I’m sitting opposite Rino Fontana, an Italian wine collector that Antonio Galloni named his Wine Personality of the Year in 2023. Fontana looks unassuming – like any other septuagenarian that you might find, cigarette in hand, knocking back an espresso in a sunny piazza. Sunglasses hang on a string around his neck, and occasionally he rifles through scraps of paper that seem to operate as a calendar and/or journal. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it was perhaps someone a little more, well, suave. Fontana has been collecting wine since the 1980s and is renowned for his cellar, a treasure trove of remarkable vintages from Piedmont’s top producers. Indeed, Galloni has dubbed him “Il Professore” for his extensive knowledge of Italian wine – despite never having worked in the industry. As Fontana scrolls through pictures on his phone, recalling recent dinners, he rolls off names and vintages that would leave any wine-lover speechless. He grew up in the Oltrepò Pavese, where his father was a stonemason, but would buy grapes and make a little wine for the family. Fontana was sent to school in Valenza, a town known for its gold industry – and he started working in a gold factory in his late teens. Aged 24, he and his best friend opened their own jewellery workshop. It was the owner of a local restaurant in nearby Mortara who introduced Fontana to the real pleasures of wine, and a bottle of Conterno’s Monfortino that made him fall head over heels for Nebbiolo – the 1958 vintage, in fact. Since that first taste, he’s opened over 150 bottles (yes, really) of the 1958 Monfortino. It was that wine that prompted Fontana to start visiting producers – an adventure in self-education. At the time, people weren’t buying wine, and Italy’s winemakers were far from fashionable. He became friends with the likes of Giuseppe Rinaldi, Bruno Giacosa and Gianfranco Soldera, rapidly securing significant allocations of their wines when few others were showing interest. Producers, in turn, suggested he had a gift – unique in his ability to understand wines in barrel and foretell their future. Today, he covers around 80,000km a year visiting producers – but the vast majority of that mileage is in Piedmont, for Fontana drinks – and collects – little other than Nebbiolo. This one grape represents around 95% of his consumption, he says, with Barolo and/or Barbaresco on the menu every day. He always has the latest releases on hand in the fridge – even some basic Langhe Nebbiolo, but at least twice a week he’ll uncork something special from the 1960s or ’80s with wine-loving friends or producers. While Nebbiolo is one of many grapes to be declared “the king of wines”, for Fontana it really does reign supreme. When I ask why, marvelling at how he could drink so much of just one variety, he shrugs: “Nebbiolo is Nebbiolo.” When I push him, he says he loves its ageability, structure and elegance – something he feels you can’t find in Pinot Noir. He recalls a recent dinner with Galloni at Il Centro in Priocca, sharing a bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti’s 2004 La Tâche alongside a 1947 Borgogno Barolo and 1989 Vigna Rionda from Giacosa. Both the Barolos, he says, grew over the dinner – while the La Tâche faded slowly. For him, Burgundy (even the world’s most sought-after bottles) is no match for Nebbiolo. That’s a controversial opinion – but Fontana is not a man short of views. He dismisses the wines of Cappellano and Accomasso, while he has firm beliefs on how Nebbiolo should be made, favouring traditional winemaking with old oak – not wanting to feel the wood in the wine. He argues that too many young producers are going to Burgundy and trying to echo that style in their wines, losing their Piedmontese identity. The resulting wines are, he feels, too technical, too clean. “Great wine can’t be perfect,” he says – suggesting that those imperfections are partly what makes wine feel alive. While the most established and famous producers dominate his collection, he also likes the wines from newer names such as Trediberri, Crissante and Cascina Baricchi. Beyond Nebbiolo, he’ll dabble in certain labels of Sangiovese – Soldera, for example will pass muster, as well as SanCarlo (a producer he feels rivals the former). Montevertine’s Le Pergole Torte would previously have been a prime choice, but now he’d choose Le Boncie’s Le Trame instead. He likes Valentini and Emidio Pepe, and used to buy Gravner but feels the style changed in 2004 so stopped. He sold his jewellery business in 2000 – dedicating his time entirely to wine – visiting producers, building his collection and selling to select parties (of which FINE+RARE is lucky enough to be one). Fontana has around 9,000 bottles in his collection today. He shows us a video of his cellar – intriguingly with many of the wines stored upright. Anything post 1990 is kept on its side, but older wines stand proud in his cellar – something which he argues is better once they reach a certain age, with the cork and humidity of the cellar more important in their preservation. It’s a remarkable collection, with incredible verticals of many wines. His access seems unparalleled – receiving larger allocations than many importers, given his historical ties. He is the only individual, for example, to receive an allocation of Rinaldi’s Brunate Cru – a wine that is otherwise kept exclusively for the family. Some of his most prized bottles are Giacosa’s 1964 Santo Stefano and magnums of 1970 Monfortino (“amazing” – he says), while he has a soft spot for the youthful 2015 Soldera. Now aged 73, Fontana seems just as enchanted by wine as when he first tasted that 1958 Monfortino. I ask him if there’s a wine he is still desperate to taste, a unicorn that he’s still hunting: the answer is no. He’s been able to try every vintage from the producers he loves. It’s a rare answer for a wine lover – but “Il Professore” isn’t your average wine collector. – Photography of Rino Fontana at Il Centro by Dan Deibel Explore a selection of top verticals from Fontana’s cellar, all Italian listings or read more Editorial

Friends with Vinous founder and critic Antonio Galloni, and with a cellar that will turn you green with envy, Rino Fontana is Italy’s most famous wine collector. We sat down with the man himself to find out more about his journey into wine, incredible collection and obsession with one grape  

Antonio Galloni’s Wine Personality of the Year 2023, Rino Fontana is Italy’s most famous wine collector – we met the man to talk about his cellar

Rino Fontana – the wine collector like no other

Rino Fontana: a collector like no other

Touching down in Burgundy last week was a shock. Coming from London’s autumnal hues, the hit of hot air as the plane doors opened was surprising – indeed, it’s abnormally balmy across much of Europe at the moment. It’s another reminder of climate change and the very real impact it is having – especially on viticulture and other agriculture. While the cool and rainy 2021 vintage felt like a return to the old Burgundy (with all its challenges), 2022 and 2023 were both modern vintages that speak of global warming. The region’s vignerons were in a good mood, with the 2023 vintage harvested weeks ago and the wines safely in the cellar. For once, they have had not one but two consecutive vintages offering decent volumes, helping to make up for a run of tiny crops. The cellars are – at last – looking a little less barren. Indeed, the regional body Vins de Bourgogne reported that 2022 represents a 75% increase on the measly volumes of 2021. The 2022 vintage, however, was the reason for and focus of our visit – getting our first taste of the wines that will be dominating the calendar for the next few months. As I’ve mentioned, this was a modern vintage, a year that is very much the new normal. The winter was cold, however warmer temperatures in February and March saw an early start to the season. Once again the mercury dropped in April with the threat of frost, however it didn’t seem to have major ramifications. The summer was warm and dry – with heavy rain in late June breaking the drought, providing essential refreshment for the vines in the year’s arid conditions. At Louis Jadot, Thibault Gagey explained how there were two weeks in August with temperatures over 35˚C, during which the vines shut down. Alvina Pernot explained how plots with richer soils – those with more clay and better water retention – fared better, pointing to Clos des Folatières as a site that thrived in the year, as well as older vines with deeper roots, those that could reach and draw upon water reserves. Picking started at the very end of August, with another contracted harvest during which the ability to pick what you wanted when you wanted key to quality. The good news was that the crop was plentiful, with most managing to achieve a full crop, with a maximum of up to 15-20% less for some of the Chardonnay. Looking at the season on paper, it’s easy to imagine the resulting wines might be dominated by their ripeness – but that’s simply not the case. We need to taste and talk much more into exactly why, however it seems that the generous yield was the year’s saviour. With so much fruit for the vine to ripen, sugar levels remained moderate. As in 2020, the grapes retained high levels of tartaric acid, bringing surprising freshness to the wines. The malic acid was degraded, but this meant that the malolactic fermentation had less impact on the final wines and their balance (although we anticipate that some may still have chosen to block it). From what we’ve tasted so far, the reds show particular promise – offering juicy, concentrated fruit without drifting into over-ripe or jammy, vibrant acidity and fine-textured yet very present tannins. Those we’ve tasted are amazingly open even though few have yet finished élevage – the ripe fruit shining through, but there’s a gravitas beneath that appealing, mouth-watering fruit. The whites, meanwhile, are classical in their fruit expression, with more traditional white peach, melon, pear and citrus. There’s good dry extract and density here, with balance too. They have natural tension, and there seems to be a pleasing bitterness that adds to their freshness, something we found consistent across producers so far. In general alcohols are modest, sitting mainly between 12.5 and 13.5%, for both reds and whites. This is only the beginning of our deep dive into the 2022 vintage, however we left the sunny streets of Beaune filled with excitement about the year. There is still much to discover and explore, and much, much more to taste to inform our full vintage report – but it’s clear already that this is a year with great potential, and one that you’ll want in your cellar. We’ll be publishing more on Burgundy 2022 in due course; in the meantime, browse all current Burgundy 2022 listings.

