Rosé Colored Glasses

An ode to rest and relaxation at Montage Healdsburg, wine country’s best-kept secret where vineyard bounty and seasonal flavors cultivate the ideal weekend retreat

My best-loved practice (or should I say, paradox) consistently proves to be the art of doing nothing. It’s a mindset coupled with the resolution to maintain a minimal agenda, which, in this particular moment, means donning a waffle-knit bathrobe on a chaise lounge beneath an orange sky, an ice-cold glass of rosé in hand. Pairs well with: a deck of playing cards, a jar of Castelvetrano olives, and absolutely nowhere to be.

Daydreams of splaying myself in the late August sun and a renewed dedication to slowing down catalyzed our much-needed girls’ getaway. It took very little convincing to whisk my friend, Ashley, up the 101 freeway to Healdsburg, a quaint yet mighty town at the juncture of three prominent California wine-growing valleys. Think: Napa’s relaxed, charming twin sister. As we round the rose-lined driveway of Montage Healdsburg on a Wednesday afternoon, our bags are swiftly collected in exchange for two glasses of the property’s private label Surveyor Sauvignon Blanc and Cab-Sauv upon arrival. Situated on 258 acres of rolling vineyards in the heart of Sonoma Valley, the views offer a painting-like backdrop for our weekend’s amusements. The property encompasses 130 guest rooms and Harvest Home residences, blending environmentally conscious design with refined luxury. We ease into our bungalow, a stunning hideaway harmoniously nestled between groves of heritage oak trees, accented by mid-century modern fixings and an outdoor enclave.

As quickly as I slip into my bathrobe, a delivery of green goddess wellness shots and accoutrements arrive at our doorstep—a welcome jumpstart to our evening. We nibble on fresh fruit before rinsing off in the outdoor rainfall shower, a satisfyingly primitive contrast to our interior sanctuary. A wardrobe change and a jaunt down the drive land us at Scout Field Bar, the indoor-outdoor property centerpiece boasting seasonal craft libations and breathtaking vineyard views. I take my first sip of “Menzies Inferno,” a refreshing concoction of serrano-infused tequila, amaro, and strawberry, with a habanero-salted rim. We tête-à-tête over first sips, expressing much delight in pulling off a midweek escape, to which our bartender playfully affirms, “Any day can be the weekend if you want it to be.”

We opt for a second round—this time a jalapeño cilantro gin-wash—to be savored as we make our way next door for dinner at Hazel Hill. Our reservation situates us al fresco under a pink sky, with a perfect view of both the vineyard and open kitchen, adorned with copper accents and a charming indoor microgreen garden. The property’s terroir-to-table philosophy not only guides the winemaking, but also rings as an omnipresent practice in the kitchen, showcasing refined French technique using locally sourced ingredients.

We nosh on Goguette sourdough with duck fat and herb butter before diving into the main events: 38 North chicken with bacon and pearl onion, alongside its natural complement—the Liberty Farms duck breast in a rhubarb sherry reduction. The meat is a succulent explosion of flavor, only to be further complemented by a chilled glass of gamay as the sun dips below the horizon. Despite slipping into a food-coma-induced haze, my insatiable sweet tooth can’t resist a Brooklyn Blackout cake, its mousse-like consistency tempting me to lick the plate clean. A post-dinner glass by the fire, paired with a symphony of cicadas, lulls us into a restful sleep.

Striations of light dance through the acacia slats above our California king, waking us in perfect timing to catch a gentle yoga session in the vineyard. We stretch and twist among the vines, our preemptive unwind before heading to Spa Montage, a Forbes five-star retreat nestled in the volcanic hillside. CBD oil and percussive therapy melt away any last knots in my back, followed by a sauna session and swift wardrobe change into our pickleball attire. We meet at the on-property Compass Sports adventure hub, where Beau, our guide and volley partner for the afternoon, humors us with a two-on-one match on the private courts.

We trek back to the lobby via a nature trail, working up an appetite for a swimsuit-clad poolside lunch from Hudson Springs Bar and Grill. With a “Cabana Dreams” cocktail in hand, our carefree afternoon of lounging is aptly christened. We sip and flip as the UV heightens, snacking on shrimp ceviche and tacos between cooling off in the zero-edge pool.

We refresh and ready for an afternoon of tastings at Jordan Vineyard & Winery, an independently owned winery situated on a 1,200-acre estate from the ’70s with architecture and design elements inspired by the Palace of Versailles. We are drawn into the space, welcomed by a sunshine-yellow façade ornamented with ivy vines, and a visit from John Jordan, the chief proprietor of the vineyard, proclaiming himself the “Walt Disney of wine.” Our delightfully unexpected meet-the-maker leads into a speakeasy cellar tasting of the estate’s olive oil and current-release wines paired with seasonal bites, a favorite being the cold fennel soup with caviar.

In our typical fashion, we keep the party rolling en route to the Healdsburg Plaza for happy hour at the Matheison, a downtown farm-to-table staple and purveyor of what I’ve coined as a wall of “wine vending machines.” A mix-and-match of dispensed wine splashes brings us to the rooftop bar, where we cap off our time with a spritz and dinner, then meet our complimentary private transfer back to the Montage.

We arrive to a surprise bucket of chilled Surveyor rosé in our bungalow, as if a telepathic fairy godmother granted our unspoken wish. We taste the final trifecta of wines grown on the property, accompanied by a triple suite of card games by the fire, because good things come in threes. After savoring a generous pour (or three), we do what any overindulged duo naturally would: run an overzealous bubble bath in the freestanding tub that foams its way into minor chaos, our laughter howling through the bungalow over a nightcap. Perhaps these moments are our greatest luxury; the rare permission to do nothing, and let that be everything.