If my wife and I are lolling around on the sofa, sharing a bottle of wine and listening to jazz, I’ll sometimes ask, in tones combining the genial authority of a quizmaster with the tacit menace of a Stasi interrogator, “Who do you think is playing bass?” Or piano. Or drums. If she doesn’t know, I respond with appalled astonishment because it’s so obvious (you only need to hear a couple of notes) that it’s Charlie Haden. Or McCoy Tyner or Max Roach or whoever. When I was studying jazz in the 1980s (by studying I mean getting as stoned as possible with my friends) we’d play records for each other without revealing the identities of the musicians and, in this way, I built up an instinctive database of who sounded like whom. Of course, that’s not all I was doing, back then. I was also swilling gallons of beer and respectable quantities of wine, both of which I consumed with just as much pleasure as I listened to music. The difference is that with wine, I never paid any attention to what I was drinking, where what I was drinking had come from, or what grapes might have gone into it. Still don’t, actually. So, while my wife sometimes doesn’t know who she’s listening to, I rarely know what I’m drinking. Now, if my enjoyment of jazz is enhanced by knowing who I’m hearing, when an album was recorded, how a given version of a tune compares with other versions by different musicians and so on, does it follow that my enjoyment of wine is correspondingly diminished by ignorance and indifference as to its provenance and ingredients? Am I sitting around liking what I like while unable to tell whether what I’m liking is a bottle of Kenny G or vintage Sonny Rollins? To answer this question and address the larger issue, a bit of history is helpful (isn’t it always?). I grew up in a non-drinking household. We knew that other people drank wine with dinner but this was seen as an exotic, middle-class custom, as removed from our own potential experience as the tribal rites featured in National Geographic. No one we knew drank wine except the homemade kind – blackberry, pear, potato etc – that my parents made, stored in the cupboard under the stairs and offered to thirsty relatives who came to visit. Bearing no relation to wine as usually conceived, this beverage was more akin to a potent species of cider. Ah cider! As was the case for all boys of my generation, cider proved such an effective conduit to getting blind drunk that I’ve not been able to face even a sniff of the stuff since a horribly enjoyable first encounter. Same with Cinzano Bianco, but I’ve never turned my back on beer. As part of the general drift into all matters alcoholic, I drank a bit of Liebfraumilch (yum) but didn’t encounter anything like the notion of a ‘good’ wine until I was at Oxford. (The fact that I had to wait till then is a good indicator of the class status of wine in the UK back in the 1970s.) One day a fellow-student at my college offered to sell some bottles of what he pimped as “excellent red wine.” Three of us forked out for six between us. It was great. Sort of peppery tasting. We glugged the lot in one evening and I was violently sick, from my friend’s window, into the lane outside (a reversal of Charles Ryder’s first encounter, in Brideshead Revisited, with Sebastian Flyte who pukes into his room), but I was on my winey way. Most boozing took place in the pub (beer) but, as I gradually got used to drinking wine at dinners and at art openings, an unreliable and poorly projected map of wine awareness began to take shape.  In my early 30s, there was a Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon for which I developed a particular fondness. At three quid a bottle it seemed more appropriate, even then, to cut it down to three syllables: Bulg-Cab-Sauv. Then came the news that the contents of any bottle could be improved by being allowed to breathe. Sometime later, living in Paris, I got wind of a crude truth that you could tell a better wine by how far you could stick your finger in its bottom, in the whatever-it’s-called at the base of the bottle. The further the better was the rule of thumb, so to speak, though why this should be the case I never discovered. These were excellent, easy-to-implement tips but the bigger picture remained blurry. I knew there were regions, different kinds of grape, but I was never sure which was which (Burgundy always sounded like a type of brandy) and I knew enough to know that it wasn’t enough to know that you liked a Merlot, say; you also needed to know what was going on within that species of grape or region, that certain brands and years were better than others. Although a drawing of a château on the label could be a good sign, it was not an infallible one, especially when some high-quality wines began to feature labels that shared an aesthetic with edible marijuana products or t-shirt design. And over all this uncertainty hung a larger cloud of astonishment – a symptom of the world’s fathomless ability to defy logic – generated by the ‘fact’ (I still have trouble accepting it as such) that white wine is not necessarily made from white grapes, nor red from red. Even when we factor in the odd big Tuscan moment in Italy, or Pinot epiphany in New Zealand, my understanding has not advanced significantly in the last 20 years. I know what I like but, as with many things – learning German, for example – I feel I’ve left it too late. Any attempts I make are the equivalent of looking up the occasional word in an online Deutsch-English dictionary. One can often spend one’s way to an enhanced experience, but my natural skinflintery means I prefer my father-in-law’s model, whereby he had knowledged his way to improved enjoyment. He not only serves fantastic wine, without exception, on every occasion; he always serves wine that costs a fraction of how it tastes.  I like this approach but, to borrow the term from London’s taxi drivers, I’ve never done the knowledge. I’m like the new generation of Uber drivers who rely so passively on their phones’ navigation apps that, after years behind the wheel, they still have almost no idea where they’re going. My phone comes in handy too. If I drink a fantastic wine at a friend’s house, I’ll take a picture of the label and, if it’s in stock at a local store, will buy a case. It’s nice being able to repeat a pleasing experience but it’s rarely as nice as I remember it and often not nice in the way that I remembered it. Or, if it’s nice at first, it almost always seems less nice, months later, when I’m down to the last couple of bottles. There are as many moving parts in the world of wine appreciation as there are in and around the mouth.  