Fresh from our first trip to Burgundy to taste the 2022s, we offer some early thoughts on the vintage – a year that is showing great promise

Fresh from our initial trip to the region, we dig into Burgundy 2022 – a warm year that has produced some surprisingly fresh wines

Our first thoughts on Burgundy 2022 en primeur

Burgundy 2022 at first glance

One hundred years ago, two men, inspired by the Scottish distilling tradition, produced the first Japanese whisky. In the years that have followed, the category’s fortunes – much like its founders’ relationship – have been turbulent.    The story begins in 1923 when pharmaceutical wholesaler turned Spanish wine importer Shinjiro Torii invested his family fortune in building the Yamazaki distillery, against their advice. Torii enlisted the help of wet-behind-the-ears chemist Masataka Taketsuru – who had spent time learning his craft in Scotland – to lead production on their first whisky, Suntory Shirofuda, which was released in 1929. The two men did not see eye to eye and parted ways following the dismal reception of Shirofuda. Taketsuru famously went on to found the other great Japanese whisky producer, Nikka, and their fierce rivalry persisted. This is one of the reasons Japanese distilleries, to this day, blend in-house rather than trade liquid. Despite this rocky start, the Japanese domestic whisky market looked bullish by the late 1930s – Yamazaki’s next whisky (Suntory Kakubin, released in 1937) was more warmly received and Taketsuru successfully re-entered the scene with his first whisky, Nikka Yoichi, in 1940.  Fast forward to the early 1980s and the category was in fine fettle – Suntory and Nikka had both released their first single malt expressions and there was plenty of cause for optimism. But this prosperity sadly did not last as a steep decline in consumption caused the Japanese whisky market to splutter and almost entirely stall, resulting in many distilleries, including Karuizawa, being forced to close their doors. Both Yamazaki and Nikka managed to stay afloat but their output was significantly reduced as the economy and category stagnated, marking a bleak 25-year chapter in Japanese whisky’s history.   When demand was reignited around the mid-to-late 2000s, it largely came from Europe. A perfect storm caused this spike in interest, including wider interest in Japan (think Bill Murray in Lost in Translation), the resurgence of the Highball cocktail (circa 2007) and Suntory’s Yamazaki Single Malt Sherry Cask 2013 being named the world’s best in 2014 – a first for the category. Around this time, the world was also introduced to Ichiro Akuto’s highly collectable Card Series and the lost distilling icon, Karuizawa. “The mad scramble for crumbs on the Japanese whisky scene is something nobody could have predicted,” acclaimed Japanese whisky writer and Ghost Series independent bottler Stefan Van Eycken tells me. “In the space of 10 years, the situation went from being able to buy a whole range of single-cask Japanese whiskies at a big electronics chain for peanuts to bottles not even reaching the shelves of liquor stores anymore. “Even I, who had been exploring the Japanese whisky scene in the ‘dark ages’, couldn’t have predicted that,” he says matter-of-factly. “If I could have, I would have rented a van, bought up all the bottlings that were available for purchase and I could have retired by now.” Yumi Yoshikawa joined the team at Chichibu in 2013 after a two-year stint in Scotland, first working in the Highlander Inn in Craigellachie – which will require little introduction for spirits journalists or enthusiasts – and at the Bruichladdich Distillery on Islay. “People didn’t know the value of aged [Japanese] whisky back then,” Yoshikawa tells me. “Or that Japan had a long whisky history,” she adds. Somebody who was instrumental in educating the world on these two points is Marcin Miller, a man whose fortitude dragged Karuizawa out of obscurity. The genteel and thoroughly entertaining former Whisky Magazine Editor turned drinks entrepreneur, recalls the landscape when he and business partner David Croll first tasted those fateful Karuizawa single casks in the early 2000s.  “The most common complaint [from whisky enthusiasts] at the time would seem to be that it's all very well for me tasting this stuff but we never get to see any where we are in Western Europe or Northern America,” he recalls. So the two men set about changing this by buying the remaining stock from the then-lost Karuizawa, bottling it, and making it available to the masses – with resounding success. It’s a gross misapprehension – held by many – that the duo meandered into a meeting room, tasted a parcel of Karuizawa, bought it on the spot, and bottled it shortly after, grinning like Cheshire cats as the coffers swelled. In truth, it was four and a half years of negotiation and countless sleepless nights during the process. When pallets of casks from the ghost distillery in a nascent whisky market were finally shipped to them, there was no guarantee the wider whisky world would be interested. “Whatever anyone says, it really was not easy…” He trails off, transported to that time, and all the challenges the pair transversed when bringing the mature Japanese whisky from a then-unknown producer to its now almost mythic status.  Miller talks of the “extraordinary, phenomenal effect” Karuizawa had on him. Croll, Miller and acclaimed drinks writer Dave Broom – who has since quite literally written the book on Japanese whisky – initially tasted 69 single-cask Karuizawa samples. “I would have bottled any of those casks,” Miller says, a fond smile warming his face. If it hadn’t been for Croll, who had lived in Japan for 30 years and owned a successful drinks business, Miller says they likely never would have got a foot in the door at Karuizawa – or secured the exclusive distribution rights of the much-lauded Chichibu and Hanyu. “I dare say Karuizawa would have been blended away into big plastic five-litre tubs of supermarket whisky,” Miller says reticently. When Van Eycken moved to Japan around the same time as Miller and Co were negotiating the Karuizawa deal, he hadn’t even realised whisky was being produced there. Japanese whisky consumption and production were at an all-time low and the general feeling, he says, was that the whisky made in Japan was “cheap and good for getting a buzz when going out, but that the good stuff – that you would savour – was Scotch, and Bourbon, to a lesser extent”. The intrepid Van Eycken was taken aback by the quality of the long-aged liquids he sampled on his travels and couldn’t understand why this sentiment wasn’t shared domestically or further afield. When Japanese whisky’s popularity did finally begin to soar, he was perfectly placed to fill the knowledge chasm with his widely acclaimed Nonjatta website and, later, his seminal work Whisky Rising – a fully updated second edition of which came out earlier this year.  “When I wrote the original edition in 2016, there were 14 active distilleries in Japan,” he says. “Fast forward to mid-2022 and there were 41 active distilleries (and even more in the progress of getting ready to distil),” Van Eycken tells me. All of the new distilleries, he says, are attempting to follow the so-called “craft model” with a single pair of pot stills and fairly limited production. The inspiration, of course, being Ichiro Akuto and his incredible accomplishments over the past 15 years at Chichibu. “But not everyone can be an Ichiro – though most new distillers are certainly hoping to be equally successful, if not more, than Ichiro,” he adds. Several of these new distilleries are located in and around the town of Karuizawa. “My personal feeling is that it doesn’t make a lot of sense to try and compete with the legend that is the (old) Karuizawa distillery,” Van Eycken is quick to add. “The liquid that was made there turned out to be something very special, and not only by design. I have had the dubious pleasure of tasting the new-make from the old Karuizawa distillery and it was absolutely foul.  “But during the maturation process, over 20, 30, 40 years, something magical happened. Some of this can be explained, but most of it is a hermetic mystery. We simply cannot know why decades later this harsh spirit transformed into a sublime whisky (in most cases). Even if you wanted to replicate this whisky – or aspects of it – you couldn’t.  “And hoping to match the quality of the (original) Karuizawa whisky… well, it’s good to aim high but it's a bit like naming your kid Roger Federer in the hope that he would turn into a tennis player of the same calibre. Why would you want to put that sort of pressure on the kid?”  Miller is humility personified and doesn’t want to come across as a wizened cynic or, in his words, “boring old fart”, but he’s not confident that all the country’s new distilleries are set for success. “I think people are now trying to replicate the business success but without the foundation of the liquid. They are selling Japanese whisky futures but who knows what the liquid is going to be like because it's not just A + B = C.” There is a cautionary tale in the annals of Scottish whisky distilling that Japanese producers might be wise to heed. Scotch has famously fallen victim to its own success – with booms and busts resulting in whisky lakes, or lochs, that have crippled the industry and forced mass distillery closures. In so faithfully replicating Scotch, there is a real danger Japan will find itself back in the 1980s when the likes of Karuizawa were shuttered. This time, however, there would be many more casualties.      “For the time being, the Japanese whisky scene continues to be marked by an unbridled optimism,” Van Eycken adds. “Distillers price their (invariably young) whiskies very high (compared with similarly established whisky markets around the world) and consumers snap up the bottles regardless of the (sometimes unjustifiably) high prices.”  This price war is one of the reasons Miller et al sold their remaining stock of Karuizawa, which had initially been priced fairly but wasn’t the case when they left the scene. The 1960 Karuizawa, for example, which yielded 41 bottles was released circa 2014 for £12,500. Within a decade, those same bottles were easily reaching $375,000. “That's not a bad return in 10 years,” Miller says caustically. “But that's not why we did it. If that had been our motivation, we'd have just held on to it and had 41 times that.” For those still in the industry – and disciples of it – there is a real push to protect the integrity of Japanese whisky and futureproof it. Yoshikawa picks up the point, outlining that the few have muddied the water for the many: “The rapid publicity and the reputation of Japanese whisky have led to its use of excessive PR strategies, even when this is not in line with the facts of the product.” For these reasons, she is an advocate of more stringent regulations, like the ones announced by the Japan Spirits and Liqueurs Makers Association in 2021 which aims to restrict certain practices – like labelling whisky that isn’t actually from Japan as Japanese whisky – akin to those enshrined and strongly policed in Scotland. But she, like many, thinks these could go further and believe it is important to continue scrutinising the practices of the small and larger players, ensuring there is greater transparency and less “skullduggery”, as Van Eycken puts it. As the ink dries on the past 100 years of Japanese whisky, no one knows what the next century might entail – but there's plenty of excitement. The landscape will undoubtedly change once more, and new giants and legends will likely emerge. For whisky enthusiasts, the challenge – as always – will be pre-empting the plot twists and securing bottles before they become little more than folklore.  Browse all Japanese whisky or read more editorial

As Japanese whisky enters its 100th year, producers are in a mad scramble to build the next legend. Holly Motion assesses whether previous fairytale endings can be repeated – and ponders if those individuals attempting to stand on the shoulders of giants might have a great fall

Exploring the epic story of Japanese whisky – from its genesis, to rebirth and future – as it celebrates its centenary.

