“I want to visit a winery while we’re in Oregon,” I told Harry. “Oregon pinot noir is supposed to be the best.”

We had stopped at a Red Roof Inn in central Oregon the night before, both of us too tired to search for more inspiring lodging. After a hotel breakfast of toaster waffles and artificially flavored maple syrup, I got behind the Bug’s wheel.

“See any wineries?” I asked.

The Willamette Valley in northern Oregon boasts some of the richest soil in the country for growing wine grapes. Over millions of years, erosion, floods, and volcanoes spewing basaltic lava have created fertile terroir. In other words, wine grapes eat it up.

“I’ll keep an eye out.” Harry likes wine but drinks only white—with ice. Not exactly an oenophile.

We were only twenty miles from Portland, and I worried that we’d get into Washington without finding wine. Northern Oregon tends to be cool, whereas Washington wineries are higher and dryer. Both produce good wine, but I prefer Oregon’s pinot noir to Washington’s cabernet.

“There.” Harry pointed to a sign for Aurora Colony Vineyards. It was not quite noon, but I figured we could buy a bottle of wine to enjoy later.

I’ve never been more mistaken.

The Aurora Colony office and tasting room sits beside acres of flourishing grapevines in straight, obedient-soldier lines. Ponds, gardens, lawns, and walking paths surround the building. The grounds are a popular wedding venue, perfect for receptions that feature Aurora’s wine.

The cavernous tasting room has a baby grand piano at one end and a bar at the other. Wine glasses hang upside down from a rack above the bar. We stood a minute before a cherubic fellow with a wide grin came out and greeted us.

“My name’s Jerry.” He stuck out his hand and shook each of ours. “There’s no charge for tasting.” He set two wine glasses in front of us.

I wanted to taste only the pinot noir, scoop up a bottle and be on our way. But Jerry said we should start with their sparkling wine and poured a shot-glass amount into each of our goblets. I looked around for a spit bowl, which I’ve seen at other wineries in order to avoid getting tipsy while tasting. There was no bowl on the bar—so I swallowed.

The sparkling wine was good, yes, but champagne makes me giddy and, besides, it was $35 a bottle. No thank you.

Next was a sparkling rose, which was too sweet for my taste. Then Jerry moved us on to the whites, pinot gris first. I don’t often drink white wine—the flavor too sharp on my tongue—but Harry hummed his appreciation. The Wedding Blend, a rather saccharine white, held some promise, even though neither of our thirty-something sons is close to popping the question to his significant other. I drank in hope, toasting their potential nuptials.

There followed a sauvignon blanc and a chardonnay. I kept asking for reds, but our sommelier instructed us to be patient. We had to go in the order that would most advantage the tongue, Jerry advised.

My tongue by that point was getting rather thick.

The pinot rose was too pallid for me, too fruity. It might do well on a hot summer afternoon, but March’s chill was still on the vines.

Finally—ta-da!—a pinot noir. The Burgundy clones, Jerry told us, were planted eight years earlier. Even bleary-eyed, I enjoyed the peppery cherry flavor and the earthy tones. Pinot noir is a delicate red but no bargain at $28 a bottle. Nevertheless, I figured I could spring for a one or even two as a souvenir of our visit to Oregon.

Harry licked his lips at the pinot noir, but when Jerry uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon—or was it merlot—he declined. Both full-bodied reds were grown in Washington State, and I had a taste of each. I’m not a fan of the syrah that followed and put my hand over my glass. At least I think I did.

In between tastes, I nibbled crackers to soak up the alcohol, which didn’t help much. At some point the vineyard owner appeared and asked us where we were headed. Harry opened his tablet and showed the fellow pictures of the beautiful lamp we were delivering to Seattle.

The vintner raised his eyebrows. “The lamp would look good on the piano for events at the vineyard.”

I looked at the tasting room piano and agreed that the lamp would be stunning there with its lighted base and stained glass roof.

“I’ll trade you a case of wine for it,” the vintner said. “Worth four hundred dollars.”

Harry valued the lamp at twice that. He shook his head. “Nope. We’re taking it to Seattle.”

I was glad he still had his wits about him. Mine had deserted me at the pinot rose.

After we finished with a taste of syrupy Madison, which sells for $35 a bottle—quite nice but I had no interest in a dessert wine—I told Jerry that I’d like to purchase two bottles of the pinot noir.

“Why not a case?” he asked. “We’ll give you a good deal if you buy a case.”

“Can’t fit a case into the Bug,” I said. “It’s jam packed with the lamp and camping gear.”

“I’ll bet you can squeeze a case in,” he responded. “Let me have a look.”

“No, no,” I insisted. “Just two bottles.” But Harry was following him out to the parking lot, case of wine in Jerry’s arms. He opened the Bug’s trunk and through the window I saw Jerry shift some things about. Then the trunk closed and the two men came back empty-handed.

Harry grinned. “We got it in,” he said.

I slipped my credit card across the counter, not sure what I had just purchased. I believe there were a few bottles of pinot noir and several of the white wedding wine. Twelve bottles with tax totaled over $300, even with the bulk discount.

Once we were back in the Bug, Harry wisely behind the wheel this time, I realized the brilliance of the sales pitch. Get the customers a bit snockered and then charm them into buying lots of wine. It’s a good thing we didn’t have room for two cases.

I must say, though, the wines were awfully good. Once we were back at home, the half dozen bottles of pinot noir were the first to disappear. Harry drank most of the whites, and we split the last bottle of wedding wine on our anniversary. All in all, from what I am able to remember, the vineyard was well worth the stop.