Augustus: The Other Voice of the Rock

«Ξένε, ποιος είναι ο τόπος σου, και ποιο 'ναι τ' όνομά σου;»

«Κι αν είμαι ακόμα στ' όνειρο, ξένος εγώ δεν είμαι·

βλέπω γαλάζια ακρογιαλιά κ' ελιές λιγνοϋφασμένες,

βλέπω και κάστρο, στο γυαλί να πέφτει του πελάγου».

Άγγελος Σικελιανός "ο Ξένος"

«Stranger, what is your homeland, and what is your name?»

«Though I may still be in a dream, I am no stranger:

I see blue shores and olive trees delicately woven,

I see a castle, falling into the mirror of the sea».

Aggelos Sikelianos "The Stranger'

Red fruit first.

Cherry, strawberry, crisp and fresh.

Without the weight you'd expect from a red wine, but with something more unexpected: fresh herbs, stone, a mineral tension that has nothing to do with how this variety usually speaks.

The fruit is there, alive, vertical — as if something beneath it keeps it standing upright.

On the palate, the texture is silky. The tannins are fine, almost discreet. The acidity is what speaks first — clear, bright, with an intensity you wouldn't expect from a red wine without weight.

This is the imprint of Augustus.

A variety that wasn't born here, and yet learned to speak the language of the place.

Avgoustiatis isn't a variety native to Samos. It has no historical connection to the island. Someone brought it here, planted it, and gave it the chance to see what would happen if it took root in soil entirely different from the one where it's traditionally known.

Augustus is the answer to that effort.

Not the usual Avgoustiatis.

A different version of it.

Augustus is born in the very same vineyard as Oriens — at 550 metres, on the eastern slopes of Karvounis, on schist and quartz.

And this is where the essence of the wine lies. The place doesn't change the variety.

It forces it to reveal another side of itself.

Harvest takes place in late August. The grapes are picked by hand and reach the winery whole.

Here begins a choice that shapes Augustus's entire character.

The whole clusters are placed in the concrete eggs, where they remain for one week of carbonic maceration.

Carbonic maceration wasn't chosen to add technical novelty to the wine. But to keep the Avgoustiatis young.

Fresh. Alive.

To keep the fruit clean and bright, to let the acidity breathe, and to create a red wine that doesn't weigh summer down, but belongs to it.

After the first week, the clusters are de-stemmed and gently pressed.

The must is split in two.

Half remains in the concrete eggs to preserve the purity of the fruit, the freshness, and the vertical mineral tension of the schist soil.

The other half moves into oak barrels.

There, it builds structure, texture, and length.

The concrete keeps the wine close to the fruit.

The oak gives it depth.

Once fermentation and maturation are complete, the two halves are brought back together.

Two different expressions of the same grape return to become one wine.

Freshness meets structure. Fruit meets texture. Rock meets time.

This is Augustus. A red wine, fresh, alive, full of energy.

At the table, this freshness lets Augustus go where a red wine usually doesn't dare.

Tuna. Tuna tartare. Caviar. Dashi. Tamarind.

Dishes with acidity, umami, sea salinity, and delicate richness.

The dashi and caviar meet the wine's mineral tension. The tamarind converses with its lively acidity and fresh fruit. The wine's silky texture embraces the tuna's buttery texture.

To reveal its liveliness, serve Augustus lightly chilled, at 14–15°C.

A summer red for a table where wine doesn't need to follow the rules of its own colour.

Augustus was one of Philia's first answers to a question that still occupies us:

What happens when a variety finds itself in a place it doesn't belong to?

Perhaps that's when real acquaintance begins.

Just 1,000 bottles.

A small vineyard.

A variety with no historical roots in Samos.

And a rock that taught it a new language.

Augustus means that sometimes the most interesting place isn't the one you were born in.

It's the one where you learned to speak differently.