The Vineyard Vendetta

The only thing I inherited from my late, eccentric uncle was eight acres of untamed Croatian vines and a goat with a personal vendetta against my favorite scarf. This is not the life I ordered.

The scarf in question was silk, a vibrant emerald green that matched my eyes—or so a Parisian salesgirl with impeccable commission goals had convinced me two years ago. It was a relic of my old life, a life of spreadsheet forecasts, client meetings in air-conditioned high-rises, and coffee that cost more per cup than the apparent annual property tax here. That life was supposed to have a different inheritance: a modest cash bequest from a vaguely remembered relative, perhaps enough for a down payment on a sensible apartment. Not this.

This was a rusted iron gate groaning on hinges that screamed in protest as I pushed it open. This was a path of crumbling white stone overrun by something aggressively prickly. This was a vista of rolling hills, staggeringly beautiful in the late morning sun, carpeted in a chaotic, glorious tangle of vines that looked less like a vineyard and more like a botanical mutiny.

And this was the notification from my lawyer, still glowing on my phone’s screen, which I clutched like a lifeline to a sane world: ‘Estate fully transferred. Property includes land, structures, chattels, and livestock. Congratulations.’

Livestock. Singular.

I saw it, then. At the top of the path, standing before a stone house that had clearly been built before the concept of ‘straight lines’ was fully standardized. The goat. It was a rangy creature, the colour of stale coffee, with horns that curved with malevolent elegance and a beard that looked more philosophical than I was comfortable with. It stood silhouetted against the Adriatic sky, bleached blue and endless, as if posing for the cover of ‘Caprine Quarterly.’ And it was staring, with unnerving focus, at the green silk fluttering at my neck in the warm breeze.

“Shoo,” I said, with the authority of a woman who had once managed a team of twelve.

The goat chewed slowly, its jaw moving in a circular, disdainful rhythm. It did not shoo.

“Go on,” I tried, in Croatian. My tongue stumbled over the word. “Idi!”

The goat’s eyes—amber, with horizontal pupils that spoke of a deep, untroubled contempt for the human race—narrowed. It took a step forward. Not a threatening step. A proprietary one.

This was my welcome committee.

My suitcase, a sleek hard-shell roller supremely unsuited to gravel, stones, and existential dread, caught on a rock. I yanked it, stumbling, as I began the arduous trek up to the house. I could feel the goat’s gaze on my scarf, a palpable pressure. The scarf felt suddenly, foolishly loud against the landscape of sage green, terracotta, and dusty olive.

The house, my house, was a two-storey kuća of honey-coloured stone, its roof tiles a faded, sun-bleached orange. Shutters, once blue, hung from a single hinge like a drunk clinging to a lamppost. A wild rosemary bush sprawled by the door, scenting the air with a pungent, medicinal cheer that felt like mockery. The key, heavy and iron, fit into the lock with a sound that suggested it hadn’t been turned in years.

Inside was a tomb of shadows and dust. The front room was a museum to my uncle Marko’s particular brand of chaos. Piles of books on viticulture competed for space with unidentifiable pieces of machinery, their purposes lost to time. Maps were spread on a rough wooden table, stained with coffee rings and what I hoped was wine. The air smelled of old paper, damp stone, and the ghost of countless cigarettes. A single, heroic spider had spun a cathedral of a web in the fireplace.

My phone buzzed. A message from my best friend, Sofija, back in Zagreb: ‘Have you arrived? Is it gorgeous? Is it full of rugged, shirtless farmers??’

I took a picture of the spider’s web and the ominous goat now peering through the window. I captioned it: ‘The farmer is bearded and has horns. Send wine. All the wine.’

I dropped my suitcase, the sound echoing in the hollow space. This wasn’t a life; it was a prank. A cosmic, bureaucratic prank. Uncle Marko, whom I’d met exactly three times—a whirlwind of laughter, strong tobacco, and stories that always ended with him waving a glass of something homemade—had somehow decided I, Lina Kovač, a woman whose most strenuous agricultural effort was keeping a basil plant alive on a balcony, was the heir to his kingdom of weeds.

A rustle at the door. The goat was now nosing the frame. I marched over, mustering every ounce of city-born indignation. “This is private property,” I stated, pointing a finger at it.

It lunged.

Not at me. At the scarf.

A lightning-fast snap of its head, teeth bared in a yellowed grin. I jerked back, but those teeth caught the delicate silk fringe. A sound of ripping fabric filled the quiet house, horribly final.

“Hey!” I shrieked. “That was from Paris!”

The goat, with a piece of emerald green dangling from its mouth like a trophy, chewed twice, swallowed, and looked at me as if to say, “Needs salt.”

