Majestic By D.
Google
Travels have led me to Spain on more than a few occasions. One particular night, after too many free-pour margaritas, I found myself singing in the cobbled streets of Barcelona at some godforsaken hour. But that’s Spain - chaotic, beautiful, alive in all the right ways.
And yet here I am, halfway across the world, sitting at Rustico at Hay Shed Hill in the Margaret River, and it feels… familiar. The same warmth. The same reckless joy of eating and drinking like the world might end tomorrow.
My wife has orchestrated the evening — a celebration, she says. Sixty-six laps around the sun. I’ll drink to that. We choose the dégustation: five courses, eight tapas, and a dessert that feels like a slow, sweet goodbye.
The Tempura Exmouth tiger prawns arrive, golden and crisp, kissed by the sea and dressed with preserved lemon and saffron aioli — the kind of dish that makes you forget conversation. Then comes the Timber Hill pork jowl civet, smoky and rich, paired with picada and tortilla, a rustic nod to the Spanish countryside. It’s the sort of food that makes you want to lean back, loosen your belt, and toast the chef.
Outside, the vineyard rolls out like the hills of Catalonia, and for a moment you could almost believe you’re there - basking under a Mediterranean sun, drunk on life and Rioja.
So, don’t miss the Margaret River by not going to Spain. Because sometimes, Spain finds you - in a vineyard, a meal, or a glass raised to another year gone by.
