Grand Tour of Georgia 2026-27

Georgia: a European country, part of Central Asia, or of the Middle East?

For a long time Georgia has been a place of cultural and geographical contrasts. The country’s climate and landscape mark a meeting point between East and West; its history is a long succession of empires, invasions, skirmishes, wars and massacres. Yet this is also a nation defined by its instinct for survival and by the great appeal of its scenery, culture and food. Georgia is opening up to the world and, as civil tensions ease, the world is finally beginning to pay attention. Georgia gained its independence only a few years ago and, although the population’s standard of living has improved, the European standards the government aspires to have not yet been reached. Outside the capital, Tbilisi, tourist facilities are not highly developed, and many of the goods and services taken for granted in other countries are not yet available. Its culture has ancient roots and is shaped by a great many different influences, while its people combine traditional ways with a thoroughly modern outlook. The country’s culinary tradition is extremely rich.

Western Georgia, the Land of the Golden Fleece, the kingdom of Colchis.

The many finds unearthed in the area, the voyage made by Tim Severin in 1984 and, above all, the practice still followed today in the highland region of Svaneti of extracting gold using sheepskins all confirm that King Aeëtes and the enchanting Medea, the legendary Jason and the Argonauts are not merely the invented characters of a Greek myth. Kutaisi is an ancient city that has repeatedly played a key role in Georgia’s history, occupied and conquered by the Mongols, the Turks and, in the 19th century, the Russians. Inhabited for 4,000 years, it was among the most important centres of ancient Colchis, and is mentioned as Kutaia in the 3rd century BC by Apollonius of Rhodes in the Argonautica.

Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia, as yet undiscovered by mass tourism, is a city rich in culture and history. This is Georgia’s wonderful capital, suspended between Europe and Asia in the heart of the Caucasus. Tbilisi is a land of culture, history and magic, and it is no coincidence that in antiquity the famous Golden Fleece was believed to be found here. Everywhere you look there are Russian, Turkish and ancient Near Eastern influences: the capital was a strategic point, an unavoidable passage for merchants travelling the Silk Road, but also for the various armies that had to cross the world in search of new lands to conquer. Tbilisi is a medley of cultures, palaces, churches and places that offer a wonderful natural setting, rich in thermal baths and stunning views.

In the Avlabari district we can admire the Holy Trinity Cathedral, the main Orthodox church of the capital. Begun in 1989 to celebrate 1,500 years of autocephaly of the Georgian Orthodox Church, it was completed in 2004. Imposing enough to leave you open-mouthed, it also houses a theological academy and the patriarchal residence. In this area we can also admire historic palaces and churches, including the Anchiskhati Basilica – the oldest in Tbilisi – and the Sioni Cathedral. The beautiful, futuristic Bridge of Peace, designed by the Italian Michele De Lucchi and opened in 2010, is built of glass and steel to highlight the crossing of the Mtkvari river where the Silk Road once passed. Here the modern gives a nod to the ancient in a major urban regeneration project that is opening Tbilisi up to quality tourism. At the foot of the Narikala Fortress lies a corner of unspoilt nature within the city, with waterfalls, flowers and scenic paths along rocky ridges. The Georgian Botanical Garden is certainly worth a visit.

Freedom Square is famous for its statue of St George and for the Old City Hall. This square is a kind of open-air museum that tells of Georgia’s history and traditions: it is not hard to find – in the bars and cafés nearby – concerts of the panduri, the traditional Georgian instrument. Great celebrations take place in the square on 26 May, the day commemorating the founding of the Republic in 1918.

The Georgian National Museum, an introduction to the national culture, is rich in ancient historical treasures and Greek and Roman finds, and houses interesting rooms devoted to the Russian invasions. The Narikala Fortress, the undisputed symbol of Tbilisi, can be reached by cable car. After enjoying the view from above on the way up, you can appreciate the full majesty of the fortress and of St Nicholas Church, visible from every part of the city thanks to its towering bell tower. The Abanotubani Baths. The area is rich in sulphur springs, so much so that Tbilisi is renowned as a spa town. After exploring the city, why not relax in the underground Arab-style baths? Or we can opt for the above-ground Orbeliani Baths, with their traditional blue tiles.

Cradle of the world’s winemaking heritage, Georgia makes its wine in traditional kvevri. Conviviality, culture, naturalness, tradition: Georgian wines are wines to discover and understand – 8,000 years of history, culture and tradition, a debt that wine lovers still owe today to Georgia, the land that saw the birth of viticulture and where the world’s first winery, dating from 4000 BC, was discovered. Etymology comes to our aid too: the word “wine” is said to derive from the Georgian “gwino”, confirming what has already been said. In Georgian culture wine has an ancient and fundamental social role. That is why at every banquet and festive occasion the figure of a master of ceremonies, the Tamada, is of prime importance: it is the Tamada’s task to call the toasts, keeping the wine flowing among the guests to the rhythm of well-wishing cries of “Gaumarjos!” – cheers! The rediscovery of the ethical and historical value of wines and foods that carry tradition and naturalness has brought the world’s attention to Georgian wines made using the ancient kvevri method. The ones that most unsettle Western palates are surely the whites, which Georgians call golden, to which the long months spent in the amphorae lend a certain tannic quality, remarkable body and a singular aromatic complexity. “Unsettle” is the right word: a nose of nail varnish and petrol, great body, characteristics hard to read by the standards we are used to. To understand these great wines you have to wipe the slate clean, forget our home-grown notions of flaw and merit, our scales of judgement and our parameters, and look for a completely different approach. In all, 38 grape varieties are authorised for sale by the Georgian government. The two most suited regions are Kakheti and Imereti: the first is planted with Rkatsiteli, Saperavi, Mtsvane Kakhuri, Kisi and Khikhvi; the second with Tsolikouri, Kvishkhuri, Tsitska and Shavi. These varieties, in most cases, are vinified in kvevri, the Georgian jar of fired clay, strictly buried in the ground and often lined with a film of beeswax. There are two methods of winemaking, the “Kakhetian” and the “Imeretian”. In the Kakheti region, after the grapes have been pressed – still by foot, in hollowed-out tree trunks – the farmer pours the must, complete with all its skins and stalks, into the kvevri. Once the vessel has been filled and sealed, and covered with sand or earth to insulate it, fermentation and maceration are left to run their course, even for 6 months, producing a wine that is yellow, dense, dark and tannic, with an alcohol content of 13 or 14 degrees. The method used in the central-western region of Imereti is a little different, because only part of the skins is left with the must and the resulting wine is lighter and richer in vegetal acidity. The traditional Georgian winemaking method was recognised as UNESCO Heritage in 2013.