100 years of Japanese whisky

A modern epic: 100 years of Japanese whisky

Second wines are no longer à la mode. In Bordeaux, these junior siblings – traditionally made with declassified fruit from the Grand Vin – are being rebranded as alternate expressions of a château. While this has fast become a familiar trope among the region’s master marketeers (who wants to suggest that anything is lesser?), for the Guinaudeau family of Ch. Lafleur the idea has become a fundamental part of their philosophy.  “A new cuvée, a new label – that’s marketing,” says Omri Ram – the man at the helm of the Guinaudeau estates today. For the family (who are mentioned repeatedly in our conversation, their involvement and influence is much more than monetary), any new wines must be a new Cru. Literally meaning a “growth”, the term doesn’t translate particularly well, but it’s a wine that should be “from viticulture, terroir, ideology”, Ram says. The inspiration is Burgundy rather than Bordeaux, comparing to Amoureuses or Malconsorts, a site that offers a distinct expression, year in, year out. “A special cuvée that costs 300 bucks – no, thank you,” he laughs. It hasn’t always been the approach at Ch. Lafleur – or more accurately, the “Société Civile du Ch. Lafleur" (the name that encompasses all the Guinaudeau estates). Les Pensées was originally conceived as a second wine, used to ensure the consistency and top quality of the Grand Vin, primarily made with fruit from young vines. But that all shifted in 2000, when they decided to separate out a diagonal 0.7-hectare valley, a strip of clay within the otherwise gravel-dominated Lafleur vineyard. The concept was – and is – to take the same core DNA of Lafleur, their old-vine material – and translate it through the lens of different terroirs. Les Pensées was their first step towards this, but in the early 2000s the Guinaudeau family started thinking about another expression of Lafleur – one on limestone. Little did they know that it would take almost 20 years for this idea to come to fruition.  And so they started looking for a limestone site. But Pomerol is the only place on the Right Bank with absolutely no limestone, and a plot on Saint-Emilion’s plateau (the obvious choice for prime limestone terroir) was a pipedream. In the unlikely scenario that a plot came up for sale, the price would be astronomical (the buyer would, in Ram’s words, need to have “big, big, big, big pockets”, his eyes visibly boggling at the idea). And while Ch. Lafleur might be uttered in the same breath as the likes of Pétrus, Lafite and Margaux, it remains a small, family-run affair. With Saint-Emilion ruled out, the family turned closer to home.  A distant but direct ancestor of the Guinaudeau family established Ch. Grand Village in 1650, and Jacques and Sylvie Guinaudeau reclaimed the Fronsac estate in 1980. Five years later they took charge of Ch. Lafleur, marking the start of this illustrious property’s renaissance. While their reputation has been built on the Pomerol estate, Fronsac has always been home. In fact, Jacques and Sylvie still live at Grand Village today, while their children– and current custodians of the family business –Baptiste and Julie also live on the outskirts of the village.   Although Fronsac might be considered lowly today, in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, its wines commanded higher prices than those of either Saint-Emilion or Pomerol. The Médoc reigned supreme, with its affluence, proximity to the city of Bordeaux and access to transport via the Gironde – but Fronsac, bordered on one side by the Dordogne River and on the other by one of its subsidiaries, Isle, was not far behind. As nearby Libourne developed, this only helped Fronsac and its wines grow in importance. Back then, Ram explains: “You couldn’t cheat. If you didn’t have a great terroir, you wouldn’t be able to make great wine in nine out of 10 years.” Of course, the region fell from grace – and even today you can stumble across abandoned vineyards, no longer bringing in enough income for someone to bother to farm them. But the best wines speak for themselves – Ram and the Lafleur team have tasted bottles back through the 20th century and there are undoubtedly “great, great things” – even up until the 1980s, proving the potential of the region.  That history, combined with the familial ties and a dream of reviving Fronsac’s reputation of yore, made the region the obvious choice.   There were two elements key to creating a new Cru for the Guinaudeau family: firstly, the right site, but secondly having massal selections of their old vines. Lafleur has long championed its particular plantings of Bouchet (a historic name for Cabernet Franc) and Merlot that pre-date clonal selection.  They started a nursery for their heritage clones at Ch. Grand Village – taking cuttings of their most interesting old vines, grafting them onto American rootstocks and then repeating the process. The challenge was cultivating enough vine material for a new site. As this project got underway, the family continued their search for the perfect vineyards – but also decided they needed to test the theory, and see if their vines’ DNA would translate on limestone.  And so G Acte was born – a “beta testing” programme for what would become Les Perrières. They picked limestone-dominant plots at Ch. Grand Village for an experimental series, starting with the 2009 vintage – Acte 1. By Acte 6, 7 and 8 (the 2014, ’15 and ’16 vintages), Ram tells me, they knew that they were onto something special. At the same time, the team continued to search for the right site. Originally they looked to Burgundy for their inspiration, where the illustrious Grands Crus sit neither at the top or bottom of the hill – but in Fronsac the mid-slope only proffered overly rich, fertile soils dominated by clay. Each site they explored brought new disappointment – until they decided to forget about Burgundy. The best wines in Pomerol, Saint-Emilion and even the Médoc all come from a plateau – so they changed tack and started hunting for a site perched up high.  Talking to the region’s older vignerons, they discovered the plateau of Meyney – beneath which lies a warren of quarries, the source of the limestone that was used to build much of Libourne, and the châteaux across the Right Bank. The first soil-pit they dug offered instant promise – with a meagre 20cm or so of topsoil before you were scraping at the mother rock.   Almost a decade after their search had begun, in 2011, they bought the first vineyards – Les Canards and Les Poulains – just seven kilometres from Grand Village, then another parcel the following year. When Ram arrived at the estate in September 2013, he spent his first day working on one of those nascent vineyards. The work required was extensive. These sites had been conventionally farmed, planted with clones selected for quantity rather than quality, so they needed total rehabilitation. They uprooted the vines and rotated various cover crops (herbs, flowers, cereals) to revive the soils over four years – totally reconstituting them, returning organic matter and also, importantly, re-stabilising the soil structure. The whole process took four or five years for each plot, with the first of their new plantings only going in in 2016 (Les Canards). The focus was, at first, on Bouchet from Lafleur, with 20 different selections. In 2017, they planted Les Poulains, with around 25 Bouchet selections, then in 2018 they planted three more clay-rich parcels with Merlot, partly with their own heritage selections, as well as some carefully selected clones that passed muster.  In 2018, they harvested their first crop from 3.5 hectares of vines. The quality of the Bouchet from these “extreme limestone” soils was so distinct that – even when blended with Merlot parcels that had previously been used for G Acte – they bottled it under the new Cru’s name, Les Perrières.  Tasting it in a line-up alongside previous vintages of G Acte, the difference is as extreme as the soils. Later vintages of the experimental series offer a red-fruited crunch, vibrancy and transparency, but the 2018 Perrières shows an instant shift. There’s a step up in purity, precision, concentration and complexity, with a wilder, swarthier fruit character, yet it’s the mineral salinity that shines through, and is echoed in the 2019. These are serious wines that have a clear sense of place.  The 2020 vintage is the first that came exclusively from Perrières vineyards, with none of the G Acte parcels (these are now all being used for Grand Village). As they initially had more Bouchet plantings on these sites, the blend has shifted over time – with the 2020 having 70% Bouchet, 60% in 2021 and a return in 2022 to the 50/50 mix that is the norm for Lafleur and Pensées. While the aim isn’t always to have this varietal mix, the vineyards are planted so that Merlot and Bouchet can be equal – but the blend will be decided on taste.  Bouchet might be Lafleur’s trademark, but the Merlot is an essential component in Ram’s view. Alone, Bouchet is too linear, vertical, intellectual and even borderline austere. Merlot complements this, ensuring it not just makes you think, but leaves you reaching for another glass. “The greatest wines are not just for the mind, but for the heart and stomach too,” Ram says.   It’s still early days for Les Perrières – the soon-to-be-released 2022 will be only its fifth vintage. These vines are still babies by almost any standard, let alone those of Ch. Lafleur. Yet its potential – and path – is already clear. Ram anticipates it will take them around 20 years to get the wine to where they really want it to be, sitting as a true equal to Ch. Lafleur, but he’s confident that it’s just a matter of time.  It's amazing to see the work that has gone into this one wine – both on paper and in the glass. This isn’t just marketing, but a creed for the Société Civile du Ch. Lafleur – and one that it’s hard not to believe in. Your cheat sheet to the Lafleur stable: the Société Civile de Ch. Lafleur unpacked Ch. Lafleur – the property’s most famous wine, seen as the Grand Vin, an expression of the Lafleur DNA on gravel  Les Pensées – now an expression of the Lafleur DNA on clay. Up to and including the 1999 vintage, this was Ch. Lafleur’s second wine, made with fruit mainly from younger vines. From the 2000 vintage, the fruit comes exclusively from a diagonal strip of clay in the Lafleur vineyards, and is a different Cru. (It was labelled as Les Pensées de Lafleur prior to 2018, when the “de Lafleur” was officially dropped.)  Les Perrières – an expression of the Lafleur DNA on limestone, sourced from vineyards in Fronsac. The 2018 and 2019 vintages include some parcels at Ch. Grand Village, however from 2020 the fruit is sourced exclusively from separate sites in Fronsac, on extreme limestone soils on the plateau de Meyney.  Les Champs Libres – an expression of pure Sauvignon Blanc on limestone soils, from specific parcels in Fronsac. The first commercial release was the 2013 vintage.  Ch. Grand Village – a red and white are made under the Fronsac estate’s name, which is also the family home (Jacques and Sylvie Guinaudeau still live there today).  G Acte – made from 2009 to the 2017 vintages inclusive, an experimental series testing the concept of Lafleur on limestone while trying to find the right sites for Les Perrières, made using fruit from limestone-dominant parcels at Ch. Grand Village. The releases are numbered, with 2009 Acte 1 and so on.  Explore all Société Civile du Ch. Lafleur listings or read more about Bordeaux  