Then it turned and sauntered away, back into the dazzling sunshine.

I stood in the doorway, clutching the remains of my scarf—now a lopsided, abbreviated mess—and felt a hot, stupid wave of tears prick my eyes. It wasn’t about the scarf. Not really. It was about the sheer, audacious unfairness of it all. The fifteen-hour journey. The lawyer’s dry, complicated words. The abandonment of a career I’d painstakingly built. The silence. The dust. The beast that had just eaten my favourite accessory.

“Right,” I said to the empty, dusty room, my voice trembling with a fury that dried the tears instantly. “That’s it.”

I let the ruined scarf fall to the stone floor. I rolled up the sleeves of my impractical linen shirt. I had a law degree, a business diploma, and a tongue that could flay a man at fifty paces. I had survived corporate takeovers and predatory dating apps. I would not be defeated by eight acres of foliage and a farmyard sociopath.

The first order of business was reconnaissance. I left the tomb-house and walked out into the blinding light. The vineyard, if one could call it that, unfolded in a dishevelled cascade down the hill towards a glimpse of glittering sea. The vines were gnarled old monsters, their trunks thick and twisted, but their branches were a jungle of unpruned shoots, tangled with weeds and wildflowers. Bunches of tiny, hard green grapes hung like forgotten promises. It was a beautiful disaster.

To the east, separated by a low, crumbling dry-stone wall, was a neater vineyard. The rows were straight, the earth beneath them bare and tidy. That, I knew from the paperwork, belonged to the neighbour. Miroslav something. I made a mental note: find fence repair supplies. My goat seemed like the colonising type.

A decrepit wooden shed leaned precariously near the house. Inside, I found the ‘chattels.’ A tractor that looked like a museum piece from the Tito era. Rakes with missing teeth. Buckets with holes. A mountain of empty, grimy bottles. And in the corner, a single, pristine, brand-new chainsaw, still in its box. Of course. Uncle Marko’s logic was perfectly insane.

The heat was building, a heavy, aromatic blanket of pine, rosemary, and sun-baked earth. I was sweating through my linen, and despair was starting to curdle into a more familiar, gritty resolve. I needed water. I needed a plan. I needed to find out if the well was just a picturesque prop.

I was heading back to the house when a voice called out, “Halo? Jel’ ima koga?”

A man was coming up my path. He was probably in his late fifties, with a face like a weathered saddle and a belly that spoke of a long friendship with dough and pork fat. He wore a checked shirt and carried a cloth bag.

“Yes, hello,” I said, switching to Croatian, bracing myself.

“Ah, you must be Lina! Marko’s niece!” He beamed, revealing several gold teeth. “I am Stipe, from the village. We heard you were coming. Welcome!” He thrust the bag forward. “Here. Pršut. Olive oil. From my trees. A welcome.”

The kindness was so sudden, so tangible, it almost undid me. “Oh. Thank you, that’s… very kind.”

“This is a good place,” he said, his eyes scanning the chaos with what seemed like genuine affection. “Marko, he was… a poet. Not a farmer.” He chuckled. “The vines, they have a strong heart. Like him. They just need…” He gestured with a broad, calloused hand, searching for the word. “A little direction.”

“They need a miracle,” I said flatly.

Stipe laughed, a sound like gravel shaking in a tin. “Maybe! You will see. If you need something, I am down the hill. The blue roof. And…” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Beware the goat. Marko let it do anything. It thinks it is the boss.”

“It’s already made its position clear,” I said, touching my ruined neckline.

His laughter boomed again. “It ate your scarf! I saw it walking. It looked very proud.” He shook his head, still grinning. “Okay, I go. Just wanted to say welcome. Sretno! Good luck!”

He ambled back down the path, leaving me holding the bag of smoked ham and oil, standing in the ruins of my expectations. The gesture had been simple, human, warm. It didn’t fix the tractor, prune the vines, or resurrect my scarf, but it punctured the bubble of my isolation.

I carried the gifts inside, my spirits oddly lifted. I found a relatively clean glass, filled it with water from a tap that groaned and spat out rust-coloured liquid before running clear and cold. It tasted of stone and mountains. It was the best water I’d ever had.

I investigated further. Upstairs, there were two bedrooms. One was a bombsite of clothes, books, and more empty bottles. Uncle Marko’s. The other was small, spare, but clean, with a simple iron bedframe and a view over the tangled vineyard to the sea. I claimed it.

