At harvest, the Hermitage hillside is a colorful scene bathed in a soft sunlight in which there is a suggestion of autumn’s arrival. The vine’s green foliage cascades from wooden stakes, but the impetuous growth of late spring and early summer has passed and the plant looks spent. The Syrah clusters are dark purple and so small, few, and far between you wonder (trying to get a foothold on the steep slope) at the effort that went into producing them. And then suddenly a bottle of Hermitage seems cheap.
