It’s finally October, a chill is creeping around the corner, but the enthusiasm for outdoor sports has not waned in Philadelphia.  The half marathon, marathon and Rocky Balboa run are coming up. The Eagles are winning. The cyclists are getting as many miles on the pavement before the sunset fades back to 4:00 pm. My ride home was chock full of runners and cyclists and I couldn’t wait to make it to my apartment.

It’s only Monday, but this week has been rough. My good friend Jill tells me Angels are all around me–I need to just pay attention.

I open my refrigerator and look on my shelf to find one cold bottle of Rose left in there.  The only bottle.  And of course, the name is “Whispering Angel” Caves d’Esclans.

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Fate, right? I think, but it’s only Monday, and then I think to my time in Ireland.  I think back to the tales of angels in and around whiskey, and realize all of these cultures and signs are telling me to open the bottle.  Even the bottle is telling me this, as the backside reads:

“In the Esclans Valley angels whisper.  If you drink this wine, you might hear them.” Uh, yeah–what’s not to love about that?

I’ll tell you.  You will not love the wine.  (At least I didn’t).  Provence, France, has produced some of the best roses I have ever had–this is not one of them.  High astringency replaces the thirsty notes of high acidity, masking the fruit and coming off more like musk.

Purchased in a good ol’ Wine and Spirits store in Philadelphia (maybe around the $16-$19 mark), I might give the Angels back their share.