Glacier Ridge Winery
Glacier Ridge Winery has stood at the northern fringe of Wit’s End for so long that no one is quite sure which came first — Sorbet County’s reputation for strange things, or the winery’s. The earliest records date back to the late 1800s, when an ambitious vintner named Alphonse Merrow — a lifelong friend of the fabled Ellis Moody — declared that the valley’s crisp night air and “glacially” rich soil were perfect for growing grapes with “character.” What exactly that meant is still up for debate; some say the grapes absorbed the whispers that rolled through the valley at night, others simply credit the cool mist that slides down from the green hills. Either way, Merrow’s wine was an instant success, drawing visitors from miles around to sample the shimmering vintage that locals claimed could “warm even the iciest soul.”
Over the decades, the estate grew from a humble vineyard into a lavish property complete with a hotel, ballroom, and sprawling gardens. Marble statues were imported from Europe to line the pathways, depicting gods, muses, and the occasional odd nymph or two. At night, under a bright moon, locals whisper that the statues leave their pedestals to waltz among the vines. The groundskeepers swear the gravel paths are mysteriously scattered most mornings, even on nights when no one’s been outside. Skeptics attribute this to wind and good irrigation.
Then, of course, there’s the Craggorn — Sorbet County’s most infamous nocturnal legend. The creature is said to haunt the vineyard rows after sunset: a mawing beast with footfalls like hammers and a taste for the unwary. Teenagers dare each other to sneak into the vines at night and return with a grape as proof, though most don’t make it past the first few rows before something rustles ominously and sends them sprinting home. Percy Maelock once claimed the Craggorn isn’t a beast at all, but the restless guardian of the vines, cursed centuries ago to protect the land from thieves. Whether or not this is true depends on who’s telling the story — and how much Merrow wine they’ve had.
Despite its haunted reputation, Glacier Ridge Winery is the beating heart of Sorbet County’s social calendar. Grand weddings, charity galas, and late-summer harvest festivals are held in its grand ballroom, its wide windows overlooking the many rooftops of Wit’s End and Lake Rumoure far below. Locals dress to the nines and dance beneath crystal chandeliers. Tourists, meanwhile, are content to stroll through the vineyards, sip at overpriced tastings, and speculate about which statue is going to turn its head next. The winery has learned to lean into its legends—it even offers a “Midnight Waltz Tour,” though no one ever explains what the tour entails, exactly.
But Glacier Ridge has never been just a hotel and vineyard. It is a place where stories seem to pool like the deep red Merrow Reserve, dark and heady. Percy Maelock has shared stories of sneaking onto the property as a child, hiding behind stone urns and pretending to overhear the statues whispering secrets.
Today, Glacier Ridge Winery & Luxury Hotel stands much as it always has: grand, a little strange, and steeped in the kind of history that clings like ivy. Some guests come for the wine, others for the legend. I was among the latter. But for those who grew up in Sorbet County, the winery is something else entirely. It’s a reminder that beneath all the chandeliers and cork-popping lies a valley that has always been a little enchanted, and maybe a little dangerous too.
