The saviors of Spanish wine making are a family, barely known outside the country, who live and work in the Fuensaldaña village, where barely two thousand souls wander the cobbled streets. They are the Crespos. One of them lifts a 1,000-kilo stone with the ease of Hercules on steroids. At EME Bodegas, the future of Spanish winemaking is a step—or rather, several centuries—behind. “This is how my father did it, and my grandfather before him,” Ricardo Crespo, third-generation winemaker, says, as you sidestep a hulking wooden contraption that looks more like a medieval torture device than a tool for vinification. Here, tradition isn’t a museum piece; it’s the pulse of the cellar. While neighbours have joined the mechanised sprint of modern wine production, EME still operates as if 1623 never ended; the results are intoxicating.
The building itself whispers of past centuries. Squat limestone walls rise unevenly, giving the winery hobbit-like charm; a pastoral nook rather than a production powerhouse. Terracotta tiles crown the roof, and a diminutive white chimney peeks like a shy sentinel. Natural flagstones pave a quiet patio, while twin brick-framed arches frame the entrance with stoic elegance. Inside, yellow walls and exposed beams cradle a cozy tasting space with small wooden rack holding a curated selection of wines. There is the 'Cigales' Denomination of Origin display, and two black barrels double as tables, bearing glasses of ruby liquid, a cooler bucket, and a rustic spread of bread, cheese, charcuterie, and olive oil. Descending into the cellar beneath a Roman arch, the air cools to 10–12°C. Limestone galleries, carved centuries ago with sweeping curves and precise angles, cradle the wines in silence. Ricardo, at thirty, is more than a winemaker—he is the custodian of time; a boy who started pressing grapes with his feet when he was just eight and now a man preserving a oenophilic legacy in every polished floor tile. “My grandfather revived this winery for the love of it,” he says, pride threading his words, and you can almost taste that devotion in the damp, mineral-scented air.
Yet love doesn’t pay barrels of French oak, each costing £900. Ricardo replaces 20% of his 70-barrel collection annually, investing in six thousand bottles a year when industrial methods could triple production. Across Valladolid and Cordoba, 30-to 100-year-old vines cultivate twenty grape varieties, from Tempranillo and Garnacha Gris to Albillo and Malbec. “We grow everything… every grape matters,” he says, hand-picked from 7.5 hectares.
At the heart of the operation, the Zarzo—a 16th-century Roman wooden lever and screw press—is a relic in action. Seven tonnes of grapes are coaxed into juice with wood, stone, and muscle alone. Watching the process is witnessing living archaeology: circular wooden planks stacked into a pyramid, topped with a one-tonne stone, descending slowly, inexorably. Six people, eighteen-hour days, six hours to process a harvest: no machines, no shortcuts, just choreography in chaos.
Even the fermentation tanks are a lesson in slow craft. Ricardo descends into red-epoxy-lined concrete tanks, cool and alive with subtle chemical exchange, crafting reds with depth and nuance impossible in sterile steel. “The concrete is cooler… best for red wine fermentation,” he explains, his hands tracing the curves worn smooth by generations.
Upstairs, tasting the fruits of this devotion is revelatory. Limited Edition “M,” a 100 per cent Tempranillo, offers blackberry and cedar, hints of limestone threading through the palate. “Glotón,” a blend of Garnacha Gris, Garnacha Tinta, and Verdejo, defies expectation yet triumphs, collecting medals with greedy delight. A Sauvignon Blanc-Verdejo blend, aged in French barrels and named Zarzo, reflects the press’s ancient genius.
As the world chases stainless steel sterility, Ricardo plants himself firmly in the past. “I’m not giving up on traditional methods because I want to show people that craftsmanship can equal or surpass modernism,” he says, swirling a glass of Crianza, four years in the making. Here, wine is philosophy served in its pristine form, no ice, no compromise— a taste of history in every drop.