We have moved, by a combination of association and anatomy, to the potential source of the difficulty, to language. Having failed to acquire home-grown expertise, I am at the mercy of advice from the people who work in wine stores. Overall, I would estimate that this has resulted in a 50% success rate at twice the necessary expenditure. Is this because of shortcomings in their expertise and counsel, or is it due to linguistic failure, to inadequate translations of their knowledge into my preferences? We are told there’s no accounting for taste, which is not true, but it seems there are multiple problems with recounting one’s tastes or satisfying other people’s desires. Compared with sex where you can easily get by with half a dozen verbs and nouns, saying either what you want from a wine – or what it will do for someone else – demands a linguistic dexterity that is almost Joycean. We have all sat entranced as a waiter’s attempts to do justice to the merits of a given wine begin to sound like a libationary remix of Chomsky’s “Colourless green ideas sleep furiously.” But even while allowing for scepticism, incomprehension and constant proximity to parody, I continue to wonder about the extent to which my experience of wine would be enhanced by becoming more articulate in la langue du raisin. ‘Smooth’ is generally considered a good quality (as opposed to ‘rough’) but Kenny G, a purveyor of ‘smooth jazz’, is tacitly at odds with ‘complexity’. I can sort of appreciate complexity in a wine, without any understanding of how that complexity is constituted but – a defining character flaw – am more often conscious of a lack of complexity.  The strange thing is that while wine appreciation is not like a foal’s ability to get up and running straight away, it does find its feet over time. Even if uninformed, un-cultivated and left to fend for itself without any supporting help, it seems one’s tastes in wine not only change; they improve of their own accord. This might be considered a welcome, accidentally ameliorative side-effect of getting older. Or would be were it not for the fact – one I have no trouble accepting – that this improvement manifests itself negatively, as a steadily increasing capacity for dissatisfaction. To put it simply, what might have seemed an excellent wine a few years earlier becomes merely tolerable because of a lack of what may or may not be complexity. The tolerable becomes unacceptable, and the unacceptable becomes vile. My tongue has become more responsive to taste while remaining tied; my discernment is entirely inarticulate. The product, above all else, of laziness, this manifests itself in several unattractive ways. Do women on a date prefer men who take control of the wine menu? (Could this be the civilised residue of what was once a more widespread assumption and acceptance of male domination?) My own dating history leads me to suspect that they might, though the belief that the evening gets off to a bad start – with my saying, “I don’t know anything about wine, you choose” – is more palatable than conceding that it might have more to do with the way it ends (with my saying, “Let’s split the check”) or, come to think of it, with the middle passage (constantly refilling my own glass while droning on, without interruption, about the musical complexity of Ornette Coleman). It’s not just laziness and tightness, there’s also the question of sophistication and refinement. I can eat with chopsticks – I really can! – but have never been able to master the knack of swirling wine round the glass and forensically nosing it. You can do it, I’m sure, but I always feel like I’m engaged in such a blatant affectation that the first flicker of an erotic bond starts to form between my date and the waiter because they can tell that I’m parroting the action without any idea of what I’m attempting to discover, that it’s obvious to anyone watching that my head is entirely filled with a single idea: keep the cost down. In this regard, price, I am pleased to report that limited progress has been made. In my mid-20s, in London, I was sometimes invited to the house of the writer Lisa Appignanesi who was at the centre of London’s intellectual and cultural life. Well-mannered enough not to arrive empty-handed, I’d stop off at the off-licence near her house and pick up the cheapest bottle of discounted plonk on offer. Lisa always accepted this shabby gift graciously (she did everything graciously), while making sure that it never darkened the table. It now seems one of the rudest things one can do, to show up at someone’s house with a crap bottle of wine, though where crapness begins or ends is anyone’s guess. A shitty bottle of wine is always over-priced, is always money wasted. At the opposite end of the scale, my limited experience of drinking very expensive wine has confirmed what I had always expected: that it’s wasted on me. I ooh and ah, naturally and gratefully, but even though I enjoy these $200 bottles I am thinking: well, it’s not 170 bucks better than a 30 dollar bottle. Perhaps from a certain point – $100 upwards? – you have to pay twice that for a tiny percentage improvement in experience. That makes sense. If this were not the case, then a $1,000 bottle would surely bear so little relation to wine that it wouldn’t be wine at all. We now have sufficient linguistic tools available to describe my ideal relationship with wine. When I think of wine, it’s never as a drink or a taste experience but always as part of an occasion, part of a narrative. What I love is going to a dinner at a restaurant with a non-clamorous acoustic (wood and carpet, not metal and concrete) and a limited menu (I hate choosing food), knowing that someone else will take care of ordering the wine which will flow without let or hindrance. The problem at my father-in-law’s is that although the wine is always excellent, there’s never an infinite amount of it. And what I want from wine, above all, is more. That’s the key word in all this. I love talk and the progression of conversation as the wine makes itself felt: the glow of friends’ eyes, the flow of chat. Red wine, reflections of the room and of candlelight in the glasses full of wine. Everything is held together by the wine, even though that wine is less important than the people, the subject, the jokes and laughter. The wonderful remarks become more wonderful as the evening unfolds, until nothing anybody says really makes any sense at all. In the morning I will not remember the details of the wine or the food. What I will remember is the warm glow, the happiness of it all.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine. Photography by Marcus Nilsso.

