On Santorini the vine is coiled into a kouloura, a low basket woven from its own canes that shelters the grapes inside from the meltemi wind and the glare. Phylloxera never survived the island's ash and pumice, so the vines are ungrafted, growing on their own roots — root systems that, renewed cane by cane, can be centuries old.
Wine has sailed from here for millennia; in more recent centuries the island's sun-dried Vinsanto travelled north, prized at the courts of the tsars and by the Orthodox church. Assyrtiko, bone-dry and saline off the waterless volcanic soil, has become one of the Mediterranean's most admired whites — while tourism, hungry for land, now disputes every terrace with the vineyard.