The Just One More Glass Georgia Wine Tour

You land in Tbilisi, slightly jet-lagged but optimistic and we greet you like a distant cousin who already knows you’re about to fall in love with this country after two glasses of Saperavi.

The drive into the city is your first clue this isn’t a standard wine trip. Wooden balconies lean at charmingly unsafe angles, church domes rise dramatically above tangled streets and somewhere in the background, a Lada overtakes you with the confidence of a man who has absolutely nothing to lose. Tbilisi doesn’t try to impress you. It just exists loudly.

After checking into your centrally located hotel, we ease into the adventure with a relaxed wander through the Old Town. We pause at Metekhi Church, perched confidently above the river like it has front-row seats to history, and cross the glowing curve of the Bridge of Peace, which looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie but somehow works perfectly here.

Dinner is at one of our favourite wine bars. The first glass is poured. Everyone behaves. Everyone swirls gently and nods as though they’ve been studying Georgian varietals for years. This politeness will not last. Consider this the calibration phase.

We head east into Kakheti, Georgia’s undisputed wine kingdom, responsible for roughly 75% of the country’s grapes. Imagine if Napa produced most of America’s wine and had 8,000 years of receipts to prove it.

Our first stop is Shumi Winery, a vast estate with over 300 hectares of vineyards and more than 400 indigenous grape varieties. Four hundred. At some point you’ll attempt to remember at least one name and quickly decide Saperavi is ambitious enough for the week. As you tour the grounds and taste their delicious wines, it becomes clear that Georgian wine isn’t trying to be trendy. It already did this first.

Next, we roll into Chubini Wine Cellar, tucked into the foothills of the Caucasus with sweeping views over the Alazani Valley that make even your phone camera feel emotional. Lunch arrives. The wine flows generously. Conversations lengthen. Someone begins explaining terroir with surprising conviction.

By the time we reach Eniseli Bagrationi, founded in the late 1800s and revived after surviving Soviet control, you’re tasting more than wine. You’re tasting survival. The reds are layered, the stories even more so, and the toasts start sounding slightly heroic.

We round out the day at Gremi Fortress, where 16th-century stone walls rise above the valley and you instinctively pose as if you personally negotiated peace treaties here. Overnight in wine country feels earned, like you’ve levelled up from casual taster to informed enthusiast.

The morning begins with hydration and bravery before we head to Khareba Winery, where tradition and modern technique combine in beautifully balanced wines that you now critique with unsettling confidence. Growth has occurred. You swirl with intention.

Then we arrive at the Demetrashvili family home, and any illusion of “just another lunch stop” disappears instantly. The kitchen hums, dough is flying, herbs are chopped at heroic speeds, and you’re suddenly learning to fold khinkali like it’s an Olympic event. Organic wines are poured freely, chacha appears without warning and a folk quartet starts playing as if the entire afternoon was choreographed by joy itself. At some point the granny dances. At some point you dance. It is unclear who wins. Georgia probably does.

Later, at Pheasant’s Tears Winery, you step into the world of natural wine and clay qvevri fermentation. The wines are earthy, expressive and a little rebellious. You begin using the word ‘funky’ with the confidence of someone who has absolutely no idea what it means but refuses to admit it.

We overnight in Sighnaghi, a hilltop town so romantic it practically hands you a sunset and says, “You’re welcome.”

Back on the road, we visit Giuaani Winery, where classic Georgian methods meet contemporary finesse. You taste calmly now. You have opinions. You express them.

At Vellino Winery, a young winemaker continues ancient qvevri traditions, handpicking grapes and tending clay vessels buried underground like treasured heirlooms. You peer into them respectfully, as if they might whisper life advice.

Then we detour to a traditional bakery in Badiuari, where you slap dough onto hot clay oven walls and produce fresh bread that tastes dangerously good when paired with wine. Flour dusts your clothes. No one cares. This is what travel should feel like.

The afternoon brings a mystery stop we refuse to spoil. Suspense is part of the seasoning. You arrive, you grin and you silently acknowledge that this is why guided tours are sometimes a very good idea.

Back to Tbilisi for the night, where the city now feels less foreign and more familiar — like a friend who insists on refilling your glass.

We begin at Uplistsikhe, an ancient rock-carved city perched dramatically above the Mtkvari River. Walking through chambers carved thousands of years ago, you feel history in a way no museum placard could ever explain. If local rules allow, a quiet sip overlooking the valley feels almost ceremonial.

Next comes the wonderfully bonkers Joseph Stalin Museum, where time seems to have paused in the Soviet era. It’s surreal, fascinating, and slightly unsettling in equal measure.

We soften the edges with a visit to Marani Winery, and then finish in spectacular fashion at Chateau Mukhrani, complete with castle, gardens, royal stories, and cellars deep enough to store both wine and the confident promises you made after the second glass.

The farewell dinner is louder, warmer and filled with stories that begin with “Remember when…” and end in laughter.

Georgia invented wine. You just spent five days proving it.

You wake up in Tbilisi with two realisations: You’re leaving today or Your luggage situation has become…theoretical.

The morning is yours. Some people go for a gentle coffee. Others go for “one last glass.” Nobody is judged.

At some point, the inevitable happens. You wander into a shop “just to look” and emerge 20 minutes later doing complex maths involving baggage allowances, emotional attachments to wine and whether socks are truly essential items. Extra suitcase? Obviously. Shipping wine home? Sensible in theory, ignored in practice.

You’ll spend your final hours strolling the streets like a seasoned local, pointing out wine bars you now refer to as “your place,” and casually dropping phrases like “I prefer qvevri, actually” to anyone who’ll listen.

The farewell moment arrives with hugs, laughter and at least one “we should definitely do this again” that, for once, people might actually mean.

You came for a wine tour. You leave with new friends, a suspicious number of bottles and the quiet confidence of someone who now believes they could host a Georgian feast at home