They say the flower only opens for those who wait. Ornithogale doesn’t rush. It draws you in like a half-remembered dream—stone fruit and citrus peel brushed with wildflowers, then something deeper: beeswax, almond skin, the faint breath of cool stone after rain.
This Chardonnay is myth in motion. Lean but fleshy, it moves like water over skin—tension under silk, purity laced with just enough grip to make you shiver. There’s no oak dressing, no overworked flourish—just fruit, acid, and a raw, glowing honesty that feels almost too intimate to name.
Best savoured with grilled white asparagus, soft cheeses wrapped in leaves, or a late afternoon where the light stays just a little too long.
