We heard it before we saw it.

Rustling through the undergrowth, the strange creature soon shifted into view. We knew that we would never forget this moment as long as we lived.

Serengeti, 1995, and the three of us were transfixed by a small bush-dwelling rodent. Years later, a new adventure beckons. We’ve donned our boots, linen shirts, pith helmets, and limited-edition Despicable Me minion backpacks once again for a brand-new kind of safari -- one that is gleaming from the laminated floor of the Mainsbury’s booze aisle.

Having duped our Violet overlords into giving us a funding boost for “travel expenses”, we were free this week to range over a vast biome of ridges, deli counters, beaches and frozen food sections. After all, your burning questions needed answers: why are there so many animal-themed wines? What’s the best? Can we possibly drink all five in one night? Is Penguin Sands really that bad??

Before we knew it, we found ourselves in South Africa’s Cape Winelands, coastline in sight, perched on a spiny ridge soaring like a stegosaurus’ back out of the shrubbery. We were drinking Porcupine Ridge, a £7.50 Sauvignon Blanc which, at the risk of going a little over budget, provided one of the most genuinely refreshing experiences we came across in all our adventures. This is the Capri Sun of the Cambridge wine scene: a revitalising raconteur, brimming with bespoke flavours of, quote unquote, “fresh kiwi, guava and splashes of lemongrass,” as displayed on the label in true shower gel fashion.

But don’t you dare slather your body in it (we tried, and it was strange). To lift the curtain a moment and speak with actual sincerity, this wine is honestly very nice. People, it’s God-tier, S-rank, Elite-certified and fucking lovely. It gets five gold stars from us, meaning that, of all the wines in this article, Porky R. will be allowed out at break-time first (to be fair, the sticker on the bottle says it’s already “award-winning”, whatever that means). And yet, too soon, like a legendary Pokémon Go chanced upon in the wilderness, our time with this noble creature was as fleeting as it was transcendent: before we had the chance for a proper farewell, it was gone.

Naturally we got another bottle out.

[Elegant Frog, insets L-R: 1) the frog in its natural habitat; 2) close-up of neck typo]

Slipping down the majestic ridge to the stagnant swamps below, we came across 2019 Viognier, Elegant Frog (or, if you believe the guy who made the neck label, Arrogant Frog -- genuinely, this bottle has two different titles). Though a white wine on paper, this is more of a slimy green that reeks of oozing cisterns and overgrown châteaux. Perhaps it was doomed by inevitable comparison with its delectable forebear (foreporcupine? forecupine?), but regardless, this consistently hit the palate with a synthetic and overbearing venom. The tuxedoed amphibian clearly holds a high opinion of himself, demanding extortionate prices (an eye/pond-watering £8) but gives nothing back in the form of flavour, personality or charm. Indeed, preening and puffed up, the toffee-nosed frog regarded us with an acrid snobbery – and if there’s one thing which doesn’t sit well with us, it’s snobbery. After one too many remarks about the cut of our Savile Row dinner jackets, we hopped out of the pond. After some admittedly high expectations, we felt as if we’d been had. Deluded. Led on. Played like a cheap pianola. La belle frog sans merci had us in thrall, and it was time to press on.

As we emerged from the shade of the swamp, an impossibly muscular stallion came into view, rippling in the sun. We froze in wonderment and, with a sudden digging in of hooves and a proud whinny, the horse halted in front of us.

Galloping out of the bottle with all the vanity of a bleach-toothed movie star, Dark Horse is a Californian powerhouse with a serious competitive streak, clocking in at a whopping, All-American 14% ABV. But yes, it must be confessed that our low-budget English pluck felt effortlessly overcrowded by the saccharine notes of cider apples, Froot Loops, and the cinematic smog of the San Fernando Valley. This is what wine would be like if it was made by Five Guys, Dunkin Donuts, or an effervescent network talk show host doing coke off a dumpster, as deluded actors dressed as Christ wander the back alleys at night. Dark Horse has a bouquet screaming of EU food law violations. It feels hormone-pumped, genetically modified, synthetically optimised, and gratingly, magnificently noisy. It has to win, and it has to win big. Really though, the nag is all facade, like a plastic Statue of Liberty, “Made in China” and with its paint starting to run. But within the bluster there is undoubtedly a glamour; an excitement that we will always be drawn to, sunburnt, and a little ashamed of ourselves.

We remember the morning we woke on LA’s Manhattan Beach. The sunrise had begun to burnish the Pacific, though we still lay shadowed by the bleached blocks of Highland Avenue. On the horizon, someone spotted something shimmering – not on the water, but of it. Within it. A fish, perhaps, whose scales, like mother-of-pearl, glistened as it moved with ferrous alacrity. The colour in the water was a wine; something mystical, Siren-like, misunderstood, but jet-lagged. Blown off course by a tropical storm, this was New Zealand sav blanc, Silver Moki, which came to us exotic and rejuvenating, with a pronunciation guide on the back, and a metallic tingling in the mid-palate:

There’s a silvery overtone of electrolysis and iridescence here -- like licking a battery -- that surfs down the gullet, glimmering like the back of a CD, or one of the shiny 100-Club Match Attax they did for the 2010 World Cup. We walked that shore of footprints in the sand, staggering over the very anvil of the sun, clutching that bottle of sea spray and pressing its cool, nacre scales to our peeling faces. Apparently, it has “hints of gooseberry”. Has anyone ever actually had a gooseberry? We thought it was dry. Our photographer got hold of it and took a sip, informing us that “as a sober, objective person, this is not a dry wine”. We said, “it so is.” But that’s the point, for this lively variation-on-a-theme seems to, with every sip, alternate whether its rainbow sheen is that of cool, stainless steel, or more of a thicker, more putrid oil slick. One for the fans, Silver Moki is a variable B-side that might slip and slide into the reduced section, but never quite jumps off the shelf.

Only slightly feeling the effects of the last four bottles, we walked on, feeling the sands of Santa Monica until, out of sight of the multitude, far from the madding crowd, we fell once again into that familiar, polar embrace. That apotheosis of shit zoomorphic wine; that reliable old Merlot; that bewildered fall guy – Penguin Sands. And do you know what? The old git proved that it can, indeed, hold its own alongside bottles three times its price. Yes, it’s perhaps best saved for, shall we say, the end of the evening, but we can’t deny that the ubiquitous Chilean king (emperor? macaroni?) gratified us with the warm, womb-like buzz of home terrain.

Special thanks to the ardent *checks notes* Liberal Democrat, who, fortuitously, provided a neon penguin in their window for us to get excited about.