Mini-Memory on the Millennium Trail

Editor’s Note: Ann continues her journey in Canada to find her roots. Her “Mini-Memories” could all be full length stories. 

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I was exploring the countryside where my mother’s ancestors homesteaded in Ontario, Canada. It was hot: mid- 80s and muggy. Despite that, I rented a light green curvaceous Townie bicycle and pedaled west from Wellington, parallel to the north shore of Lake Ontario, but a bit inland so I couldn’t quite see the Great Lake. I could however hear the surf. I also heard squawks and looked up to see white sea birds and occasionally ospreys and egrets.

There were no cars to worry about because I was pedaling on a packed gravel path — the remains of an old railroad between Trenton, and the farms and hamlets of Prince Edward County, Ontario. They opened it in the year 2000, hence the name Millennium Trail.

On an 1863 map of landowners I could see the farms of my ancestors: three Quaker brothers who had claimed land on the shore and the nearby farms of their descendants. I was close but couldn’t get there; the roads in between my path and the farms were too busy with tourists driving between wineries. My bike trail was almost deserted; I saw only a total of four other people in hours of pedaling.

I passed many healthy farms raising the familiar wheat and corn, but also meticulously tended grape vines. It occurred to me that I could stop by one of these wineries on the way back, but close to Wellington, so I wouldn’t have far to pedal “home,” slightly impaired, to my AirBnB above the tattoo parlor.

I did find the perfect winery. I was drenched with sweat and a little wobbly on my legs after hours on a bicycle seat. I pulled in and smiled to see a little flock of colorful bikes near the tasting room door. I added mine to the flock and opened the door to see a crowd of chattering people with their “flights” of small wine servings. The buzz of conversation and laughter overwhelmed me after all my solo pedaling so I almost turned away. Then I realized I could just get one small glass of their special wine and take it outside to sip.

There were wooden picnic tables set out under billowing yellow sunshades. Nobody else was outside. So I got my white wine and settled on a shaded picnic table right by the grape vines. I was soooo tired.

I tasted the wine and suddenly was transported to the moment I first tasted a wine that I liked. I remembered its long, fun-to-say-name: Oppenheimer Krotenbrunnen Spatelese. I was only 14 and my dad, who liked wine, had occasionally given me sips of whatever wine he was drinking. I always thought they tasted terrible, too sour and yucky. I could not imagine why anyone would like wine. To be nice, I took a taste anyway.

This was a totally different sip! My dad, with his short-cropped greyish hair, brightened up with his affectionate smile. He knew me well and recognized my amazement. His blue-grey eyes sparkled and crinkled around the edges. “Good, isn’t it!” he laughed. This moment fastened in my brain and has always been there to jump up to the surface and surprise me with its vividness.

Under the awning at the winery the combination of the taste of this golden wine, the heat, my fatigue, and the vivid memory caused tears to form and trickle down my cheek. I was all alone in a beautiful place so I just savored the moment and let the tears fall as they may.

Suddenly there was a crunch of foot on gravel behind me and a young woman walked up and asked how I liked the wine. As she looked into my face, she saw the tears and stopped.

“Are you ok?” She asked.

“Yes, I am just feeling nostalgic and missing my dad right now.”

“Has he passed away?” she asked anxiously and sat on the bench on the other side of the table.

“Yes, about 40 years ago, but I still miss him.”

“Did he like wine?”

“Yes” and I told her about the memory. I asked about her, and learned that she was the head vine grower there. I was impressed and asked her how she learned about this complicated career. She had graduated from the “School of Wine, Beer and Spirits” at Niagara College. I was amazed that there was such a thing.

She was just walking by to check a valve of the irrigation system when she saw me and took the time to talk. She knew her grape vines which were young and just getting established. She wondered if someday some young person would have the same sort of epiphany I did when they tasted the wine from her grapes. She was happy. She gave me a warm smile and a wink and bustled on to tend her green and growing charges.

Now here is another memory hooked onto my first sip of Oppenheimer Krotenbrunnen Spatelese.

Copyright © 2025 by Ann Sigford