On Tinos, the wind doesn’t whisper. It howls. Most people hide. Yiannis “Vaptistis” Moraitis planted vines. Everyone called him crazy. They weren’t wrong—who builds a winery on a rock battered by the meltemi? But that’s exactly why his wines taste alive.

Vaptistis isn’t about safe choices. No Chardonnay, no Cabernet, no comfort zone. Only island grapes that survived centuries of salt, stone, and hunger: Assyrtiko, Potamisi, Mavrothiriko, Mavrotragano. Vines crawling through schist, beaten low to the ground, farmed by hand and never pampered.

In the cellar it’s the same attitude. No oak makeup. No industrial shortcuts. Native ferments, amphora when it makes sense, stainless when it doesn’t get in the way. Reds bottled unfiltered, whites riding their lees for texture. The sweet Mastroyianni? Grapes literally cooked under the sun. Brutal, old-school, brilliant.

These bottles aren’t designed to sit quietly on a shelf. They carry the roar of the wind, the sting of salt on skin, the raw beauty of an island that doesn’t bend. Open one, and Tinos doesn’t just visit your glass—it storms right in.