It’s fascinating to watch winemaker Zaza Kbilashvili dip a ladle into a massive clay vessel buried underground and extract some amber liquid.

He pours it into my glass and I take a sip, then cough appreciatively. I’m finally getting used to the robust, sometimes musty wines of Georgia, where semi-crushed grapes and their pips, stalks and skins are tipped into massive pots called qvevris and left to ferment naturally up to their necks in soil.

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