Arising

Perry with 100% estate-grown Bartlett pears

Arising wild-fermented perry

8.5% ABV, 500 ml

Let me ask you this: do you reach for the “ripe,” yellow pear or go for the pear with more personality and crunch; the slightly under-ripe green pear with the soft, but not too soft skin? Green pear, right? Us, too. And we like our Perry like we like our pears: Complex, yet easy-going. Interesting, but not too funky.

That’s why our tasting notes for Arising are “green pears covered with marshmallows after an autumn rain.” Because Arising doesn’t take itself too seriously. It’s delicious with just a hint of sweetness and slight marshmallowy flavor, but it’s also refreshing and, well … “green” tasting. Made from 100% estate grown pears and wild-fermented, this straight-up perry is a pure expression of terroir -- and Brian’s cider/wine making talents. With 18 months aging time in neutral oak barrels, you’ll enjoy a medium body, well-rounded mouthfeel and a product that tastes like more than just, well … pear water. (If you’ve ever had a bland, boring perry, you know what we’re talking about.)

It reminds us of the dragonflies that flit around the orchards in summer: beautiful with exquisite markings, but free-spirited and just plain delightful.

Product Highlights

  • Tastes like green pears covered with marshmallows after an autumn rain.
  • Medium body.
  • 100% estate grown Bartlett pears.
  • 100% Picked, crushed, pressed, fermented and bottled by owners Brian and Leah.
  • Wild-fermented with only naturally-occurring yeast.
  • Fermented completely dry. Residual sweetness that gives Arising its off-dry flavor is a result of naturally-occurring,non-fermentable fruit sugar in the pears.
  • Unfiltered, unpasteurized, unfined and produced with minimal intervention and no industrial practices.
  • Bottle fermented for subtle, pleasing effervescence.

Arising Lore

A flash of color, a break in concentration. He looked down over his shoulder where a large dragonfly had landed, its wings nearly translucent, the incandescent body glinting in the sunlight.

Depending on your perspective, the early morning dew in the orchards either refreshes or chills. It sparkles suspended from leaves and branches, becoming engorged and dripping decadently under its own weight. It is dazzlingly fresh, but wretchedly cold when a careless soul disturbs a branch and a shower of drops cascades down into crevices between clothing and skin; a not infrequent occurrence for the man who now stood pressed up against the trunk of a pear tree. His breath fogged beneath his camera, its lens directed toward a dew-speckled, hopeful-looking blossom perfectly illuminated in the gentle morning light. He wobbled. The branch vibrated. And the dew rolled dispassionately from the blossom’s petals. He slumped his shoulders with a sigh and reached a hand up to brush the damp from the back of his neck.

Continuing his walk up and down the rows, he paused from time to time to snap a photo half-heartedly. Nothing moved him as that lost shot had. All around him, beautifully backlit leaves burned at the edges with neon green fire and steam rose up through shafts of sunlight, yet his mood did not improve. Though this state of mind was, for him, fairly typical. He often roved the orchard in a state of melancholy. This was the place he came to either think or to not think. Its quiet lent itself well to the mulling over of complex thoughts and weighty decisions; its activity — birds flitting between branches, insects buzzing past in retreat from the birds, bees dipping in and out of blossoms, leaves clattering in a gentle breeze — provided the perfect distraction, when desired, from those same thoughts and decisions. Today, he pushed the thoughts away, but found himself sinking back into them in unguarded moments. Even the happenings and delights of the orchard could not draw his attention out, as a child might coax a shy cat to play.

He paused and raised his camera with a touch of indifference, training the lens on a bee as it bobbed languidly from blossom to blossom. A flash of color, a break in concentration. He lowered the camera and looked down over his shoulder where a large dragonfly had landed, its wings nearly translucent, the incandescent body glinting in the sunlight. His first urge was to crane his neck awkwardly and twist the camera toward his shoulder for a clumsy one-handed shot, but just as he began the movement something caused him to pause. He strained to observe the dragonfly — skin creasing, mouth pulling down at the corners — and marveled at its stillness, the delicate structure and dramatic black, white, and clear pattern of the wings, the vibrancy of the bright yellow stripe running down the black body. He forgot the camera for a moment, watching with instinctively shallow, steady breaths, afraid to disturb the creature.

When the dragonfly at last alit and disappeared from view, a sensation came over him of waking from a dream. His mind felt pleasantly thick and sleepy, the feeling of drifting in and out of a doze under the summer sun. His reluctant consciousness had to be forcibly dragged back into himself and he, once again, became aware of the weight of the camera in his hand, the clothing tag scratching at the nape of his neck. He sighed, an action that felt so foreign that he wondered if he had been holding his breath. With not insignificant effort, he turned and continued on, still filled with melancholy, though its texture had changed. No longer was he mired in a disconsolate gloom. Instead, he felt the twinge of a more romantic, existential yearning. A feeling that inspired and burned with the intensity of its beauty rather than robbing its sufferer of all hope and confidence.

It wasn’t until he reached the orchard’s edge, meandering back to his car with hands in pockets and the tender melancholy cradled in his heart, that he realized the strangeness of the encounter. Not that the dragonfly had chosen his shoulder for a momentary perch — that, while not a frequent occurrence, was not something too unusual under the right circumstances — but that it had been out in the world at all. Spring, though later than usual, had only just arrived and summer, the season of the dragonfly, was still many weeks off. He was puzzled and, for a moment, he regretted missing the photo he had at first been tempted to take. But soon the feeling passed and by the time he started his car — seat belt buckled, camera carefully tucked into its case —  a gentle gladness had risen in his heart.