The sun setting over the Parthenon (Photo: Scott Barber/Getty Images)
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Never before have so many people wanted to spend their days visiting vineyards and writing about the fascinating subject of wine. Yet somehow, this profession (or should we say calling?) is in crisis. Perhaps it always has been. But as wine publications struggle for revenue and big tech platforms further squeeze visibility and traffic, the fragmentation of quality voices continues. The effect is to disperse the critical mass of engaged readers. With AI looming menacingly, raising the bar on quality is crucial to survival.
Given these risks, perhaps delving into early 20th-century British travel writing is a little too extravagant. Dwelling on the beautiful words of cultured gentlemen who endlessly expressed their satisfaction with the great works of the ancient world is usually at odds with the constant noise of notifications and emails, the need for a constant stream of content and invoices.
But this predicament presents an opportunity for a wonderful exploration of some of the genre's more literary and erudite texts; often harmless misadventures, exuding the personality that makes such writings timeless. So, categorizing my investigation as research and momentary escapism, I embarked on Robert Bryan's iconic “The Road to Oxiana.”
Published in 1937, the book chronicles Byron's journey across the Levant and the Middle East. While Byron's self-deprecating tone will inevitably resonate more appropriately with a British readership, it is widely regarded as a masterpiece, balancing witty recollection with sharp observation. His sensual prose vividly depicts exotic landscapes and captures the essence of people and places.
Though the author's primary interest lies in the great monuments of Islam, his deep knowledge is handled with care and diluted with fascinating diary entries that record the trials and tribulations of a colorful and unpredictable journey. Clearly, the author is well versed in his field and is able to marshal scholarly commentary, but it is merely background, a means of maintaining order so that his comic characters do not infringe on the intended atmosphere. For Byron, the architecture (one might read the wine) is the reason for the journey, but it is never the story.
Henry Wollam Morton is also one of the preeminent travel writers of a bygone era, despite the hints of a fearsome character. Over the past few days I have had the hard time finishing A Traveller in Southern Italy (1969). Though less poetic, it is similar in form. His fascination with the lives of saints motivates his explorations, but his writing draws unobtrusively from wellsprings of knowledge, and he is adeptly aware of the importance of peeling back the curtain and taking a clear stand.
Inevitably, the subject of wine offers rich material for writers, with many areas for expertise. For me, the most compelling and most age-worthy wine writing inspires and evokes, like the best travel writing; it connects on an emotional level and makes you crave the experience. Simply put, the best books about wine are often not actually about wine—at least, not entirely.
The great American author Paul Theroux said, “Travel writing begins with journalism, moves to fiction, and ends with autobiography.” When I recall the light and elegant columns of Hugh Johnson and Michael Broadbent, I am reminded of Hemingway's words: “When a writer knows well enough about what he is writing about, he can omit what he knows. The movement of an iceberg is dignified because only one-ninth of it is above the water.”