Ch. Lafleur is a Pomerol icon. Sophie Thorpe sat down with Omri Ram to talk about the philosophy that has driven the creation of its unique Crus – and the evolution of its newest project, Les Perrières

Sitting down with Lafleur winemaker Omri Ram to explore the philosophy behind the Pomerol property’s different Crus – and how G Acte became Les Perrières

How Lafleur created a new Cru with Les Perrières

From the ground up: the creed at Lafleur

Andrew Jefford isn’t like other wine writers. Browse his Instagram account and you’ll find not a bottle in sight. Check his Twitter and you’ll find a steady, quiet stream of haiku – or, as he prefers to describe them, “short texts”. These feeds are – like Jefford –gently honest; absent of ego, flash and fanfare. His prose is poised and purposeful, each word carefully considered yet never weighed down by pointed effort. He is a rarity in the world of wine: a writer whose (main) topic happens to be wine.  “I was always a huge reader. It always meant more to me than anything else,” Jefford tells me, thinking back to his childhood. But wine was omnipresent. As the son of a priest, it was a part of family life, consumed “on high days and holidays”.   “I remember first tasting Champagne with my brother, at the age of 10 or 11,” he says. “It was the first tasting note we agreed on: it tasted like vomit. Things got better from then on, happily.” The slight, wiry wine writer smiles, seeming almost sheepish about the wines that he’s since enjoyed.  Aged 16, Jefford decided to start making wine – brewing up grape juice concentrate and whatever else he could find– to supplement supplies at Sunday lunch. The transformative effects of fermentation hooked him – but it was the concept of terroir that reeled him fully in.  He was working at a local hospital, but after his shift – armed with The Penguin Book of Wines and André Simon’s A Wine Primer – he’d venture out to browse the shelves of “French Wine Farmers”, a wine shop in Norwich. He vividly recalls taking home a bottle of Chianti and being struck by the magic of travelling through a glass. “That’s full of wine. And every drop in there came from a vine in Tuscany. I’m drinking Tuscany!” he recalls thinking.“ And I’ve still not got over that. It’s amazing.”  Wine took a back seat when he set off to study English at the University of Reading, before embarking on both a Masters and PhD. The lure of words led him into publishing – a background which, along with his academic approach, defines his writing today. He spent four years “editing mediocre copy into something readable” – but eventually had had enough, and leapt at the chance to write a book on Port.  From there, he wrote articles for Margaret Rand in Wine Magazine, then Decanter, where he’s now a Contributing Editor and his monthly column is the stuff of legend. He was, for a number of years,The Evening Standard’s drinks writer, penned features for The Financial Times and is a regular in The World of Fine Wine. He’s authored several books – including the deservedly totemic The New France. Published in 2002, it looked beyond Burgundy and Bordeaux, shining a light on the nation’s varied wine scene at a moment when it was going through a revolution. If that wasn’t enough, he’s dabbled in radio, presenting for BBC Radio Three and Four.   While wine might be his mainstay, he’s written extensively on whisky and other spirits (including his respected book on Islay, Peat Smoke and Spirit), as well as travel and perfume. But writing, rather than any particular topic, is his real trade. His editorial experience has been key: his prose is intelligent, considered and a masterclass in eloquent economy – something that he finds all too often lacking elsewhere.   Two of Jefford's most famous books: The New France (2002) and Peat Smoke and Spirit (2004) “One of the problems is that a lot of [wine writing] is online, so there aren’t space constraints,” he decries. “[Wine writing] tends to attract quite large egos. They do write three times more than they need to – because they think it’s all wonderful.” It’s perhaps the lack of ego in Jefford’s writing that sets it apart. He seems to approach any topic unbiased and open – still with the wide-eyed joy of that first bottle of Chianti. Wine remains, to him, “dead exciting”.   “It’s a great shame that fairly early on the rest of the journalistic world decided that wine was a ghetto,” Jefford laments. “It embraced wine with gusto initially – probably in the 1990s – then it all got very boring once we passed 2000 and they just asked everybody to offer recommendations and that’s it. Newspapers are no longer a great school for wine writing in the way that they once were.” It is an industry, he feels, sorely in need of imagination. “There’s such a weight of detail to communicate that people never get their head above the waves of the detail.” And that detail, the intricacies of wine – or “its enormous apparatus of geekdom” – are the challenge. He hopes that his latest book, Drinking with the Valkyries – a collection of his work from the last 15 years, “could climb out of the wine ghetto – to anybody who enjoys language, enjoys storytelling, enjoys the interrelation of place and flavour that wine can offer”.  But, by his own admission, wine is “never going to be a mass market popular subject”. While the industry was long obsessed with finding its own “Jamie Oliver” – someone to bring wine to the masses, food is an essential part of life – “whereas wine need be a part of nobody’s life”.   Wine has, undoubtedly, come a long way – “vastly democratised” – but he worries about the “top end of things”, where wine has become so exclusive as to be “almost a plutocracy”. Wine criticism, for him, is intricately linked to the category’s self-imposed segregation, with “its relentless focus on points, excellence and things being better than other things – hierarchy, rather than difference”.  He’s long been vocal about scoring, feeling like Hugh Johnson that – although they may be of practical use to consumers, who undoubtedly want them – they are “philosophically untenable” and “disempowering”.  “You’re being misled to some extent if you think the 96-point wine is always better than the 94-point wine. It’s miles more complicated than that,” says Jefford, who scores wines reluctantly.“ And very often the 89-point wine can be better than either the 96- or 94-point wine.” His advice to wine drinkers is simple: “Trust your palate.”  Despite his impressive resume and effortless intellect, Jefford’s modesty shines through in our conversation – as we dash from the dangers of climate change (“Misery throughout the Third World – but the Bordelais and Bourguignons are raking it in”) to a fascinating co-fermented 15-variety blend from a Lirac estate (Ch. de Montfaucon’s Vin de Mr le Baron). And while the 66-year-old might be softly pensive in the written – and spoken – word, there’s such energy to the man himself.  He’s invariably described as a wine thinker, a philosopher-cum-writer, as well as – of course – a poet; but it’s impossible to pigeon-hole Jefford, his ideas, or his voice.  Andrew Jefford’s book Drinking with the Valkyries, published by Académie du Vin Library, is out now.

Andrew Jefford is one of the world’s greatest wine writers. As his latest book – Drinking with the Valkyries – is released, Sophie Thorpe caught up with the wordsmith to talk about his career so far, the art of writing and why he’s so against scoring 

Andrew Jefford – one of the world’s most famous wine writers – on his career, the art of writing and why he’s so against scoring wine

