During that trip to Vinho Verde’s subregion of Lima and the near-cult status Aphros winery I did encounter a corporeal counterpart of Vasco Croft — Miguel Viseu, the estate’s winemaker. A real person, touchable and tangible, who pours wine, guides visitors through the property, shows off the horns (yes, those sacred ones), and doesn’t fuss over strangers. I, in return, play the part of a model guest: I don’t curse and spit wine out.

The “spitting” part of many Vinhos Verdes is easily explained. Where you typically hear “Vinho Verde,” what you’re likely to get is some tragically carbonated table fizz. But Aphros is playing a different game. These are thinking-person’s wines: hand-crafted, organic, from native Loureiro, the rare and easily misidentified Alvarelhão (not to be confused with Alvarinho), and the dark, intense Vinhão. There’s a cellar filled with sandpaper-brown amphorae, concrete eggs, and sur lie aging polished by the sacrificial death of yeast cells. “They die so that we may taste better,” they probably say.

It was 2004 when replanting began here, on the banks of the Lima River, in what might be Portugal’s greenest corner. Vasco is a radical of the rarest kind — he believes that the very act of pressing a power button disconnects you from nature. So the grapes are crushed by hand; the press is strictly old-school. There isn’t a whiff of Bucher machinery in the air, if you catch my drift. “Aphros is metaphysical, philosophical, and esoteric — in the coolest, freakiest way possible,” Croft once joked. He was raised on Waldorf pedagogy, which is to say, he’s a disciple of Rudolf Steiner by default.

“The only non-native animal in the vineyards is the human,” quips Miguel Viseu. “Everything else — sheep, goats, bees, horses — belongs.”

Vasco takes biodynamics seriously. We’re talking full biodynamic ritual: water dynamization, buried horns, sacred preps — all done in a dedicated room. Workers grow their own food, so they can stay more “natural” during harvest. A second, more modern winery lies 10 kilometers from the biodynamic epicenter. But on the main farm, it’s strictly amphorae, strictly off-grid. Miguel shows off hand-crank presses that wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval torture exhibit. And yet the YouTube videos prove: these machines are for winemaking, not winemaker punishment — though the scores from critics might beg to differ.

Aphros is first and foremost a Loureiro house — 80% of the vineyard is planted with it. Vinhão accounts for another 18%, and the remaining 2% is Alvarelhão. The amphorae themselves are called talhas, shipped up from southern Portugal. But only 7,000–8,000 liters are made in clay; the rest sees more familiar stainless steel or concrete. Among the more delightful details: chestnut wood barrels, and live musicians playing concerts beside the amphorae, pressing their bodies against the clay as if to absorb its vibe.

Miguel explains that only two biodynamic wineries in Portugal are Demeter-certified; Aphros has moved to the French Biodyvin standard instead. “They’re less commercial and entirely wine-focused,” he notes.

At last, we taste. Aphros makes two excellent pét-nats — one white, one rosé. “The rosé’s my favorite,” Miguel confesses. Still, we’re drinking the white: Phaunus Pet-Nat, crisp and buzzing with green-apple aromas (the apples also grow on site). “I love pét-nats because they’re so joyful and light,” Miguel says. “I like the yeasty notes, and the lees protect the wine from spoilage — they can age in the bottle, actually.”

Aphros Loureiro is their flagship white. The grapes come from vineyards around the new winery. It’s aged on lees in steel for four months — fresh, acidic, a little shy in its youth, but likely to unfurl beautifully over time. Naturally, there’s no added yeast. Don’t try explaining that to a New York sommelier.

Daphne, in a Burgundian bottle, is a more serious Loureiro — part concrete egg, part oak, both for fermentation and aging. “This wine needs bottle age,” Miguel laments. “But we have to sell it.” A familiar tragedy. The wine is rounder, fuller-bodied, modestly mineral. “Better with food,” Miguel adds, and he’s absolutely right.

Phaunus Loureiro — the amphora version — is all wild ferment and skin contact, just 4,500 bottles at 11.5% ABV. “It even stands up to meat,” Miguel assures me. Then there’s Phaunus Palhete, a co-fermentation of Loureiro and Vinhão. “It’s neither red nor white — this is how wine was made in ancient times,” says Miguel. “It goes with absolutely everything.” I ask him what kind of scores Aphros gets from Wine Spectator. Miguel laughs.

We finish with Aphros Vinhão — juicy, fun, tannin-free, practically grape juice for adults. Drink now. And here’s the only thing I regret: Aphros doesn’t have the financial cushion to hold back its wines, to release them when they’ve truly come into their own. Because if even Portugal’s most committed biodynamic producers are forced to bottle too early, what future does the image of Vinho Verde really have?

Anyone who’s never tasted aged Vinhão is missing out — it’s a pleasure of a different order entirely, and a true regional specialty in a landscape better known for its whites, if not its “greens.”