As the sun began its slow, glorious descent, painting the sky in streaks of apricot and lavender, I sat on the stone steps outside. The silence was no longer empty; it was full of insect hums, distant birdcalls, the whisper of the wind in the pines. My mind, usually a whirlwind of schedules and anxieties, began, reluctantly, to quiet.

Then, a crunch of gravel. Not Stipe this time.

A man was walking up from the direction of the neat vineyard. He was tall, broad-shouldered, moving with an easy, confident grace. He had dark hair, swept back from a forehead that was tan and lined. As he got closer, I could see his face was all angles—a strong jaw shadowed with stubble, a straight nose, eyes the colour of the sea under a summer storm. He wore old jeans, work boots, and a simple grey t-shirt stretched across a chest that suggested his vineyard work wasn’t delegated.

He stopped a few feet away, his gaze taking in me, the house, the general state of picturesque dilapidation. A faint, not unkind, smile touched his lips. He had a bottle in one hand.

“Dobro večer,” he said. Good evening. His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder over the hills.

“Dobro večer,” I replied, standing up, brushing dust from my trousers.

“I am Miroslav. Your neighbour.” He nodded towards his land.

“Lina,” I said.

“I know.” He extended the bottle. A simple label, handwritten: Plavac Mali, 2021, Vinarija Marić. “For your arrival. From my vines.”

Another gift. This place ran on ham, oil, and alcohol. “Thank you. That’s… very neighbourly.”

He nodded, his eyes now scanning the vineyard behind me, a professional assessment flashing in their grey-blue depths. “Marko was a good man. An… interesting winemaker.”

“That seems to be the polite consensus,” I said, my sharp tongue finding its footing. “I’m told he was a poet. The vines are his free verse.”

Miroslav’s smile widened, just a fraction. It transformed his face, making the stormy eyes crinkle at the corners. “And you? Are you a poet?”

“I’m a realist. Currently realising I own a botanical asylum and a goat that’s a felon.”

He chuckled. “Ah, the goat. It has… character.” He looked past me, up the hill. “It’s watching us now, you know.”

I turned. There, on a rocky outcrop, stood the goat, silhouetted once more against the dying light. A silent, horned sentinel.

“I think it’s planning its next move,” I said. “Probably my handbag.”

“Probably.” Miroslav was quiet for a moment. “It is a big change. Zagreb to here.”

“You could say that.” I crossed my arms, defensive. “But I’m here.”

He met my gaze, and his was direct, appraising, but not unkind. “Good. The land needs attention. It has been sleeping. Dreaming wild dreams.” He paused. “If you need help… with the tractor, or the pruning, or the goat… I am just over the wall.”

It was a genuine offer, but something in his tone, that hint of amusement at my obvious city-slicker incompetence, needled me. “I appreciate that. But I’ll manage. I’m quite good with… complicated systems.”

“I do not doubt it,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me. “The system here is just older. And has teeth.” His eyes flicked to the goat again. “Enjoy the wine.”

With a final nod, he turned and walked back down the path, melting into the gathering twilight. I stood holding the bottle, its glass cool against my skin. The encounter had left me flustered, a reaction that annoyed me intensely. He was just a man. A handsome, annoyingly composed man who probably thought I’d be gone in a month.

“Not a chance,” I muttered to the darkening sky.

I went inside, found a corkscrew in a drawer full of random screws and bottle caps, and opened Miroslav’s wine. I poured a generous measure into my clean glass. The colour was a deep, garnet red. I took a sip.

It exploded in my mouth. Not with bubbles, but with flavour. Dark cherries, black pepper, the taste of sun-baked rocks and dry earth. It was fierce, elegant, and utterly compelling. It tasted like the landscape itself. It was nothing like the polished, labelled wines I used to order in restaurants.

I took my glass and the bottle back outside. Night had fallen properly now, a velvet blanket pierced by a million stars, brighter and clearer than I’d ever seen. The air was cool, scented with jasmine from somewhere. A single light glowed in Miroslav’s house down the hill.

I sat on the steps, sipped the wild, wonderful wine, and looked at my domain. The tangled vines were silvered in the starlight, a sleeping chaos. Somewhere in the dark, I heard a contented baa. The goat, digesting its victory.

This was not the life I ordered. It was harder, stranger, dirtier, and inhabited by farmyard criminals and enigmatic neighbours who brought dangerously good wine. It was a mess. A beautiful, terrifying, impossible mess.

I raised my glass to the silhouette of the goat on the ridge. “Fine,” I said to the night, to the vines, to my uncle’s ghost. “You win. For now.” I took another long drink. The Plavac Mali burned a path of warmth and defiance down my throat. “But tomorrow,” I whispered, the stars my only witness, “the war begins.”