Sitting down with wine writer Andrew Jefford

Andrew Jefford: wielding words

To Kalon. For any Californian winemaker, those two words represent the Holy Grail. This vineyard in Oakville, Napa, is undeniably the region’s most famous. Perched at the foot of the Mayacamas, west of Highway 29, this site has been recognised for producing fine wine since the 19th century. Literally translating as the “highest beauty” or “highest good” from Greek, today To Kalon is home to some of Napa’s oldest vines and best Cabernet Sauvignon. “This is a Grand Cru – a premier property,” Paul Hobbs tells me, a winemaker who has a long history with the site. As a grad student at UC Davis, Hobbs would swipe the second crop from a vineyard on Walnut Drive – what happened to be BV4, Beaulieu Vineyard’s original block of To Kalon. At Mondavi – the largest holder of the hallowed site – he got to walk the rows more legitimately, and used those holdings to build Opus One – the company’s joint venture with Ch. Mouton Rothschild (although the association with the site has generally been played down). Under his own label, he’s been making wine from the Beckstoffer section of the vineyard since 1999 – and his wines, along with those from Schrader, were some of the early bottlings that put the vineyard firmly on the fine wine map, earning high scores – and lots of attention. Indeed, it was a Paul Hobbs wine that made Tor Kenward believe the vineyard was truly special. André Tchelistcheff had spoken to Kenward about BV4, but it was one of Hobbs’s bottlings that made him realise its potential. He started working with Beckstoffer plots from 2005. 
“It’s not visually impressive; it doesn’t have that ‘wow factor’,” Kenward tells me. But start digging below the surface, and you realise that you’re in the “tenderloin of Napa”, with old creek beds that run through the site. It’s an alluvial fan that runs down from the Mayacamas, sitting almost on a bench – with very little elevation. But the soils here are varied, with deep, well-drained gravels that make it perfect for Cabernet Sauvignon.  Andy Erickson – a winemaker whose resume includes Screaming Eagle, Harlan, Dalla Valle, Mayacamas and many more – first worked with the site in 2012, on a single-barrel charity lot for an auction at his children’s school. When Constellation (owners of Mondavi and co-owners of Opus One) called him to give him the chance to work with it again in 2016, he didn’t hesitate. That year, he made the first wine for the To Kalon Vineyard Company – a project that is a revival of the brand created by H.W. Crabb (known variously as Henry Walker, Hiram Walker or Hamilton Walker Crabb) in 1886, the vineyard’s godfather. “Most people know the recent history of the vineyard, and the acclaim of the wines from the past 15-20 years. But the vineyard was known for producing remarkable wines all the way back in the late 19th century. Clearly there is something there,” Erickson says.  But this vineyard is weighed down with controversy – its borders endlessly debated, with producers vying for use of the To Kalon name.  The history of the To Kalon Vineyard It’s impossible to look at To Kalon today without tracing its origins. H.W. Crabb came west from Ohio during the Gold Rush, spending six months digging in the Sierras before settling in Oakville in 1868, buying 240 acres of land at the corner of Highway 29 and Walnut Drive. He planted a wide range of crops, first making wine in 1872 under the name Hermosa Vineyards (“hermosa” meaning “beautiful” in Spanish). In 1881, he acquired another 119 acres from Eliza Yount (whose name lives on in Yountville). On land to the west of his plots, owned by John Davis, he planted additional vines – buying the fruit off Davis to feed his increasing production. In 1886, he gave his company a new name: “To Kalon Vineyard Company” – and the legend was born. Crabb reportedly said, “The name To-Kalon… means the highest beauty, or the highest good, but I try to make it mean the boss vineyard.”
 To Kalon Vineyard Company rapidly became one of the region’s largest – and most well-respected – wine producers. His wines started winning awards at competitions around the world, and he was the first to start selling wine along the East Coast. He had planted a huge range of grapes – around 400 different varieties, including Malvasia, Riesling, Chasselas, Muscat, Refosco and Cabernet Sauvignon, with the latter in particular thriving. In 1889, he bought 168 acres on the hillside to the south, close to where Harlan is now based, although it was never planted with vines during Crabb’s lifetime. In 1891, Crabb bought Davis’s 135 acres (from which he’d already been buying the fruit). In total, Crabb had more than 359 acres.  But his success wasn’t to last – phylloxera arrived in the late 19th century, and recession along with it. In 1898, Crabb sold the 135 acres he’d bought just eight years earlier – and died one year later in 1899. The vines were ripped out, replaced by cherry trees under David Perry Doak in 1911, who in turn purchased another 500 acres of vines from John Benson, south of the border of the original To Kalon (across Oakville Grade Road), which is now all owned by Constellation (used for Mondavi or Opus One). After Crabb’s death, what remained of the To Kalon Vineyard Company was sold to ES Churchill at auction, taken over by his widow Mary Churchill when he died in 1903. Wines continued to be sold under the label until the arrival of Prohibition in 1920. The winery reopened briefly to sell wine in bulk in the 1930s, but the winery building burnt down in 1939. Four years later, Martin Stelling bought most of the property – 337 acres – and replanted. He sold 90 acres to Beaulieu Vineyard (the block that became known as BV4 – and was the plot used by André Tschelistcheff made Georges de Latour Reserve). In 1944, Stelling bought an additional 1,700 acres – the McGill Ranch, which included the parcels owned by Doak (both Crabb’s 1891 parcel and the 500 acres area south of Oakville Grade Road). He named the entire property Tokalon Vineyards, and in 1945 planted Sauvignon Blanc in I Block – the legendary parcel that is today used for Mondavi’s prized, old-vine To Kalon Fumé Blanc.  Tragedy struck again, however, with Stelling killed in a car crash in 1950. The property was once more divided, sold off in pieces by his widow.   
Rosa Mondavi, along with her sons Robert and Peter, purchased 132 hectares in 1962 for the family winery, Charles Krug. After Robert struck out on his own, he bought 12 acres for himself in 1966 (that remained in the Stelling family) – in the northeast corner of the 1968 Crabb parcel, where the Mondavi winery and visitor centre remains today. He bought a further 230 acres in 1968, and then took the Charles Krug section from the rest of his family in 1978. The first time the To Kalon name appeared on a Mondavi label – and the first time since the demise of the To Kalon Vineyard Company – was on the 1986 Fumé Blanc Reserve. The I Block – the Sauvignon Blanc vines planted by Stelling in 1945 – were singled out for the first time in 1995, for the vines’ 50th anniversary. The first red – Mondavi’s To Kalon Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon – appeared with the 1997 vintage. The To Kalon Vineyard’s terroir As already mentioned, To Kalon is largely an alluvial fan that stretches down from the Mayacamas to Highway 29. It is, however, a large piece of land (the exact area depending on where you draw its borders – see below for more on the controversy around this) – and as such the terroir varies considerably. The soils are richer downslope, closer to the Highway; poorer and better-drained higher up (where many – including Hobbs and Kenward – prefer to be). The gravel composition varies with the subtle slope differences and underground water.  “It’s like any cut of meat – there are better parts than others,” Hobbs says. With over 300 original acres (at least), this is a substantial vineyard (for comparison, Clos Vougeot is 125 acres). “It’s great if you have the name To Kalon, but could be pretty average stuff.” The Beckstoffer section is numbered and lettered: A to F, from road to mountain, with A1 south of A2. For Hobbs, he likes the blocks closer to the mountains, and those that aren’t shaded by the huge walnut trees that line Walnut Drive (to the south). Hobbs noted how much warmer Oakville is than Yountville – something he used to notice when driving in the evening home from Oakville to Yountville. The mountains block the sea breezes, meaning that the cooling effect happens, but more slowly. This is partly what makes it such a special place. Tor Kenward similarly prefers some of the middle blocks in B and C, where there are some of the vineyard’s oldest vines, but with lower vigour, as well as the leaner soils closest to the mountains. As for the MacDonald or Horton block: “You could argue it’s every bit as good as Andy’s piece,” Kenward says. It, along with the Detert block, was planted in the 1940s – and in fact those two blocks are now home to some of the valley’s oldest vines. Even closer to the mountains, the gravel content is even higher, and the fruit is picked up to a month earlier than elsewhere in To Kalon. Although until now most of that fruit has been sold to Constellation, there will be opportunity for others to work with it as that contract comes to an end.   
