In the early 1980s — the vintage year of this guide — my story with wine began, long before I was aware of it.

It started with my maternal grandfather, José Maria. A subsistence farmer, a miller by trade, a winemaker by vocation. A few years earlier, he had planted a small vineyard in the Avanteira valley, a fertile place with generous sun and water. The vineyard existed for family wine, for celebration, for gathering around the table.

I grew up walking those vineyards, fields and pine trees alongside him, learning to respect the land and everything it quietly gives back. Harvest time was the high point of the year: family coming together, grapes picked at dawn, carted to the local cellar, shared lunches and long afternoons in the winery.

That was where my first olfactory memory was born — the sweet scent of fermenting must filling the small, cool, shadowed cellar next to the house.

More than wine, it was time.
It was place.
It was family.

To be continued.