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It appears that Bull Run is getting its own vineyard:

The wine country of southwestern Fairfax County is continuing to expand.

The county’s second winery, the Winery at Bull Run in Centreville, will open its doors to the public this weekend, joining Clifton’s Paradise Springs Winery in bringing the Virginia wine industry closer to home to those who live in the District and the inner suburbs.

Given the location adjacent to the Manassas National Battlefield Park, winery President Jon Hickox said it was important to him to incorporate and pay tribute to local history.

In addition to making local history a design theme for his winery, Hickox, who spent much of his childhood in the Burke area, said he wants to educate people about Virginia’s winemaking history and re-create the feel of agricultural life in 1800s Fairfax County.

“Virginia’s place in wine history is very little known or understood,” he said.

This presents an interesting quandary.  As regular friends of the decanter are well aware, ol’ Robbo is something of an armchair history shark, with the Civil War being one of his points of interest.  So anything that promotes greater knowledge of such matters ought to raise an enthusiastic “Cheerio!” from him.

On the other hand, said friends will also be aware that, as fond as I am of the Great Commonwealth of Virginny, I have always held deeply negative views of the wine produced here.  (The words “over-priced cough syrup” usually float across my braims when I contemplate it.)  So color me summat dubious about this venture.

All in all, though, I suppose that if, while I was strolling about the Bull Run battlefield, somebody were to hand me a glass o’ the grape bottled just next door, I wouldn’t say no.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Last evening as we were watching our beloved Nats hang on to take the Mets in 12 innings, the middle gel started chatting at me about some new roller-coaster or other opening up down to Busch Gardens that she’s eager to try.

This got me noodling a bit on the fact that I have not a single thrill-seeking bone in my body.  I have never, ever had the inclination to ride roller-coasters like the one touted by the gel.  Or to jump out of airplanes.  Or to go bungee-jumping.  Or to risk my neck in any other fashion for the sheer gratuitous hell of it.   Similarly, I have never understood the allure of the horror genre of entertainment, of monsters and demons and chainsaw-wielding psychopaths.  (Just as an aside, what does it say about our culchah that an entire movie franchise has been built around the premise of people being forced to saw off their own limbs in order to escape the clutches of some demented sadist?)

Simply put, I don’t like being scared.

Not that I won’t face up to fear when necessary.  (Witness, for example, my well-known white-knuckled aversion to flying.  I hate it, but I do it anyway because I don’t have any choice.  And although I’ve no military experience whatsoever -this comes to mind because of the Normandy anniversary today- I like to think that if push came to shove and I ever found myself in combat, I would do my best to just get on with it.)

Rayther, I just don’t see the allure in going out of my way to experience it when I don’t have to.

I suppose there’s an argument that we’re all hard-wired with a fear-coping mechanism and that, in the absence of saber-toothed tigers, active volcanoes and marauding barbarians in most of our lives, it needs occasional airing in some other way, but I still can’t see the fun in it.

Perhaps this makes Robbo a dull boy in the eyes of some people, but there it is.


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June 2012