The Beckstoffer plots of To Kalon Andy Beckstoffer bought Beaulieu Vineyard’s block, BV4, in 1993. He’d just lost a prized site – Liparita, on Howell Mountain – when the 89 acres of BV4 came up. He’d worked the site for years and leapt at the opportunity to buy it. “It’s a mystery to me why they sold it,” Paul Hobbs told me, although word on the grapevine was that they needed to liquidate funds – indeed, it was around the same time that Mondavi went public for similar reasons. Phylloxera was once more raging through the region thanks to the widely used, non-resistant AXR rootstock.  The BV4 block was in bad shape when Beckstoffer took it over and he had to replant the entire site. Paul Hobbs was one of the first to use fruit from Beckstoffer’s plots, starting to work with him from 1995/96. “Andy didn’t really realise he had a Grand Cru property,” Hobbs says. Hobbs was given free rein to pick his plots, opting for four or five plots on the western side, furthest from Highway 29. The vineyard produced its first fruit in 1997; 1998 was a difficult year; but in 1999 Hobbs was able to produce his first To Kalon bottling (although it couldn’t say so on the label). “I was loathe to tell people how young it was – but the quality was so good,” Hobbs says, still starry eyed thinking about it. “It was only four years old, but producing stunning wines.” Most fruit is sold on its weight, by the ton, but Andy Beckstoffer created a different model – one that is intricately tied to the vineyard’s name and reputation – and arguably has increased its reputation. Producers who use his fruit pay him 175 times the bottle price per ton, with a ceiling at $50,000/ton; tying the value of the fruit to the value of the final wine. “For producers like me in those days, when I didn’t have the land or ability to buy land, Andy was a saviour of sorts,” Hobbs tells me. “Because I had access to one of the top vineyards in all of Napa. I had to pay – but at least I had access.”
  The To Kalon controversy: how big is it? And is it a brand or a place? Mondavi trademarked the name “To Kalon” in 1988, and “To Kalon Vineyard” in 1994. This gave them the right to use the name on any wine from anywhere – even beyond California – and meant that no one else could use the name, even if they had plots in what was considered the original To Kalon vineyard. The first Beckstoffer bottlings only mentioned the name on the back label; but in 2000, Schrader decided to put it on the front label. The now famous lawsuit commenced. “They shouldn’t have been able to trademark it,” Hobbs tells me. “Anyone from the original To Kalon estate should have the right to the trademark as well.” In 2002, Mondavi sued Schrader for using the name on their Beckstoffer bottling. Countersuing ensued, from both Schrader and Beckstoffer (the latter arguing that Mondavi was misleading clients by using the name for wines made with fruit from beyond the vineyard’s original borders). A settlement – the details of which remain a mystery – was made in 2003, but wines made from the Beckstoffer section can now bear the name “Beckstoffer To Kalon”.  Constellation bought Mondavi in 2004, and then Schrader in 2017. Reportedly attempts were made to trademark “To Kalon Wine Company”, “To Kalon Vineyard Company” and “Rooted in To Kalon” – something, unsurprisingly, that Beckstoffer objected to. The legal battle continues today, with a fight over the naming of To Kalon Creek, and The Vineyard House – owned by Jeremy Nickel, which sits on the 1889 hillside section – arguing for the use of the name as well.  The borders of the vineyard are a constant source of debate – and given the history above, you can see why.  Andy Beckstoffer considers the original To Kalon to be only the parcels bought by Crabb in 1868 and 1881. The 1889 parcel was never planted by Crabb, so most aren’t inclined to include it as “original To Kalon”. The Detert and MacDonald plots, however, aren’t acknowledged by Beckstoffer, but were planted – and, albeit more briefly than other plots, owned by Crabb. Then there’s the “Stelling extension”, the southern section added after Crabb’s death under Martin Stelling, that Mondavi considers part of the original vineyard, but some others do not. Given the sums fruit – and wine – bearing the To Kalon name command, it’s unsurprising that its usage is so disputed.  
To Kalon: what does the wine taste like?  So what makes the wine so special? Why do winemakers fight for the fruit, and consumers for the bottles they produce? Despite the sheer variety of the site, Tor Kenward is adamant that there’s a continuity, with a profile that that site gives Cabernet. He describes it as “wall-to-wall carpeting”, a plushness to the mid-palate, a softness, that means the Cabernet isn’t hard-edged. “There’s something about the ground there,” Andy Erickson agrees. For him, To Kalon has a distinct tannin texture – not as rugged as hillside sites, but richer, with a generosity in the wines. “They are dark, aromatic, but very broad and polished,” he says. “I think the vineyard brings forward many of the complexities of Cabernet Sauvignon, but delivers it in a very approachable and elegant package.” “It’s very identifiable,” Paul Hobbs says. “It’s a structural and textural thing mostly. It’s a freshness to this sort of tannin. It has grip, but it has this uplifting character.” He explains it like a skipping stone – you think you’ve got it, then another wave comes, the wine shifting on the palate. For him, one of the most distinctive things is that Cabernet sings alone here – much better than blended with other varietals. “It didn’t need the help of its brothers,” he says. “It’s a wine that’s at peace with itself… It doesn’t shock you, except in its beauty.”
 Who owns what today in To Kalon? Robert Mondavi: From the original 12 acres, Mondavi now owns 328 acres of To Kalon, including the Stelling extension. Has the rights to use the To Kalon name.  Opus One: The 35-acre Q Block was sold to the joint venture by Mondavi in 1981, with K block acquired in 2008. Although under Constellation’s ownership they could likely use the To Kalon name, Opus One doesn’t trade on this. (To Kalon Vineyard Company uses fruit from Constellation’s holdings, both Opus One and Mondavi plots.) UC Davis: a research block that was key in developing phylloxera-resistant rootstock
Beckstoffer: 89 acres, with fruit sold to a range of producers (currently 23), including Paul Hobbs, Tor Kenward and Schrader. Producers can use the name “Beckstoffer To Kalon” on their labels. MacDonald (sometimes referenced as Horton): Graeme and Alex MacDonald are the current generation, owning 21 acres of the 1891 parcel. When their great-grandparents bought the site in 1954 (along with the Detert plot – see below – from Caroline Stelling, Martin Stelling’s widow) it was planted with cherry trees. Advised by Robert Mondavi, the MacDonalds planted vines. From 1966, they sold grapes to Mondavi – holding some back for personal use from 2004, with the first MacDonald commercial release in 2010 (just 92 cases). Although historically 75% of production here has been sold to Mondavi, I’m led to believe that the contract is coming to a close and won’t be renewed. The MacDonalds can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines currently. Detert: Today owned by Tom Garrett, a cousin of the MacDonalds. This 25-acre plot was bought in 1954, along with the MacDonald parcel – divided between the buyers’ children giving the two plots today. There’s more Cabernet Franc in this section. Most of the fruit is sold to Mondavi (with the contract, as for MacDonald, coming to an end soon), and Detert can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines. The Vineyard House: Many dispute whether or not this is original To Kalon; it’s on the hillside area purchased (but not planted) by Crabb in 1891. This plot is owned by Jeremy Justin Nickel, who is the son of the late Far Niente proprietor Gil Nickel. It’s thought to have first been planted with vines in 1980. They can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines, but have taken court action over the issue.  Wineries with To Kalon bottlings  NB Not all of these will bear the To Kalon name on the label Mondavi Winery, Opus One, To Kalon Vineyard Company, MacDonald, Detert, Alpha Omega, Amici, Alejandro Bulgheroni Estate, AXR, Bacio Divino, B Cellars, Boich Family, Bounty Hunter, Cain Concept, Carter cellars, Ch Boswell, Jacquelynn, Kitchak, Cliff Lede, Morlet, Realm Cellars, Tor Kenward, Paul Hobbs, Schrader Cellars Read more Editorial 

