Architecture trumps the refreshments in Barossa (+photos)

Ready for the picking - grapes thrive in Australia's Barossa Valley. Photo / Jill Worrall

Professional wine-tasters must be made of tougher stuff than me because after two days of quaffing wine in the Barossa my merlots have merged into my pinot noirs and I can't pick up the guava and melon notes to save myself.

Not that it's put me off actually visiting some of the Barossa's 70 or more wineries but I'm beginning to find some the historical architecture and gardens are enticing me almost more than the wine itself.

The palatial mansions and stone-walled cellars would be an attraction even without the wine that brought them into being. And I guess if there was no wine, the idea of a few days in South Australia's Barossa tasting this year's vintage sultanas lacks a certain allure.

Summer sun and an extended drought have bleached the region's encircling hills.

Dusty sheep rummage around desiccated grass stalks and huddle under the shade of the gums.

In the valleys and lapping up the slopes however, the vines have water on tap, their leaves are green with a hint of autumn to come and they are dripping with dark fruit.

Roses bloom where the vines end - like canaries down the mine they will be the first indicators of pestilence in the air.

Some of the wineries are huge, vast, clinical looking places where it seems the art of wine-making takes place behind closed doors and in the presence of much stainless steel. But by chance I stumble on a small winery which has just taken delivery of a truck load of shiraz grapes.

A youngish man in a plaid shirt splattered with grape juice was shovelling grapes down a wooden chute into a wine-press that has been in use for more than 100 years.

It was housed in an open-sided stone barn that also sheltered several large wooden vats.

The only pieces of modern technology to be seen were pipes like giant vacuum-cleaner hoses that snaked around the courtyard. Deep red grape juice was being pumped through them, gurgling and frothing.

This winery's output is sold entirely at the cellar door - some vintages sell out within hours of being released.

They've resisted the temptation to grow big and shiny and even I, with my untutored palate and nose, could taste the difference.

I still couldn't face a full tasting session however.

Instead, somewhat sacrilegiously, I found a pub on the lip of the Barossa that served locally brewed ale.

"It's quite hoppy," said the barman, looking at me a bit dubiously. Could he sense I'd succumbed to the odd Steinlager or two in the past?

Hoppy or not I just wanted a beer - not to sniff, swill or spit. Just to sink slowly on an Aussie afternoon to the background manic jingle of a pokie machine and the soft clink of snooker balls.