Dry January, after a moist Christmas, has its merits; dry February would be misguided. As every bird in the garden knows, reproductive overtures are suddenly urgent. They dart for twigs, moss and cobweb; we reach for wine. Agreed, it’s the courtship ritual itself that counts, but a little alcohol helps kindle and enable. Pints of IPA? Vodka martinis? I’m sure there are lifetime unions that took wing with both, but most of us prefer wine. Why?
Antecedence has created trust. Circe’s plot to detain Odysseus “in her beautiful bed” for a year called on Pramnian wine (The Odyssey); Horace tempted Phyllis, “my last love – for here I reach the end/Of loving, and no woman shall excite me/Ever again”, with the promise of a festal dinner chased down by a nine-year-old jar of Alban wine (The Odes of Horace, translated by James Michie). Two thousand years later, the same combination of food and choice, often time-softened wine has yet to be bettered as a seduction aid.
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