The Napa Valley has many incredible vineyards, but To Kalon undoubtedly sits at the top of the tree. As the To Kalon Vineyard Company releases their latest vintage, Sophie Thorpe delves into the story of this iconic site – from its 19th century origins to the fight to use its hallowed name

Explore the history of To Kalon vineyard – and what makes it such an iconic site today. We spoke to Andy Erickson, Paul Hobbs and Tor Kenward to find out more

The tale of Napa’s iconic To Kalon vineyard

The tale of To Kalon

I am too disorganised to call myself a collector, but I often find myself thinking about the multiple meanings of collecting. I have a room full of books left unread from one year to the next, whose mute reproach I feel every time I am in their presence. I have half a dozen radios, from Marco Zanuso and Richard Sapper’s folding Brionvega TS502 to a Danish-made Beolit 707 from Bang & Olufsen, with its slide rule tuning device. I have a manual typewriter.  Most of us accumulate such random clutter. These were never possessions that were primarily about being useful – the Brionvega and the Beolit have long since been supplanted by a bluetooth speaker and a smartphone. They represent my membership of the design tribe.  The books carry other layers of meaning. My five years at university are on one shelf. The traces of the eight years I have spent writing a just-completed biography of Boris Iofan – Josef Stalin’s preferred architect – are spelled out in the titles of the books on another shelf. The typewriter was inherited from my father and it serves to remind me of childhood. The closest that I come to having a collection that a serious collector might acknowledge is in my chairs: a Rover chair that Ron Arad salvaged from a car, a Gio Ponti Superlegera, an Eames Lounger, a Harry Bertoia, George Sowden’s Palace chair from the 1983 Memphis collection and a deconstructed armchair designed by Rei Kawakubo. On a larger or smaller scale, humans develop complex relationships with their possessions that can go from the professionalism of full-blown collecting, to the casual significance of a row of junk shop finds on a mantlepiece. They can tell us a lot about ourselves. Marina Warner’s guide to the house in Hampstead, now run as a museum, in which Sigmund Freud spent the last year of his life, offers an arresting insight into the significance that collecting had for him. She describes the ranks of ancient bronze, ceramic and marble figures parading across the desk that Freud brought with him to London from Vienna where he no longer felt safe due to Nazi occupation in 1938. Certainly, they are beautiful, and mostly they are precious. Thanks to their association with Freud, even the few that have been established as 20th-century forgeries will have become valuable. Some are almost 4,000 years old and reflect the religious and political practices of the distant past. Others, such as Freud’s art deco cigar case, come less freighted with history. But as Warner says, “they were also tools of thought, the kitchen utensils of his imagination”.   The batterie de cuisine of psychoanalysis included Egyptian coffin masks from the Roman period, Chinese jade and gold brooches, Roman glass, a 2,500-year-old sphinx, sarcophagus lids, Babylonian cylinder seals and Egyptian heart scarabs, as well as a 19th-century neck rest from New Guinea, modern metal porcupines, and Balinese figures. The pieces in pride of place on his desk, placed in apparently random order, were his special favourites, a tiny fraction of his collection that had become permanent fixtures. From time to time, Freud made space for a few new acquisitions to get a look in. “A collection to which there are no new additions is really dead,” he told his biographer Ernest Jones. After a short interval, most of the new things would be moved into the glass-fronted cabinets positioned around his study, where they were placed in more organised groups than those standing on his desk. Greek sculptures went on a shelf together. A cluster of representations of the Egyptian god Horus were grouped on another.  In Freud’s lifetime, the collection was continually changing. Before his move to London, he toured Vienna’s antiquities dealers almost every week on the look-out for new finds. He was ready to exchange pieces for items he could not afford to buy, and was generous in gifting pieces to friends and pupils he thought would appreciate them. Freud also had no qualms about buying items that came on the market in questionable circumstances, in particular, from the unofficial excavations (sometime after 1906) at a Roman fort in Hungary.   Despite the important part it played in his life, Freud wrote very little about collecting. The nearest that he came to spelling out what drove his interest in fragments of ancient sculpture, was when he compared his own exploration of the unconscious minds of his patients to an archaeological excavation of an ancient city. “The psychoanalyst, like the archaeologist, must uncover layer after layer of the patient’s psyche before coming to the deepest, most valuable treasures.”  Freud was known to share his dining table with choice specimens to act as companions during a meal. “I must always have an object to love”, he confessed to his colleague and rival Carl Jung. When he was writing his book The Interpretation of Dreams in 1895, Freud spent the summer at Schloss Bellevue outside Vienna. He took a selection of what he called “my old grubby gods who take part in the works as paperweights for the manuscripts” with him.  Before Freud left Austria for England in 1938, his desk, his consulting room, and his study at Berggasse 19 were photographed by Edmund Engelman. Engelman’s 150 images helped Freud’s architect son Ernst to transpose the desk and its contents from a dark back room in a Viennese apartment to a sunlit Hampstead villa.  Like most collectors, Freud could never limit himself to a single field. Ronald Lauder the former MoMA chairman, for example, is known for the collection of Viennese modernism that forms the basis for his own museum, the Neue Galerie in New York. He also collects (in depth) in 15 other fields with little apparent connection between them. Lauder is fascinated by the work of the Japanese designer Shiro Kuramata. He has a collection of arms and armour going back to The Crusades, and another of World War Two memorabilia. He owns some of Egon Schiele’s finest works, as well as various 18th-century French artworks. Fellow collector Rolf Fehlbaum (head of Vitra) has one of the largest collections of modern chairs in the world, and gave Frank Gehry his first European commission to design a gallery for it, but he is equally fascinated by toy robots manufactured in Japan since 1937. He calls them tiny kinetic sculptures. Where possible, he acquires their original packaging too. Perhaps the best way to understand the psychology of collecting is to see it as a spectrum. At one end, it is about order and control. In a messy and uncontrollable universe, a collection offers at least a semblance of certainty. A collection of this kind is based on provenance, completeness and authenticity. An over-restored vintage Bugatti is less desirable to a collector than one in original condition.  Every previous owner, every detail of its making forms part of its record. A red Olivetti typewriter designed by Ettore Sottsass that once belonged to David Bowie was sold at Sotheby’s for US$65,000. You can buy one (that hasn’t been owned by Bowie) for US$750, which is still a lot of money for a piece of obsolete technology. Some collectors attempt to make patterns from the things that they acquire or, like jigsaw puzzlers, set out to complete a picture by locating every piece of a set. Some try to document the evolution of a species whether the subject of their interest is biscuit tins or the eggs of a particular type of bird. Some forms of collecting require the active engagement of the collector. Wildflowers need to be picked and dried quickly before they are pressed into a book. Butterfly collectors used macabre methods such as poison jars, or squeezing the thorax, to dispatch their prey without causing so much distress that they risk damaging delicate wings. At the other end of the spectrum, the accumulation of stuff by people who die alone in homes overwhelmed by stacks of ancient newspapers and tins of cat food, is a kind of sickness. It’s a condition that can overwhelm even the most celebrated of artists. In the last 17 years of his life, Andy Warhol filled a succession of cardboard boxes with a seemingly random accumulation of objects: taxi receipts, a vinyl Ramones single signed by Joey Ramone, a piece of an ancient, mummified foot, pastel-coloured corsets and a selection of metal dentures. Every time he had a full box, it was sealed and shipped off to storage in a warehouse in New Jersey. A typical box has 400 objects in it, some have as many as 1,200. Items in them include a piece of Caroline Kennedy’s wedding cake – Warhol seems to have been a regular guest at Kennedy weddings. He showed up 20 minutes after the wedding ceremony for Maria Shriver and Arnold Schwarzenegger had started, in the company of Grace Jones. He was in black leather, and wearing two wigs; she had on a huge green fur hat.   Warhol’s boxes are a collection of the uncollectable and the uncontrollable, which, thanks to the resources of the Andy Warhol Foundation, has been tamed after six years of work by a dedicated group of archivists and cataloguers. The Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh has aestheticised the cardboard boxes. They sit on back-lit shelves in the museum to suggest that this is not a random collection of trash that Warhol never looked at, but, in the view of the museum, is in fact a time-based art piece, comprising at least 500,000 objects that took 30 years to complete. It presents a considerably less impressive sight than British Regency period architect Sir John Soane’s museum. The architect of the Bank of England put as much effort into adapting his Lincoln’s Inn Fields house (and subsequently the two adjoining houses) to display his Hogarth paintings, a sarcophagus and his architectural models, as he did to accumulating the collection itself. The Nobel prize-winning Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s novel, The Museum of Innocence is an eloquent exploration of the hoarding end of the collecting spectrum. What initially appears to be an account of a doomed love affair, quickly reveals itself as an exploration of the meaning of collecting. The story’s main protagonist Kemal starts acquiring things when his relationship with his lover Füsun is going well. When she drops an earring, he finds it and puts it to one side. As Füsun falls out of love with him, Kemal begins an increasingly desperate accumulation of objects that record their relationship. He picks up each of the cigarettes that she smokes. When she has stopped seeing him altogether, Kemal starts hanging around at her parents’ house and stealing pieces of cutlery that she might have used.  What makes Pamuk’s book particularly remarkable is that he acquired a house in Istanbul’s Beyoğlu district that had belonged to a Greek merchant in the Ottoman era, and transformed it into a physical Museum of Innocence. It is, of course, very far from innocent; everything inside it is a lovingly created fiction. The first thing that you see once you get inside, is a wall covered with 4,213 cigarette ends, each of them carefully annotated in Pamuk’s neat handwriting, with imaginary details of the time and place they were smoked. The rest of the house is full of equally carefully fabricated objects from cosmetics to movie posters that reflect Pamuk’s vision of the modernising Turkey of the 1970s. “I think getting attached to objects happens in traumatic times and love is a trauma,” Pamuk once said. “Perhaps when they are in trouble, people hoard things.”  When Pamuk gave me a tour of his museum, he told me about meeting Warhol’s archivist, and expressed his reservations about the significance of the boxes in Pittsburgh. “Hoarding objects reaches the level of collecting only when there is a story that unites them,” he said. But that is a novelist criticising another, less narrative art form. While Freud’s desk in Hampstead was always useable, if overcrowded, the desk in fashion designer Paul Smith’s office in Covent Garden is completely overwhelmed with a snowdrift of collected objects that sweeps over an office chair, down onto the floor, and back up to the shelves that line every wall. There are stacks of books and magazines, cameras and mountains of vintage cycling jerseys. There is an i-Mac computer, a gift from Jony Ive that Smith has never used. Computers aren’t Smith’s thing. In any case, it’s too late now, short of purging half the contents of the room: there is no way to get near it. There are toy tin cars, collections of bottles from Moroccan markets, a pink bicycle and a lot of rabbits. “I once said in an interview that seeing a rabbit brings me luck, and they haven’t stopped pouring in ever since,” explains Smith. Collecting began, as did so many things in Smith’s career, with his early enthusiasm for cycling. Growing up in Nottingham in the 1950s, there was a newsagent which occasionally had a copy of L’Equipe, which would portray the heroes of the Tour de France in their yellow jerseys in colour on the cover, but in sepia inside. He bought the magazine, fascinated by the images, even if he couldn’t read it. “I can remember once saying, ‘I really like Jacques Anquetil’ to my father, which baffled him, since none of our family had ever been abroad. I saved my pocket money so that I could upgrade the gears on my bike from Simplex to Campagnolo. The box it came in was as important to me as the gear itself.”  What attracted Smith to the Campagnolo box, along with stamps and matchboxes which he has in large numbers – not just in his office but at his Nottingham HQ where he has an archivist trying to make sense of it all – is the way that designers can say so much in such a tiny space. He showed me a Japanese book of matches produced for a Tokyo nightclub in the 1970s. “It so clearly says it’s ‘contemporary’. You can hear the jazz already.”  Despite the huge assortment of assembled objects, Smith is reluctant to describe himself as a collector. “I just have a large quantity of the same things,” he says, matter of factly. “In my head, a collector is someone who selects an item or a subject. They collect them because they know a lot about them. Maybe I have a little knowledge about cycling jerseys.  In the early 1980s, on my first trips to Japan and India, I just got a bit carried away. I bought lots of Japanese furniture. In India, for some reason, I bought 15 wardrobes, and a piece of furniture that doubled as a staircase with drawers.” Smith had them all sent home on the Trans-Siberian Express.  He suggests that his is a collection that has found him. “Things collect me,” he says. “For some reason I started to be sent things, and they still keep coming.” There is an individual who regularly sends Smith artefacts that come unwrapped but covered in postage stamps. Others send him letters, toys, books and even ancient packets of razor blades. One visitor took careful photographs of his office, and later sent him a precisely detailed model of his office, complete with its chaotic contents. Smith’s London home, where he lives with his wife Pauline, is much calmer. “The house is hers. I do have one room for my stuff, but it’s mostly at the office that I get to look at things.” In 1996, patron of the arts and barrister Jill Ritblat gave the V&A Museum the largest single donation of clothes in its history, more than 1,000 items. There are ski outfits in postmodern pastel shades from the 1980s, and challenging Japanese experiments from Yohji Yamamoto and Issey Miyake, as well as couture from Dior and Saint Laurent. There is work by Alexander McQueen, Biba, Mary Quant, and Christian Lacroix, Emanuel Ungaro and Victor Edelstein, and an evening outfit produced by a dressmaker based on an idea of Ritblat’s own design.  The early days of British fashion from the 1960s are represented by Foale and Tuffin, and Zandra Rhodes, and from the 1980s by Margaret Howell and Katharine Hamnett. There is tailoring from Tommy Nutter and work by Giorgio Armani. It is by no means a complete account of contemporary fashion, but it is certainly extensive, and like the personal wardrobe that it is, combines some very special pieces made for family occasions, with more everyday wear. The connecting thread of Ritblat’s collection is Ritblat herself. These were all pieces that she had bought to wear. They were not chosen like stamps, or old masters, or celadon vases to make a self-conscious collection, but were the result of a continuing sequence of choices over time. Taken together they are a reflection of her life as an English woman of a certain background, at a particular time in the country’s history. “I never saw it as a collection, it was more like my diary, though I have never had time to write a diary. Each piece brings back memories of when I wore it,” says Ritblat. She made her first donation to the V&A at the end of 1996, but kept back the things that she wanted to be able to go on using, and they formed the core of a donation to the Design Museum of another 400 items in 2013. Ritblat is ambivalent about fashion. As a child she was somewhat self-conscious about being dressed by her mother, who had studied fashion herself. She was relieved to be able to assume the camouflage of the complex uniform rituals of an English public school for girls in the 1950s. “I loved my school uniform at Roedean; we were expected to change our clothes four times a day, as chic as anything. Scratchy afternoon dresses, regulation school loafers, very nice blazers and pleated skirts.” As a student barrister, she found herself adopting the formal uniform of the legal profession, but then as a married woman began to build a wardrobe that reflected the life that she was leading. Later, when she was making her own choices, she was early to discover Miuccia Prada. “What you pick out is based on whether it suits you and on the zeitgeist,” she explains. Smith, Heseltine and Ritblat represent three very different approaches to collecting. For Smith, the unruly mountain of things in his office, is, like the collection on Sigmund Freud’s desk, part of the tools of his imagination, a source of imagery and ideas for his work as a designer. It’s also a means of establishing his personality. Heseltine’s garden is an investment of time, resources and creativity in the remaking of a place that speaks to the future using living organisms that will outlive us all. Ritblat’s clothes are a record of the full life of an individual. All of these collections provide insights into unique people, their lives and times. In their different ways all three reflect on the nature of collecting, and its ability to be a creative activity in itself. In a world in which technology threatens to abolish the material world altogether, objects have not lost their allure. Their physical condition marks the passing of time in ways that pixels and code cannot do. Collecting is the means all of us have to create histories of our times, and even more, of ourselves. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two. 

