, symbolic representations of the waka (canoes) of Māori ancestors who arrived in New Zealand centuries ago.

The way they sat on the skyline was surreal, like nature had left landmarks for future generations to remember their courage and sheer, insane bravery.

I honestly felt a little emotional thinking about it, which was inconvenient because I hadn’t even had my first glass of Pinot Noir yet.

The Māori people are truly amazing.

We descended into the wide-open Martinborough Valley, where the air smelled suspiciously clean, and the wineries looked like they had been hand-placed by a very generous and mildly tipsy god. Apparently, a long time ago an earthquake raised the valley 6 feet which turned it from a watery swamp to a farmable area.

And as the van rolled up to our first winery, the sun shining, Simon narrating, and my luggage still lost somewhere in the Pacific Rim—I realized:

I was having one of the best days of my life.

A little more wrinkled.

A little more humbled.

But exactly where I was meant to be.

Our first stop was Poppies Winery, owned and operated by Poppy and her husband Shayne, who seem to be local legends.

The vineyard was stunning in a low-key, “We don’t have to try too hard, we’re naturally fabulous” way.

Simon, our fearless wine shaman (who at this point I’m convinced knows literally every single grape and human in the valley by name), gave us all the juicy insider details:

Poppy trained in viticulture and winemaking in Marlborough before creating her own mini-empire here.
Their philosophy? Minimal intervention, maximum flavor.
Their Sauvignon Semillon was a standout—crisp, textural, a little floral—and not to be confused with the Silmarillion, despite what my Tolkien-warped brain kept trying to auto-correct.

From there, we rolled into Moy Hall Wines, a cozy, family-run estate where the vibe was casual perfection.

The harvest had just wrapped up (April is end-of-season here), so the vines were lazy and relaxed, their work for the year officially complete.

There’s something extra romantic about vineyards in the post-harvest glow—like they’re a little hungover but still looking great for pictures. The vines are mostly bare with some stray leaves.

We had lunch at Moy Hall, and I am not being dramatic when I say: divine.

I had the new season fig dish, studded with pomegranate jewels and creamy chèvre, all sitting on this gorgeous, rich labneh.

The local bread with rosemary butter and a sprinkle of flaky salt also deserves recreation at home.

There was absolutely no shame as I inhaled everything at a speed that alarmed even myself.

I noticed all the Moy Hall staff were wearing these super cute blue baseball hats with the vineyard’s name stitched across the front.

I wanted one.

I needed one.

Unfortunately, after a thorough search, the staff regretfully informed me they were sold out—normally they sell them like hotcakes, but today, the merch gods said no. No stock for me. I told them no problem—I would just order one online.

Cue me wandering out by the vines with Mina, plucking the few leftover grapes that had dried on the vine (if you have not eaten half-wild raisined grapes under a New Zealand sun, I’m sorry, but you haven’t lived).

And that’s when Meg, one of the vineyard team, came over like an absolute legend and said,

“Hey, it’s my last day. I’m never going to wear this hat again. Do you want it?”

I melted.

I accepted.

It felt like this woman was literally giving me the shirt off her back. Considering I now have one T-shirt to my name, the simple gesture was something I’ll never forget.

Most importantly: the hat looks so cute on me.

That hat is now my most prized possession, and I plan to be buried with it.

Finally, we wrapped the day with a visit to Palliser Estate Winery, one of Martinborough’s pioneering estates.

They’ve been doing incredible work since the 1980s, and are basically a case study in how to make the most elegant Pinot Noir this side of Middle Earth. Their Pinot Noir… stunning. My mind was blown by the Sauvignon Blanc. John loved the Riesling. We got a bottle of each.

We tasted through beautiful wines while Simon casually explained things like soil structure, canopy management, and why Martinborough’s cool-climate and dry autumn make it basically Pinot Noir’s spiritual home.

I smiled and nodded wisely, swirling my glass like a seasoned sommelier, while internally still thinking about that hat gesture. So incredibly kind.

After all that wine-soaked glory, we rolled back into Wellington around mid afternoon—and I was immediately hit with the harsh reminder that I still owned exactly one outfit.

Knowing the stores here close at 5PM (early, as if the whole city collectively decided to respect their own need for pajamas), I bolted out on a shopping spree for essentials.

Because, breaking news: