We didn’t mean to end up in wine country. Not in the way people plan for it, at least. No careful itinerary, no list of must-visit wineries, no pretentious dreams of swirling glasses and nodding knowingly.
It happened because of a wrong turn.
One minute we were following the coast, the next we were rolling through hills so green they could’ve been stolen from Ireland. Vineyards everywhere. Old stone farmhouses half-swallowed by vines. The Atlantic peeking through the gaps like it was waiting for us to notice.
And that’s how we found ourselves at a tiny family-run Albariño winery, entirely by accident.
Kevin, naturally, was thrilled.
“This is fate,” he declared, pulling into the gravel driveway like we’d had this planned all along.
I checked my phone. No service.
“I think it’s just your bad navigating.”
But fine. We were here. We were surrounded by rolling vineyards and the promise of wine. There were worse places to be.
The “Tour”
Now, when you picture a vineyard tour, maybe you imagine a sophisticated guide in a crisp shirt, leading you through rows of vines, explaining soil composition and fermentation techniques.
That’s not what happened.
What happened was a man named Antonio, wearing a sun-bleached polo shirt and a permanent squint, appearing from behind a tractor and waving us inside.
“No tour,” he said. “Just wine.”
Kevin almost hugged him.
Antonio led us into a dimly lit stone building where the air smelled like damp barrels and something vaguely floral. He set down three glasses, poured the first round of Albariño, and gestured for us to drink.
It was cold, crisp, citrusy. Like drinking sunshine mixed with ocean air.
Kevin swirled his glass like he knew what he was doing. “I’m getting… peach.”
Antonio raised an eyebrow. “Lemon.”
Kevin nodded like that was what he meant all along.
The “Tasting” Turns Into a Situation
The thing about Albariño is that it’s dangerously drinkable. The kind of wine that tastes like a light afternoon refreshment but sneaks up on you when you stand up too fast.
Kevin, fully committed to the experience, had several generous refills. I paced myself, mostly because I was still trying to work out where we actually were.
At some point, a group of people arrived. Dressed nicely. Laughing. Someone in a white dress.
“Is this a wedding?” I whispered.
Kevin squinted at them, nodded sagely. “Or a very aggressive family reunion.”
Antonio, entirely unfazed, poured more wine.
Five minutes later, Kevin was offering tasting notes to a confused elderly woman who may or may not have been someone’s grandmother.
“Best vintage yet,” he told her, despite having absolutely no idea what year it was.
She patted his arm. Said something rapid in Galician. Walked away.
That’s when I decided it was probably time to leave.
Zamburiñas & The End of The Road
We stumbled out of the vineyard and into the quiet, sun-drenched countryside. Somewhere, a dog barked. The air smelled like salt and vines and something frying in olive oil.
“Food,” I said.
Kevin, now deeply philosophical about the experience, nodded. “Food is the key to everything.”
We found a tiny restaurant overlooking a ria—one of the many estuaries that make this part of Galicia look like the land has been half-drowned by the Atlantic.
They brought us zamburiñas. Little Galician scallops, grilled with garlic and olive oil. No nonsense. No unnecessary garnish. Just pure, salty perfection.
Kevin took a bite. Stared at me like he’d seen God.
I tried one.
Okay. Fine. It was incredible.
We sat there for a long time, watching the sun slip lower over the water, listening to the sound of plates clinking, of fishermen calling out to each other in a language I barely understood.
And I realized something.
This whole trip—the wrong turns, the unplanned stops, the ridiculous situations Kevin always seems to stumble into—this is exactly how it’s supposed to be.
Messy. Unscripted. Full of unexpected wine and accidentally crashing weddings.
Kevin raised his glass, now filled with water because we still had to find the van.
“To getting lost,” he said.
I clinked my glass against his.
“To never knowing where the hell we’re going.”
