Traveling alone to faraway places to live with strangers who speak a language that is not your own, all to make wine might sound like a daunting affair. But work looks the same in every language and there is no bonding agent stronger than long days of physical labor. That is how I met Zita, Erika’s cellar master, agronomist and wine watchwoman. We did not share a spoken language so we communicated through signs, smiles, exchanging chocolates or understanding glances. 

I initially mistook Zita for a shy person, and it was not until I got into her Lada, cruising through Erdőbénye, that I realized my mistake. At every crossroad, people shouted “Szia, Zita!”. As it turns out, Zita is a celebrity. Not only is she the first female cooper in Hungary, she is one of the best - with a wall of medals to prove it. Her family has been crafting barrels from Hungarian wood for generations, vessels mainly used to store and age pálinka, Hungary’s fierce national spirit. 

That night, Zita invited me to meet her parents. Their whole house smelled of ripe fruit. Baskets of plums, apricots, pears and cherries spilled over every surface, waiting to be mashed, fermented and distilled into a strong liquor best consumed in quick shots and paired with roaring laughter. Zita’s parents did not speak English either. 

While Zita went to pour us a glass of her dad's pálinka, I browsed the gigantic bookshelf lining their living room wall. My eyes stopped on a series of black book spines with names of famous classic painters. How was it possible that here, in a tiny village in eastern Hungary, I was looking at the exact same art encyclopedia collection my grandmother used to have in Flanders? I tried my best to explain that I recognised those books.

I do not know if it was the sudden rush of memory, the warmth of the pálinka or sheer harvest fatigue, but my eyes began to water. Zita’s mom hugged me tightly in a way that only mothers can. When she let go, she said: “Here, home”.

It would be too cheesy to say that Nova Radix is about bottling that exact feeling. But if you ever open a bottle, and find that the wine looks, smells or behaves a little differently than what you are used to, I hope you taste what I tasted that night: a universal sense of home.