A journey of discovery into Georgian wines, an ancient story that has only just begun.

The Orthodox monks, very old and with extraordinary beards, wander around the courtyard of the Alaverdi monastery, halfway between Tbilisi and the shores of the Black Sea: half hiding and half watching us, they move at great speed, like the Jawas in Star Wars, the ones who take things apart and steal everything. There is a vineyard in the middle of the courtyard, and when I approach it a monk comes to meet me. He makes signs with his hands, repeating two words. He points to the vines and eventually I get it: he is telling me “One hundred”, perhaps the number of vines in that courtyard, and I think, fair enough. But then, looking more closely at the plants, the shoots, the leaves and the remaining bunches, I realise they are all different. That is not a vineyard, that is an archive. A living library of grapes: there are one hundred different native varieties in this courtyard alone. In Georgia at least 550 native grape varieties unique to these lands have been recorded. The question is much debated, but to give an order of magnitude, the native varieties recorded in Italy are little more than half that number, in France fewer than a third. And that alone begins to give an idea of the unexplored territory we are dealing with. Archaeologists agree: wine was born here; there are clear traces of grapes pressed, fermented and drunk dating back 8,000 years. Here was born, and has been practised for centuries, the most seductive ageing technique of recent years, namely the qvevri, the huge terracotta amphorae that are buried in the ground, allowing the wine to communicate perhaps one last time with the earth, and certainly to maintain a controlled temperature throughout its ageing. And it is here that wines made by macerating white grapes in contact with their skins – the notorious orange wines – are produced in quantity. Until fifteen years ago it was almost impossible to taste Georgian wines in Europe. Why? Well, because ancient Georgian viticulture was massacred by 70 years of Soviet rule: socialism needed wine, and vines grew almost only here. As much as possible had to be produced, and never mind if, by exploiting the vineyards to exhaustion, it turned out bad. That fabric of micro-producers had to be dismantled: the land belongs to the people, so all the grapes are seized. The grapes were still too few for the diplomatic needs of an immense empire, so they were stretched with water and sugar was added. Adding sugar sends fermentations haywire, hence sulphites galore. Making wine for personal consumption became illegal and few held out: some farmers and, indeed, the monks, who planted a few specimens of each variety to keep them from extinction, while waiting for a better future. A future that then arrived, because it is now. But almost everything would have disappeared anyway had there not been one exception. Had the agricultural planning of Soviet wine not had a crack in its most unsuspected corner: nobody was to know, but it was essential to keep producing a good quantity of Georgian wine the old way, that is in amphorae, letting it ferment naturally, and using the odd varieties that yield very little juice. Because the man who dismantled the peasant production of “real” Georgian wines, curiously, could not live without his 25 bottles a week of sulphite-free Chinuri. He was Georgian, and his name was Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, that is, Stalin. “You, who draw up the five-year plans, what better could you buy yourself?” Obviously the natural wine of his home village. The place where you can truly lose yourself in this world of strange wines is a cooperative wine bar in Tbilisi called Gvino Underground: asking for a glass means finding yourself with eight bottles on the table and tasting them all. It is a fairly overwhelming experience, even for those used to the most natural of wines and to European fairs: half the bottles have no label, those that do are written in Georgian, and the names of the grape varieties you try to jot down are 70 per cent consonants. But the most disorienting aspect is the range of flavours and aromas. Here there are wines that taste of grappa, a great many of mezcal, and quite a few that smell of Sardinian pecorino. The serving temperature is another surprise, because they are served at room temperature, which is a bit of a problem, especially considering that the word Tbilisi, in old Georgian, means “warm”. In Europe, Georgian natural wines are reasonably widespread and I had tasted a handful before coming here. They come mainly from three producers: Ramaz Nikoladze, Iago Bitarishvili and, above all, John Wurdeman, an American born in Santa Fe who fell in love with this country and its wines in the 1990s and has done so much to bring them to the world. His winery, Pheasant’s Tears, is by far the best known and lies in the Kakheti region, the far east of the country, where three quarters of Georgian wine is produced: here you begin to recognise landscapes that resemble our own imagination – rolling hills covered in vineyards, villages and cloisters on the hilltops. The vineyards are immaculate, not a weed in sight, and fairly recent brown signs point to wine estates all called château-something. Every now and then there is

some gigantic amphora dumped there, for decorative purposes.