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine.

FONDATA: The Mirth of More

The Mirth of More

Each November, the wine world looks to Burgundy for the Hospices de Beaune auction. We dive into the history of this philanthropic institution, the domaine and the wines it produces

Explore the history of Burgundy’s Hotel-Dieu and Hospices de Beaune, its wine estate and the famous annual auction, the Vente des Vins

Your guide to the wines of the Hospices de Beaune

Everything you need to know about the Hospices de Beaune

For a long time, Tuscany was known merely for its squat jugs of rustic Chianti, almost inevitably in quaint straw baskets; thin, insipid wines that are a shadow of what the region has proven it can produce today.  While Chianti had once been known for making fine wine – having been the first region to have geographical limits defined for wine production back in the 18th century – its reputation had, by the mid-1900s, been ruined. The area for production had been expanded in the 1930s, far beyond the historic heart of the region, encompassing lesser vineyards. The appellation rules encouraged producers to favour quantity over quality, with yields as high as 85hl/ha allowed, and specifying that red blends had to include a minimum 10% (and up to 30%) white grapes, with as little as 50% Sangiovese. Winemakers took advantage of high-yielding Trebbiano to bulk out the once-famous wines.  But one man changed all that. Enter Mario Incisa della Rochetta, a man who had been brought up tasting Claret with his grandfather. In 1944 – missing the taste of Bordeaux and inspired by the good wines his friend Duke Francesco Salviati was making near Pisa – he decided to plant a vineyard on his wife’s Tenuta San Guido estate in Bolgheri, on Tuscany’s coast, two hours west of Siena.   Identifying a stony site that sat at over 1,000 feet above sea-level, he took Cabernet cuttings from Salviati, and planted his first vines. The resulting wine was consumed only by family and friends, seen as overly green by the locals. But Incisa della Rochetta was encouraged by the results, and decided to plant more vines lower down the slope, and closer to the sea, in 1965.  His nephew Piero Antinori – who had recently taken over the family business – realised the potential of the wine, and the Antinori winemaker Giacomo Tachis started making the wine. Influenced by time in Bordeaux, Giacomo filled the cellar with new French barriques – small barrels that were a radical move away from Italy’s traditional large, old casks made with Slavonian oak. In 1971, Piero convinced Mario to release the 1968 vintage commercially and a star was born: Sassicaia.  Being 100% Cabernet Sauvignon, aged in new French oak and from Bolgheri – a region that at the time didn’t have a DOC – Sassicaia was labelled with the lowest official classification for Italian wine, “vino da tavola” or table wine. It rapidly won praise from critics and consumers, commanding a serious price that was at odds with its lowly classification. Where Sassicaia led, others followed. In 1978 Piero Antinori released the first vintage (1971) of Tigananello – a blend of Sangiovese and Cabernet grown in the heart of Chianti Classico. Bordeaux authority Emile Peynaud advised on the project, suggesting that the appellation’s stipulated white grapes were abandoned and that it be aged in new French oak. Falling outside Chianti’s rules, it too was sold as a vino da tavola.  Piermario Meletti Cavallari founded Grattamacco in 1977, and was the first to feature Bolgheri on the label, featuring this then little-known region in larger font than even the wine’s name itself. Piero Antinori’s brother Lodovico established Tenuta dell’ Ornellaia in 1981, planting Cabernet and Merlot. A flight of Chianti producers followed suit – ripping up the appellation’s rulebook to make cuvées with international grapes like Cabernet, using 100% Sangiovese, and/or French oak: Le Pergole Torte, Flaccianello, Cepparello, Percarlo, Fontalloro and more all pushed the boundaries of what was possible in Tuscany – but didn’t (and couldn’t) bear the region’s name on their labels. These wines – the “Super Tuscans”, as they became known – were soon being recognised the world over. In 1978 Hugh Johnson organised a blind tasting of the world’s best Cabernets for Decanter. Pitted alongside the First Growths, it was Sassicaia that came out on top. The 1985 vintage of Sassicaia became legendary when Robert Parker – who had just risen to fame – gave it 100 points. In 2001, 1998 Ornellaia was named Wine Spectator’s Wine of the Year. These wines were putting two fingers up to Italy’s appellation system as they sold for the same price as Grands Crus Classés, despite their vino da tavola status.  In a bid to stem the tide of these ultra-premium table wines, the Italian authorities started to make changes. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, Chianti amended its appellation rules to try and reclaim the wines, allowing more variation in the winemaking, with no white grapes required and allowing 100% Sangiovese wines. But the damage was done, with the Super Tuscans already established as their own brand. Few returned to the fold to use the Chianti name on their label – a region that producers felt didn’t, then or now, have a reputation that aligned with the quality of these world-class wines.   The likes of Sassicaia, Tignanello and Ornellaia drew the international wine market’s eye to Italy. Bold, big, rich wines that won critics points, the Super Tuscans arguably turned the tide for the nation, garnering praise – and proving that Italy’s wines could compete on the world stage. Today, critics and consumers are looking beyond these iconic names to explore Italy’s extraordinary viticultural heritage, with the terroir-driven styles of Barolo, Barbaresco, Montalcino, Etna and more starting to find the spotlight. But Tuscany’s rebellious streak continues, with a new wave of producers – such as Bibi Graetz – producing wines that are bottled defiantly as IGT Toscana. While there’s plenty more competition, the Super Tuscans remain some of the country’s finest and most collectable wines. The Super Tuscans you need to know While there’s no set definition for a Super Tuscan, and there are many that could take the title, here’s our pick of the most famous wines. Sassicaia: The first Super Tuscan, made by Tenuta San Guido, in Bolgheri; it’s a blend of Cabernet Sauvignon (85%) and Cabernet Franc (15%), and is the only single estate in the whole of Italy to have its own DOC, Bolgheri-Sassicaia. Tignanello: A rival to Sassicaia in terms of fame, and also put under the sporlight by Piero Antinori, Tignanello comes from Chianti. It was the first to blend Sangiovese with Cabernet. Solaia: Tignanello’s sibling, Solaia is the reverse in blend – with Cabernet taking the lead, complemented by a smaller proportion of Sangiovese. Ornellaia: Created by Piero Antinori’s brother Lodovico, with advice from André Tchelistcheff, it’s a Cabernet-led Bordeaux blend. The property has changed hands over the years and is now owned by the Frescobaldi family. Masseto: The other wine created by Lodovico Antinori: although planning originally to work just with Cabernet, Tchelistcheff identified the hill of Masseto as ideal for Merlot. The fruit from this site was bottled separately as a pure Merlot for the first time in 1986 (although the 1987 was the first vintage released), and today Masseto operates separately from the Ornellaia estate, having its own winery and identity. Grattamacco: Another of the earliest Super Tuscans, this is Cabernet blended with Sangiovese. Piermario Meletti Cavallari purchased an abandoned vineyard in 1977 which was all Sangiovese, but he later grafted over with Cabernet. He was one of the first producers to feature Bolgheri on the label of his wine. Montevertine Le Pergole Torte: This was one of the earliest expressions of pure Sangiovese from Chianti, aged in French and Slavonian oak. The first vintage of this was 1977, a blend of fruit from the estate’s best vineyards. Fontodi Flaccianello della Pieve: The first vintage of Flaccianello was 1981. Originally a single-vineyard expression, since 2001 it’s been a blend of the best grapes from the estate, but remains 100% Sangiovese, classified as Colli Toscana Centrale. The proportion of new oak has been toned down, and a portion of the wine goes into amphora. Isole e Olena Cepparello: This pure Sangiovese was first made in 1980, and today only sees around a third new oak, with a small proportion of American oak. It’s notable that it is bottled both under screwcap and cork, with Paolo di Marchi a strong believer in the benefits of screwcap. San Giusto a Rentennano Percarlo: First made in 1983, this 100% Sangiovese comes from the estate’s best vineyards. Fèlsina Fontalloro: Made with vines falling in Chianti Classico and Chianti Colli Senesi, this pure Sangiovese was first made in 1983. Castello di Ama L’Apparita: Narrowly beating Masseto to be the first 100% Merlot made in Tuscany (with the first vintage 1985), the 1987 vintage of L’Apparita famously beat Pétrus, Le Pin and several other Merlots in a blind tasting which was judged by a panel including Michel Rolland in 1992. Querciabella Camartina: First made in 1981, this was originally a blend of mainly Sangiovese with Cabernet in support, but the blend has reversed over time. Bibi Graetz Testamatta & Colore: Bibi’s top wines are elegant expressions of Tuscany’s indigenous grapes, sourced from old vines at high altitudes. Testamatta is pure Sangiovese, while the flagship Colore is Sangiovese with a touch of Colorino. Explore all Tuscan wines or discover more Editorial

Sassicaia, Tignanello, Ornellaia: these fabled Super Tuscans are some of the world’s most desirable wines – kickstarting Italy’s fine wine renaissance, re-defining its reputation and proving what was possible. But how did these lowly table wines rise to the top of the fine wine ranks?

Exploring how the fabled Super Tuscans Sassicaia, Tignanello and Ornellaia have re-defined Italian wine's reputation.

