The little Scottish name
with the big Texas range.

Before we had finished our first tasting, we had already met the winemaker, the artist, the vineyard manager, the groundskeeper, the event planner, and the person building a pergola in the Texas heat.

They turned out to be the same two people.

At Portree, nearly everything traces back to Mark and Janet Miertschin. Janet makes the wine, paints many of the labels, teaches art classes, and somehow finds time to shape much of what visitors see when they walk through the door. Mark tends the vines, maintains the property, builds what needs building, and, on our visit, looked exactly like a man who had spent the day working outside in a Texas summer because he had.

The place

The Miertschins bought the property in 2019. At the time, it was raw land. The vines came later — first in 2021, then more in 2022 and 2023 — until Portree had seven acres planted across six varieties. The production facility is not on site yet; Janet makes the wine in Kerrville. But the place already has its own rhythm.

During our visit, the Miertschins were preparing for a marriage proposal scheduled for that Saturday. The original plan centered on an older vineyard-side tasting area tucked beneath the trees, enclosed by wrought-iron fencing and overlooking the vines — a quiet, pretty spot. But the photographer worried it sat too far from the main building, so Mark was already out reshaping another corner of the property to stage a second location, making sure the moment would land exactly right.

It was one more example of what kept showing up throughout the afternoon: a proposal two days away, and the owner himself was out in the heat moving a setting around for a couple he wanted to take care of.

Portree is Texas from top to bottom, but not narrow about what Texas wine can be. Most of the fruit comes from the High Plains, with Hill Country fruit and estate wines beginning to work their way into the portfolio.

The range is the first thing that catches you. Janet releases about two wines a quarter and keeps a portfolio of roughly forty-four wines across about twenty varieties — Picpoul, Chenin Blanc, Petit Manseng, Fiano, Mourvèdre, Tempranillo, Aglianico, Touriga Nacional, a Madeira-style dessert wine, even a bag-wine project named Rex Red after the family granddog. Her explanation is better than anything we could improve:

She does not eat the same thing every night, so why should she drink the same thing every night?

The tasting moved like that — curious, generous, and unafraid of the unfamiliar. The Picpoul Blanc was bright and crisp, the kind of white that makes sense on a 100°F-plus Texas afternoon. The Petit Manseng was richer and more surprising, tropical and full-bodied without relying on oak. The estate Fiano mattered most: it was Portree’s own fruit beginning to speak back from the property.

That name matters. Portree is a small fishing village on the Isle of Skye in Scotland, a place the Miertschins remembered from travel. They wanted something personal, something different, and something that could carry a little family feeling without sounding like every other winery name in the Hill Country.

The stacked stones on the label come from the same world. When hikers discover stacked stones along a trail, they are markers left by someone who came before — a quiet sign that says this way, you are not the first. And when hikers find them, they often add one of their own.

The symbol becomes less about a destination and more about the people who passed through before, and the ones still to come. That is a fitting emblem for Portree: a place built one project, one planting, and one season at a time, by two people who clearly hope you will add your own stone to the pile.

The wine room feels curated by people rather than designed by committee.

One of the things Malana loved most about Portree was discovering how much of Janet herself is woven into the winery. As a former art major and art teacher, she noticed the artwork immediately. The paintings on the walls felt too personal to have been chosen from a catalog, and several bottle labels carried the same hand. Eventually she asked who the artist was.

Janet smiled and admitted the artist and the winemaker were the same person.

That revelation changed the room. The paintings, the labels, the classes, the colors, the details around the tasting room — suddenly they felt less like decoration and more like an extension of the person pouring the wine. The art is part of the program, too: Janet runs Paint & Sip classes in the tasting room, and one ongoing piece — a Georgia O’Keeffe–inspired red poppy — is the kind of project that turns a tasting room into a studio. Her work hangs throughout the winery.

At one point even the pendant lights above the tasting bar became part of the conversation. Portree is full of details that reveal themselves slowly.

Portree is filled with evidence that someone cares.
Not in a corporate way.
In a personal way.

I found myself doing something I rarely do. I’d taste a wine, nod, and immediately add a bottle to my order. Then it happened again. And again.

At one point I looked at Janet and told her I was proud of her. The words came out before I had time to think about them. A minute later I apologized, worried it sounded condescending or inappropriate.

What I meant was simple: the wines were excellent, but what impressed me most was the scale of what she and Mark had built together.

The vineyard.
The artwork.
The labels.
The events.
The classes.
The endless stream of new ideas.
The attention to detail.

Everything seemed to carry their fingerprints.

At one point I found myself complimenting everything from the wines to the pendant lights hanging above the tasting bar. That sounds ridiculous until you’ve spent an afternoon at Portree. Everywhere you look there is another detail that somebody thought about.

Some winery visits leave you wanting another glass. Portree left us wanting another afternoon. We arrived hoping to discover a winery. We left thinking we had discovered people we’d genuinely like to know better.

The reds showed the same willingness to roam. A 2020 Tempranillo from Salt Lick Vineyard brought dark fruit and cedar. A Mason-grown Mourvèdre spent 32 months in oak and came across dark, smooth, and polished. The Aglianico looked like it was going to be heavier than it was, then surprised by staying clean and approachable. The Touriga Nacional, from the High Plains, had the depth and patience of a wine that had earned its time in oak.

Then came the dessert wine. Rich caramel, chocolate, toasted sugar, and enough concentration to make everyone at the table pause. I immediately regretted not buying a bottle. It was the kind of wine that practically begs for vanilla ice cream, and the kind of bottle you keep thinking about after you’ve left.

What makes Portree different is not a single wine, vineyard block, or tasting-room feature. It’s the visibility of the owners.

You can see Janet’s influence in the artwork, labels, classes, wines, and creative direction. You can see Mark’s influence in the vines, structures, grounds, and projects still underway.

Most wineries eventually become polished enough that the people disappear behind the brand. At Portree, the people are the brand.

Portree is best for visitors who like small wineries with real owners in the room, unusual Texas-grown varieties, label art with a human hand behind it, and tastings that can move from crisp Picpoul to Touriga Nacional to a sun-aged dessert wine without losing the thread. It is also a strong stop for people who want to understand how broad Texas wine can be when a winemaker is willing to chase more than the familiar grapes.

Maybe skip it if you only want a giant commercial tasting hall, a predictable five-wine lineup, or a winery that has already sanded off every rough edge. Portree’s charm is that it still feels actively made.

By the end of the afternoon, we weren’t simply admiring a winery. We were admiring the life Mark and Janet had built around it. That feeling stayed with us long after we left.