In order to explore the mindset of the collector, Deyan Sudjic shines a light on the collected objects of Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol, and speaks to three British collectors to better understand what it is that makes collecting such a vital part of the human experience.

Exploring the mindset of the collector and why the act is a vital part of the human experience, with a focus on Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol

FONDATA: Exploring the art of collecting 

 I Collect, Therefore I Am

The name Andrew Rankin might not mean much to the average whisky drinker. But mention him to the whisky world – the one that exists behind the public glare, and is largely reliant on lasting relationships and mutual respect – and there’ll be little doubt who you’re referring to.   Throughout his career, Rankin has worked for two of the biggest names in the industry: Chivas Brothers and Morrison Bowmore. When we speak, on an overcast Monday in early November, he tells me it’s 47 years to the day that he joined the ranks as a trainee blender at Chivas.  It’s hard to imagine a wet-behind-the-ears Rankin embarking on his “old-fashioned proper blending training”. He remembers those days fondly, tasting hundreds of different distillates – including malts and grains from Scotland and the US – from the vast library, and getting stuck in with every aspect of the production process from distillation to the vatting and cask dumping. It wasn’t long before the young Rankin found his passion: casks.   “There was a lot of not-very-good wood filled in the industry way back in the 1970s and ’80s,” he tells me. “Even in those early days, I pushed to get some better quality wood in the system.”   Rankin learned from the old guard at Chivas who’d spent their life in the industry. In the early 1990s, he moved to Morrison Bowmore in a General Manager role, concentrating on blending, inventory management and, most importantly, cask trading. He spent 22 “lovely years” at the company until his position became untenable when Suntory (“in their infinite wisdom”, Rankin says wryly) decided to buy Morrison Bowmore’s owners Beam in 2014.   Rankin says the whole dynamic changed overnight and the decision to move global management of all spirits – including whisky – under American management in Chicago was the final straw for him, Chief Executive Mike Keiller and Finance Director Douglas Crawford, who all walked that same year. Rankin says he “doesn’t want to get into it all” but does say part of his motivation to leave was the fact he didn’t want to work for an American-managed company that late in his career – having already experienced a similar takeover with Chivas and Seagram many years earlier.   Rankin is a loquacious Scotsman. When you land on the right subject, he can talk endlessly with such knowledge and humour that it’s easy to lose track of time. In fact, when a small team from FINE+RARE visited his new distillery project, Ardross, in August, we did just that. One thing he doesn’t talk about, without great coaxing, is his immense success. This includes but is in no way limited to his work on Bowmore Black, the Trilogy releases, and the 50-year-old. He is a humble man, and has quite intentionally stepped back from the limelight, while some of his counterparts have been drawn to it.   Since setting up his own company in 2014, Rankin has not stopped working. Undoubtedly his biggest project has been Ardross, a new distillery in the Scottish Highlands. Rankin was given the mandate (and a healthy budget of £30m) to find a home for the new distillery by Ardross Single Cask Society founder Barth Brosseau. He found the dilapidated 50-acre site, which was formerly a farm, with its own seven-acre loch and moved heaven and earth to turn it into the stunning distillery we see today.   Rankin says the project has, and continues to be, “much much bigger” than he originally anticipated, and what started out as a little tree constantly grows branches all over the place. But, he says, it has been his biggest achievement to date.   The latest unwieldy branch is a second, small-batch distillery that is being built on the Ardross site, destined to become the Creative Suite – exclusively for Single Cask Society Members’ use. Once completed, it will be capable of producing 250 casks a year of almost any style of whisky that a Society Member could desire. When it is up and running, likely by the end of next year, Society members will be able to call Rankin or visit him at the distillery to discuss their requirements. He will advise them on certain elements and Sandy Jamieson – Ardross’s Distillery Manager with near-50 years’ experience, and hands-down one of the most hospitable people you will meet – will get involved in the “nittier grittier side of the distillation”.  “Society members have the flexibility of different malt styles, of different grain stills, of different blend styles, and the multi-cask options that we’ll have available,” Rankin says. “But always without getting to the gimmicky stage,” he adds gravely.   This is a word that comes up a lot in our conversations – “gimmicky”. Rankin is, by his own admission, a traditionalist and has baulked at the changes in the whisky industry over the past 47 years.    “In my mind, a gimmicky type thing that lets you say we were the first in the world to do x only lasts a day and then it’s old news,” he says. “So everything we do falls within traditional methods – but pushing the boundaries a wee bit in terms of the styles of whisky.”  After spending a number of hours with Rankin, you can tell he’s not the type to mince his words – his standards are exacting, and he’s been around the block enough times to know when he’s being sold a pony. For these reasons, and many more, he’s unafraid to tell Brosseau – who he on occasion butts heads with – and Society members what he thinks.      It’s this straight-talking, mixed with an unwavering sense of tradition, that has stood him in such good stead throughout his career. Relationships formed over the past four decades have been vital to getting Ardross off the ground and saved his bacon – and the whisky producers he’s worked for – countless times.   “I always made it my policy to not sit on the end of the phone negotiating prices or volumes never having met the person that’s at the other end,” he tells me. “I’ve made it a policy that we’d go and visit all the major suppliers. We’d have dinner with them. We’d get to know them.”  When Rankin first started visiting Kentucky – a place he has a real fondness for and has undoubtedly influenced elements of the Ardross build – the state was just coming back from a real depression. He got to know a lot of people in the cooperages and distilleries, and many of these relationships last to this day. You sense it is this longevity and being around throughout hardship that has fortified these ties. The same is likely true of Japan. Enviably, Rankin has a relationship with one of the oldest independent cooperages in Japan, from whom he sources a steady amount of the mystical Mizunara cask – something many producers would give their right arm for. As quite a coup, Ardross filled some of its first runs of new-make spirit into Mizunara in 2020.   Rankin is too humble to go into detail but he does say these relationships have proven useful over the years. “If barley is in short supply, which it was not that many years ago,” he says, “because of our relationship, we would always get priority. If casks were in short supply, we’d always get the priority.”   Sadly, this way of working is something Rankin sees diminishing in most industries. “Everything is done via Zoom and telephone and internet now,” he bemoans. “Having listened to some of COP26, the environmentalists will say that’s a good thing, you’re not using air travel, but there has got to be a balance.”  Another change Rankin “isn’t keen on” is “the quest to get something different all the time”. “All the limited releases,” he says downcast. “The best limited release now is the standard edition because [producers] push everything else and don’t push the standard edition,” he only half jokes.  “Make no mistake, Barth and I have had a lot of serious heated discussions on various things like all the different wines and tequila [finishes]. It’s not traditional,” he says impassioned. “Why would we want to put a perfectly good product into a cask that’s had tequila maturing for six months?”   He pauses for what seems like an eternity, and I’m unsure if he wants an answer, before he, mercifully, continues: “I ask the question and I’ll get the response that it’s what the modern market wants. To which I respond: ‘says who?’”  Throughout his career, Rankin says he’s always stuck to the more traditional casks, like Sherry and Port. But he’s quick to say that the market is a minefield, and you need to proceed with caution as producers are often offloading casks for a reason.   “Even Port is one that would be low down of my list of things to use,” he says. “Because historically, Port producers don’t generate a lot of casks. They only generate them when they are clearing a warehouse out. The casks will be sold to people in the whisky industry when there is absolutely no maturation left in them at all, so you’re achieving nothing by finishing in those types of casks.”   Rankin says the only chance you have of producing a decent whisky, or at the very least not ruining the good one you’ve got, is to deal with certain individuals who will give you a cask that’s not spent.   He tells me some horror stories from the Glasgow facility where he warehouses and oversees cask operations. “We see some of the casks come in, and we’ve gotta send it back. They’ll say the Sherry casks are new. They’re not. They are probably the oldest casks that have been lying in that bodega. I have to say to the client, ‘Trust me, you’ll lose half your whisky because it’s not good wood, it’s very porous-looking, the smell inside them is slightly sour and you can’t get rid of that. But, it’s your gamble’.” Unsurprisingly, they heed his advice and make another call pretty sharpish.   He adds: “You’ve just got to know what you’re looking for and be careful. Because you can ruin a perfectly good whisky.”   It’s rare to meet somebody with such candour in or out of the whisky industry. Hand on heart, I can’t think of a person I’d rather entrust to guide me when deciding what to do with my whisky.   Learn more about Ardross or read more Editorial 

After working as Master Blender for some of the biggest names in the industry, Andrew Rankin knows a thing or two about good whisky – and good casks. He tells Holly Motion why strong relationships and traditional values are far more important to him than being a whisky personality

The ex-Bowmore Master Blender Andrew Rankin talks about working for some of the biggest names in the whisky industry and tells us why relationships are key.

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