Learn more about Super Tuscan wines

The Super Tuscans: everything you need to know

Ch. Haut-Brion is one of the oldest and best-known names in fine wine. The Bordeaux First Growth estate was created by Jean de Pontac, back in 1533, and its wines were among the first to be exported. Records detail 169 bottles of the wine (then as “Hobriono”) served to guests in 1660 by King Charles II. Just a few years later, on 10th April 1663, Samuel Pepys wrote in his diary that he had drunk “a sort of French wine called Ho-Bryan [sic] that hath a good and most particular taste I never met with”.   
While Ch. Haut-Brion is the oldest known estate in Bordeaux to bottle and label its wine as a Grand Cru, bearing both name and terroir – the name “Haut-Brion” has an historic attachment to a fair few other winemaking estates in the Graves region. The name Haut-Brion roughly translates as hillock and refers to the raised gravel hills found in the surrounding vineyards. It is these distinct raised, Günzian gravel soils that have provided such ideal conditions for grape growing over the last 500 years or so – providing the vines with much-needed drainage in Bordeaux’s marshy flatlands. Below the deep gravel lies a bedrock of clay which locks in the moisture, releasing it only when required in the drier summer months. This terroir is the secret behind the vineyards’ historic levels of consistency. 
Other famous châteaux that share the Haut-Brion name are all situated in the Graves region, just south of Bordeaux’s city centre. Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion, situated immediately across the road from Ch. Haut-Brion, with neighbouring vineyards, is the most famous, while Ch. les Carmes Haut-Brion is situated just to its north and Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion to its south.
Controversially Ch. Larrivet Haut-Brion is not close to the other properties, but further south, near Ch. Smith Haut Lafitte. The property changed its name from La Rivette to Ch. Haut-Brion Larrivet in 1874, and it was only following a lawsuit, filed by Ch. Haut-Brion in 1949, that the château was forced to change its name to Larrivet Haut-Brion. (Neither Les Carmes de Haut-Brion or Larrivet Haut-Brion have a connection to Ch. Haut-Brion and the wider Clarence Dillon portfolio.) 
Today, Ch. Haut-Brion and neighbouring Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion are the two flagship estates of Domaine Clarence Dillon. Clarence Dillon was an American immigrant, who made his fortune as a financial broker on Wall Street in the 1920s. With French ancestors and a passion for French gastronomy (which included him taking an introductory course at the famous Paris cooking school, Le Cordon Bleu), he spent much of his spare time in France. In 1935, he eventually persuaded the current owner, André Gilbert, to sell him Ch. Haut-Brion, his favourite wine estate, and the property has remained in Dillon the family ever since. 
Clarence Dillon’s granddaughter, Joan Dillon, and her second husband Philippe de Noailles, Duke of Mouchy, expanded their holdings in the region, when they purchased Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion in 1983. It was following this acquisition that some famous neighbouring châteaux were absorbed into the portfolio and some wines discontinued, with the fruit instead used for Haut-Brion or La Mission Haut-Brion. 
The range as it stood in 1983 included the Grand Vins Haut-Brion and Haut-Brion Blanc, La Mission Haut-Brion and their famous white wine, Laville Haut-Brion. In addition to this, Ch. Haut-Brion produced a second red wine called Bahans Haut-Brion and a second white wine called Les Plantiers Haut-Brion. At Ch. La Mission Haut-Brion they produced a second red wine called La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion and also the red wine of Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion. 
In 2008 the fourth generation of the Clarence Dillon family, Prince Robert de Luxembourg took control of the estate, and a flurry of name changes took place, however the fruit sources have remained stable. From the 2008 vintage, Les Plantiers Haut-Brion was renamed La Clarté de Haut-Brion, while Bahans Haut-Brion became Le Clarence de Haut-Brion from the 2007 vintage. Laville Haut-Brion, La Mission’s famed white wine, was returned back to La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc from the 2009 vintage. 
For the Prince, the name changes were mainly a way to simplify the range for collectors. In fact, La Mission’s top white had originally been called La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc when first produced in 1923, however the winery didn’t feel the quality was on a par with the red and so changed the name to Laville Haut-Brion (after the lieu-dit where the white grapes were grown) in the 1930s. Bahans Haut-Brion had also taken its name from its lieu-dit; the name change reflected that it had become a second wine, not a cuvée from a separate vineyard (and paid tribute to Prince Robert’s gread-grandfather). 
Perhaps the biggest casualty in the development of the Haut-Brion properties was the discontinuation of Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion – with the last vintage 2005. Before Clarence Dillon bought the property in 1983, a portion of the grapes of the four-hectare estate went into the Grand Vin of La Mission Haut-Brion, while the rest was bottled as La Tour Haut-Brion.  Clarence Dillon bottled fruit from all four hectares of the property separately for a time, and it gained its own strong following – known for consistently producing memorable, age-worthy wines that defied its relatively low price point. But, in 2005, Domaine Clarence Dillon decided to put all the fruit into the second wine of La Mission Haut-Brion – La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion – and Ch. La Tour Haut-Brion was no more. 
Between the 1950s and 2012, an additional wine – Domaine de la Passion Haut-Brion or Domaine Allary Haut-Brion – was made. The wine has an interesting story, relating to a parcel of vines in the heart of the Haut-Brion vineyard, but owned by the Allary family. The Allary family didn’t make wine, but rented the vines to Haut-Brion, who paid them back by bottling some wine – which otherwise would have been Haut-Brion’s Grand Vin or second wine – under a special label, Domaine de la Passion Haut-Brion.  This was produced from 1954 to 1978. In 1979, EU law forbid the same wine to be bottled under a different label, so between 1979 and 2007, the fruit from these vines went into the second wine of Haut-Brion (then known as Bahans Haut-Brion). From 2008, the Allary family took back control of the vines and produced their own wine. Made by a different winemaking team managed by Stéphane Derenoncourt, the wine was bottled under a new label, Domaine Allary Haut-Brion. This lasted just five vintages until 2012, when Clarence Dillon finally bought the land from the family and the wine was discontinued. 
In 2011, the fourth generation of the Dillon family, Prince Robert de Luxemburg, branched out beyond the Graves region to buy Ch. Tertre Daugay in Saint-Emilion along with the vineyards of neighbouring Ch. l’Arrosée. From the two estates, he created Quintus. Ideally situated next to Ch. Bélair-Monange and Ch. Angélus, the vineyards are situated on a limestone hillock in the south-western end of the Saint-Emilion plateau.  In 2021, Domaine Clarence Dillon bought Ch. Grand Pontet, another 14 hectares of top Saint-Emilion terroir to further expand the Quintus estate. With the viticulture and winemaking at Quintus all under the control of the talented Haut-Brion team, it’s not surprising that Quintus has quickly gained its own following of collectors. Alongside the Grand Vin, a second wine Le Dragon de Quintus (first produced in 2011) and a third wine Saint-Emilion de Quintus (first produced in 2014) are made.

