In the mysterious quiet of wine cellars, in the dark bowels of the fertile Crimean land the divine drink is ripening for years

In the captivity of centenary wood oaks, in pot-bellied barrels it ripens, acquiring a unique taste, thin aroma and gold brown tones. These notes fill the brandy, but every day, on a marvel, all less and less of drink hides in its cradle. Is there a guilt of the noble wood or is it a miracle in the taciturn semidarkness of cellars?

It is said, that sometimes the thin rays of light illume an underground reign. And angels go down from the skies on transparent roads. Only noise of white wings disturbs a quiet. Angels touch every barrel and taking a sip a little of brandy, give him the same unique, perfect taste, which is so reverented by its veritable connoisseurs.

Only then the careful hands of vine-makers free the drink from the captivity, only then it becomes truly priceless.

Koktebel is the land of brandies.