Tuesday, July 27, 2021

Wine for the King of England

The museum of Vatopedi monastery on Mount Athos has manuscripts, icons, crucifixes and many other priceless treasures of the last thousand years. Among them is a pink and green tin that contained a slice of the wedding cake of Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles. It is empty as the abbot ate the cake. Prince Charles has been coming on private visits to Athos for many years. He is a celebrity among the monks and not just those of Vatopedi, as we discovered when four of us were billeted at a smaller monastery as part of the annual path-clearing project of the Friends of Mount Athos.

Father George was a useful man to know as he was the cellar master. One evening in the cool of his cellar we sat around a table among massive barrels with a tin of smoked fish and a jug of decent red from a demi-john the gift of a Transylvanian well-wisher, in thanks for a successful intercession to the Virgin, whose icon is a treasure of the monastery. We did not suspect that he harboured a special mission for us.


“You must know that Saint George comes in person to the abbot once or twice a year to see how he is getting on.”

“Very considerate of him.”

“Of course. Two years ago Saint George visited the abbot and said he must make wine for King Charles of England. You know Saint George loves England too,” said Father George.

“Oh yes. His flag is everywhere.”

“On churches.”

“On football shirts.”

“But he is Prince Charles. Not King.”

“A great country must have a King,” said Father George.

“We have a Queen.”

“Of course but that is a woman. The ruler should be a man. Byzantium had two emperors. England can have a King and a Queen.”

“Fair enough.”

“The abbot gave me the blessing to help him make the wine for King Charles as I am in charge of the cellar. We had a novice to help us. The three of us picked the best grapes with our hands. We pressed it down here. See, there is the press. And there is the barrel. It is ready now. It is organic for the health of the King.”

“Do you use sulfites? Or do you rack it?” I asked.

“Nothing,” said Father George.

How do you stop the fermentation?”

“Of course when wine gets to fourteen degrees it kills all the bacteria and the fermentation stops. You must taste.”


Father George picked up a glass jug, rinsed it under the tap and took it over to a 100 litre wooden cask lying on its side with a crown chalked on the front. It had been tapped and Father George turned the spigot. This was not going to be pleasant. I have experience of wine-making. With my friend Panayis we made 5-600 litres a year in my cellar in South London with grapes from Covent Garden Market. I suspected this would be strong as sherry and tasting of dead mouse with hints of camel urine and fartleberry. Father George filled our glasses and invited us with a flourish to sup the royal brew. After sniffing, holding up to the light, a loyal toast to Charles, England and Saint George, anything to put off the moment of truth, we steeled ourselves not to pucker and sipped the littlest of sips. Then swigged. Swigged again. Held out our glasses for more. It was excellent.


“You must take it to the King,” said Father George.

“How, Father? How do we get that barrel to London? Through the customs of several countries? We can’t take it on a plane. You need a shipping company.”

“We have tried. They will not take it. It is not certified. You must help us. The abbot is most anxious. What will he say to Saint George? Take some bottles.”

“We can’t turn up at King Charles’s palace with bottles of home-made wine. Monastery made, I mean. They have security. They’ll want to know what’s in it.”

“Of course. Wicked people wish to poison the King. That is normal. We will send a letter with the seal of the abbot. When the butler opens the door of the palace you will give the wine to him and he will taste it before he gives it to the King.”

He looked so expectant, so imploring. He was under pressure from his boss and his boss’s boss, Saint George.

“We can take two bottles each. That’s all we are allowed.”


Relief and happiness flooded over Father George’s face. He chose eight dark green bottles from a bin of empties and gave them a good rinse. He opened a new packet of corks and dragged out a floor-standing corker. We gathered round the spigot and filled the bottles, with hearty tastes to make sure the quality was consistent. Each of us had a turn corking two bottles and took photos to prove it. Father George found a roll of yellow masking tape and a felt-tip to make labels that he wrote out in elegant ecclesiastical script. Finally we tore up cardboard boxes for packaging that we sealed with the tape. 

Two months later three of us turned up at Clarence House, Prince Charles’s official residence, to deliver the wine to his private office. They were kindly received by some very senior staff and a letter of thanks signed by His Royal Highness was sent to the abbot. I hope somebody got to drink the wine. It was rather good. 

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