These various lost properties and wines are becoming harder to find, but offer a fascinating way to explore the full DNA of the modern-day Haut-Brion, La Mission Haut-Brion and Quintus. 
Your quick guide to the Haut-Brion wines
 Allary Haut-Brion (Domaine): made between 2008 and 2012 by a separate winemaking team from a parcel of vines in the heart of the Haut-Brion site (which is now owned by Haut-Brion) Bahans Haut-Brion: the second wine of Ch. Haut-Brion, first made in 1976 and renamed Le Clarence de Haut-Brion from the 2007 vintage Haut-Brion: the Grand Vin (red) of Ch. Haut-Brion, which dates back to the 16th century Haut-Brion Blanc: the Grand Vin (white) of Ch. Haut-Brion, first made in 1916  La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion: La Mission Haut-Brion’s second wine, introduced in 1991 La Clarté de Haut-Brion: the name for the second white wine of Ch. Haut-Brion from the 2008 vintage (previously Les Plantiers Haut-Brion Blanc) La Mission Haut-Brion: the Grand Vin (red) of Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion which has been made since the 16th century La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc: the Grand Vin (white) of Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion, first made in 1923 under this name, before being renamed Laville Haut-Brion in the 1930s, and reclaiming its name once more from 2009  La Passion Haut-Brion (Domaine de): a bottling of Haut-Brion or Bahans Haut-Brion under a different label (from 1955 to its last vintage in 1978) La Tour Haut-Brion: a separate property owned by Clarence Dillon since 1983 (last vintage 2005); the fruit is now used for La Mission Haut-Brion’s second wine, La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion Laville Haut-Brion: the Grand Vin (white) of Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion, renamed la Mission Haut-Brion Blanc in 2009 (as it was originally known when first made, prior to the 1930s) Le Clarence de Haut-Brion: the name for Ch. Haut-Brion’s second (red) wine since the 2007 vintage (previously known as Bahans Haut-Brion) Les Plantiers Haut-Brion Blanc: the second white wine of Ch. Haut-Brion, renamed La Clarté de Haut-Brion from the 2008 vintage Explore all current listings of Ch. Haut-Brion, Ch. La Mission Haut-Brion, Quintus, La Passion Haut-Brion and La Tour Haut-Brion or read more Editorial 

Since the Clarence Dillon family bought Ch. Haut-Brion in 1935 and neighbouring Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and La Tour Haut-Brion 48 years later, the properties have become some of Bordeaux’s most collectable. We explore the genealogy of these illustrious estates – and their lost wines 

Exploring the genealogy of the Bordeaux First Growth Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and its siblings La Tour Haut-Brion

