Despite my assurances, everyone thinks we will be late. We are in Sicily, so we cannot be late. In Italy late is a relative term; in Sicily it does not exist in any meaningful sense. But it does give me an excuse to coax whatever power I can from the balky drivetrain of our Fiat 500L and ply the Etnean roads between lunch and our next vineyard visit with more alacrity than my traveling companions would generally tolerate.

So only five minutes after our appointed arrival time we are at Ciro Biondi’s winery. To me, this place is the stuff of legend. Flip to the New Year/New Wine chapter of Robert Camuto’s Palmento and read about Ciro and his tweedy jacket and fantastic wine. Or go there, if you are as lucky as I was.

The afternoon has crystalized in the alabaster light of Sicilian October. Ciro greets us in royal blue pants and a crisp button-up, his boots and handshake the only things that betray how hard he works. He is charming and his eyes twinkle, his wit is quick and leans toward the self-effacing. With him we tromp through terraced vineyards and up lava-stone steps, land his family has owned for at least 500 years. He points out a caldera, it last erupted 2000 years ago. The one over there is a little newer.

We settle in to drink some wine at Cisterna Fuori, named for the ancient well that sits in the vineyard. We are in the land of the Greeks. The outdoor dining area is decorated with artifacts found amongst the vines. “It is,” Ciro remarks with a wink, “a dick.” We drink through wines from vineyards as old as these relics: Cisterna Fuori, Chianta. And Outis, named for Odysseus’s exploits on these slopes. The cyclopes living here asked his name and he replied “Outis” meaning “no one”, nessuno. The wines are at once as wild as this place and as clever and refined as their vintner. Terroir and personality and moment and arduous process become liquid.

The golden sky turns smoky violet-gray. Evening begins. he wine encourages us to linger on. Our itinerary says we’ve spent too much time here, but, again, we are not late. Time, as it has here for millenia, remains immutable.