The lost wines of Haut-Brion

The Scotch whisky world is a fickle beast. In its 500-year history, the number of distilleries in Scotland has swelled and contracted many times. There have been myriad casualties, and very few have lived through these downturns without shedding stills and stocks to stay afloat.  The less fortunate were shuttered temporarily, mothballed for inordinately long periods of time, or were ghosted with no hopes of revival. In many cases, everything – lock, stock and, quite literally, barrel – was sold to pay off debtors, and the site was razed to the ground. In the years that have followed, these silent or so-called ghost distilleries have taken on an almost mythical new name: lost distilleries. While these producers were invariably unknown while in active production, the allure of what is no more has made them astoundingly popular, sending prices into the tens, and in many cases, hundreds of thousands. In the 40-plus years since the last whisky loch, when a devastating number of distilleries were forced to close, some producers have languished in relative obscurity, with only the most devout knowing of their existence and diligently sourcing their precious nectar. Others have developed a cult-like status and become exceptionally collectable as a consequence. So collectable, in fact, that their owners have moved heaven and earth to bring them back to life. The most famous are those considered the “Holy Trinity” of lost distilleries: Port Ellen, Brora and Rosebank. “They are the lost history of Scotland’s distilling and whisky heritage,” Stephen Rankin, Director of Prestige at independent bottler Gordon & MacPhail, says wistfully. “They are from a time when whisky was made slightly differently from today. It’s a lost character. We cannot go back and make these whiskies like they were originally made. They reflect both the time as well as the people and place in our history,” he adds. When the vast majority of these distilleries were in production, huge quantities of their output was destined for blends. Their young single malts simply were not available, or more accurately, were not widely available, as distillery bottlings. If it hadn’t been for independent bottlers like Gordon & MacPhail, who prudently bought stock and squirreled it away, when distilleries were closing down in their droves, then these whiskies would almost certainly have been consigned to the very dusty history books. “I think the popularity has a lot to do with the mystery of times gone by and what older whiskies used to be,” the newly appointed Rosebank Distillery Manager Malcolm Rennie tells me. “There’s a certain element of the misty-eyed past being better in some way,” he muses. “Not always the case in my opinion – the exception being Rosebank, of course,” Rennie quips. For James Mackay, Head of Rare & Exceptional Spirits at Diageo, which owns Port Ellen, Brora (and Rosebank until 2017), it’s all about the experience. “Due to the very nature of ghost distilleries and their finite stocks, these are whiskies we will never be able to taste again. When you share a whisky from a ghost distillery with a friend, they’ll know that they're being treated to something completely irreplaceable and there is something very special about that.” This special experience is a costly one. Collectors – and flippers – have driven the price of lost distillery bottlings to exorbitant highs. Questions have been raised about what the reawakening of these lost distilleries will do to the prices of existing bottlings and where these new-old whiskies from the likes of Port Ellen, Brora and Rosebank will sit in terms of price and taste profile. On this last point, Mackay says: “This is the big question we’re all asking ourselves.” He continues: “We are confident that the new Brora and Port Ellen whiskies will sit amongst the best in the world, however we’ll have to wait two or three decades before we know for sure!” In terms of taste profile, Rennie says the new Rosebank will be a “very accessible” whisky “on the lighter end of the scale with a typical fresh, fruity smooth character but with an additional dimension of distillery character giving some depth also”. On the question of price, he says “I couldn’t comment.” Adding: “It would depend on age, I’m sure. Safe to say Rosebank will be viewed as a premium whisky.” In many ways, Rosebank was the least likely lost distillery revival, as Diageo offloaded the distillery site to British Waterways in 2002, and the original three pot stills and mash tun were stolen by thieves in 2008. Rennie says it has been a real honour to be entrusted with resurrecting the distillery, which was mothballed in 1993. When we speak, three new copper pot stills are being delivered to the site – a landmark moment in any distillery’s history, old or new. A new distillery team is being assembled and the goal is clear: emulate the original, heavy and oily triple-distilled style of Rosebank spirit. The new Distillery Manager says no expense has been spared on equipment and operating systems to give the team as much control as possible. He acknowledges there will be a lot of trial and error to get the spirit character to where they all want it to be, but he is confident the finished article will be “as good as, if not better, than the original”. “It may take a few goes but we will get it,” Rennie adds determinedly. When asked why he thinks the Lowland distillery has become such an icon, Rennie says: “I think the fact that Rosebank was always a sought-after whisky way back in time says a lot. It was in demand 100 years ago by blenders, so the spirit was always special. It didn’t become special only because it closed, not like some other lost distilleries. “Rosebank has always been seen as the ultimate Lowland whisky and deservedly so. When it was closed in 1993 that reputation was only going to be enhanced and [it was] a real loss to the local area and overall whisky industry.” Rosebank’s location on the banks of the Forth & Clyde Union Canal was integral to its prosperity and eventual closure. In many ways the distillery’s fate was sealed when the canal which connected Scotland’s two main cities, Edinburgh and Glasgow, closed in 1963. When the whisky industry spluttered and stalled in the 1990s, the then-owners made what many believe to be the wrong decision to officially mothball the distillery. To great surprise and delight, Ian Macleod Distillers announced in 2017 that Rosebank would be revived having secured the site from Scottish Canals – a former division of British Waterways – and acquired the remaining stock from Diageo in preparation for the £10 million project to bring Rosebank back to life. The decision to restore Brora and Port Ellen was also made in 2017, 34 years after their closure. Mackay says this was partly a response to the demands from whisky enthusiasts but also as a result of the strong growth in single malt Scotch and the opportunity to create a new generation of whisky consumers. He says the £35 million restoration process – which started at the same time for Brora and Port Ellen – has required enormous support from local communities, teams of highly skilled engineers, whisky noses and the Diageo archives. Brora, in the Highlands, took little under four years to bring back to life and opened in May 2021. Port Ellen on the isle of Islay has taken slightly longer and should begin distilling in spring 2023.
 With an eye to the future, many speculate which ghost distilleries could be earmarked for revival next – Diageo alone owns another 15 of them. Rankin believes there are very few left that could come back, but when pushed suggests there could be one or two, depending on the condition of the buildings, their current broader environment and land use around them, and the financing structure in place of those doing the resurrection. He remains tight-lipped on which. Regardless, there has arguably never been a more exciting time in Scotch whisky, with lost distilleries being brought back to former glory, a glut of new distillery builds and collectability at an all-time high. “It is a unique time for whisky lovers,” Rankin agrees. “Scotland shall be seen as the home of single malt and blended whisky. Those overseas are starting with a blank canvas and are making their own history, while those new in Scotland have the legacy of a 500-year-old industry to build upon. “Even if the whisky that draws them in is one distilled in Japan or the USA, India or Switzerland, they will find their way to Scotland and in turn to past bottlings from our history, as well as to new expressions from long-established brands, resurrected ones, or brand new ones. “As my grandfather said: ‘The future is shaped by what you do today, while today reveals what we did in the past.’” As the past and present meet, there will be a keen eye on these formerly lost distilleries and what their resurrection means for those fortunate enough to own bottlings from a bygone era. Five of our favourite lost distilleries Glenury Royal Highland whisky distillery Glenury Royal has a rather ill-fated history. Severe fire, a distillery worker death in a boiler-incident and ultimate closure in 1985 have all befallen the distillery which once stood near Stonehaven in Aberdeenshire. Despite all this, the Glenury Royal name has survived, and very aged bottlings are increasingly scarce and collectable. Diageo has released some remarkable aged Glenury Royal bottlings (including a 50-year-old) as part of its highly sought-after Cask of Distinction series. Gordon & MacPhail has also bottled some rare Glenury Royal single malts. Littlemill Littlemill is the oldest licensed whisky distillery in Scotland. Whisky from the Lowland producer is incredibly rare and is no longer being produced after the distillery was closed, demolished and consumed by fire. Some independent bottlings and very rare own labels have been released. To date, Testament – a 44-year-old limited expression distilled in 1976 – is the oldest single malt from Scotland’s first distillery. Celestial Edition (40 years), Private Cellar (25-, 27- and 29-year-old) and a 1991 vintage have all been released in extremely limited quantities. Port Ellen The  Port Ellen distillery on the south coast of the Hebridean island of Islay is responsible for some of the rarest peated single malts on the market. The distillery, founded in 1825, was a victim of the whisky downturn and eventually shuttered for good in 1983. As stocks decreased, secondary market demand for Port Ellen intensified and bottlings regularly fetched five-figure sums. The distillery is being brought back to life with two copper pot stills that are faithful replicas of the originals, and two smaller stills which will produce more experimental and innovative spirit.  Brora Brora distillery – or Clynelish as it was originally known – was established in 1819 by the Marquis of Stafford, later the Duke of Sutherland. Sadly, Brora was a casualty of the 1980s whisky loch and closed its doors in 1983. In the years that followed, Brora has become one of the most highly sought-after Scotch whiskies. Some of the most expensive bottles ever sold have included the 40-year-old Brora bottlings from 1972 which have sold for upwards of £26,000. Many believe bottlings from the late 1960s and early ‘70s to be the most exciting in Brora’s distilling history. There are some remarkable official and independent bottlings from the early 1970s as part of the Rare Malts series and Douglas Laing & Co’s whiskies. Rosebank Rosebank is a highly sought-after and respected Lowland producer, famed for its triple-distilled whisky, that was mothballed in 1993. In the years that followed, Rosebank joined Port Ellen in Islay and Brora in the Highlands as one of the hallowed, and highly collectable, trinity of lost distilleries. The so-called “King of the Lowlands” developed a cult following for its triple-distilled whisky – a practice that is highly irregular in Scotland as most double distil. With new whisky from the distillery unlikely to appear until 2030, there will be heightened interest in and demand for the last remaining bottles from the original distillery. Browse all Scotch whisky listings or read more Editorial 

Some of the most collectable whiskies are those from distilleries that no longer exist. These ghost or lost distilleries hold a unique allure – but as attempts to revive Scotland’s so-called “Holy Trinity” get underway, Holly Motion explores whether it’s really possible to turn back the clock

We explore how Scotland’s most coveted and iconic distilleries have come back to life, including the Holy Trinity of Brora, Port Ellen and Rosebank. 

Haunting the present: ghost whisky distilleries

Haunting the present: ghost distilleries

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