The remote Hebridean isle of Islay has an almost otherworldly quality about it. For centuries, this eerily beautiful and beguiling postage stamp of Scotland produced whiskies that elevated some of the world’s most well-known blended malts. In recent years, however, Islay has stepped out from the shadows and become one of the most lauded single malt regions in the world – a position cemented this month when a cask of Ardbeg sold for a record-breaking £16 million.   So just how did this small whisky-producing region become the most collectable name in the world?  Adam Hannett started working as Head Distiller at Bruichladdich, on the southwestern tip of the island, in 2006. He says the difference between Islay, and Islay whisky, then and now is “pretty transformative”. When he joined Bruichladdich, the Victorian distillery was six years into what would become one of the greatest distillery revivals the whisky industry has ever seen.   “Inside the distillery gates, we were at the beginning of our journey,” the Head Distiller tells me. This journey included distilling an organic spirit, running barley experiments and bringing barley-growing back to Islay. The latter, Hannett says, has “changed the landscape of the island completely”. He adds: “Gordon, our Assistant Distillery Manager, talks about how we’ve turned fields golden, which sounds a bit cheesy, but it’s true.”  Journey due east and you’ll find Bowmore – Islay’s oldest and one of its most coveted single malt producers located in the island’s capital. David Turner, who was born and raised on the island, has worked at the distillery for 30 years – for the past 10 as Distillery Manager.   “Thirty years ago we were producing a lot of our spirit for bulk, for blending purposes, and we had a few thousand tourists a year,” he tells me. “We probably had one full-time visitor centre manager and a couple of seasonal tour guides that would come on for the summer.  “I think we’ve now got nine full-time staff in our visitor centre who do tours all year round and we’ve moved away from bulk blended whisky to just being a single malt specialist now.”  During Turner’s career at Bowmore, the distillery has transformed from a lesser-known producer to one of the most collectable names in Scotch whisky. Black Bowmore, Turner says, “put us on the map for being collectable”.  “When we took these samples out the casks, the whisky colour was black,” he says, “the quality was phenomenal.”  This discovery was made in the 1990s, around the same time as the wider whisky world started to take notice of Islay after whisky writer Michael Jackson shone a spotlight on the island’s quality in his pivotal work, Complete Guide to Single Malt Scotch.   As a region, Islay has faced hardship and several distilleries have been temporary or permanent casualties. Port Ellen, one of Scotland’s so-called “Holy Trinity” of lost distilleries, is arguably the most well-known victim, closing its doors after the downturn in 1983. Ardbeg was also shuttered in 1991 and was saved by the grace of God (Glenmorangie) in 1997. Today, the region is booming and the number of producers has reached a healthy nine. This number will increase when Port Ellen is resurrected by owners Diageo imminently – an announcement met with unfettered excitement last year. These closures and shifting paradigms have created a thrilling market for collectors, as whisky enthusiasts search for bottlings from bygone eras. The 1950s through to 1970s is of keen interest as whisky was being produced on a much smaller scale via traditional methods.  Traditionally, Islay was associated with peated whisky. For a time, distillers like Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg competed against one another to see who could produce the biggest peat bombs on the market, which divided opinion. Bruichladdich blew all the others out the water when it released Octomore 6.3 in 2015, which registered 258 phenol parts per million (the scale used to determine the peat levels of whisky). For context, prior to that release, the highest peat levels were circa 167 PPM, also from Bruichladdich.   “I think there’s a hugely diverse range of flavour in the whiskies being produced across Islay at the moment,” Bruichladdich’s Hannett tells me. “It makes defining an ‘Islay’ whisky quite challenging as there’s so much variety from one distillery to the next.   “The general public almost expects a heavy smoke, almost medicinal flavour from an Islay whisky but even within our heavily peated Port Charlotte range, we have quite a soft, heathery, barbecue smoke.”    “Islay is famous for its peated whiskies but Bowmore is not all about peated,” Turner adds. “Bowmore sits in the middle of Islay. The north of Islay is very, very lightly peated. The south is very heavily peated. We’re in between the north and the south in peating levels. We see ourselves, and call ourselves, mid-peated, or a perfectly balanced Islay whisky.”  The people of Islay – Ileachs to give them their proper name – are integral to the whisky industry on the Hebridean island. Many of the Master Distillers and Blenders are locals and the vast majority of the production team hails from the island with an average population of 3,000 people. One of the most famous Ileachs is Jim McEwan who started his career at Bowmore, where he later worked as Distillery Manager before he left to lead Bruichladdich’s resurrection in 2000. McEwan came out of retirement to spearhead independent bottler Hunter Laing & Co’s new £12 million Islay distillery, Ardnahoe, saying it was an offer he could not refuse and beyond his wildest dreams.    The distillery, located on a four-acre plot on Islay’s northern coast, between Caol Ila and Bunnahabhain, overlooking the Isle of Jura, became the ninth working distillery on the island when it opened in 2019. McEwan designed the pot stills, mash tun and mucked in with every aspect of production to create a new-make whisky that he says is everything he looks for from a classic Islay: fruit, flower, sweet notes from the mash tun, baked cereal notes, smoky flavour from the peat, and bracken, heather and wild plants from the bog land. McEwan says the spirit he’s produced at Ardnahoe is as good as anything he’s tasted in 56 years.    Islay is at an interesting point in its history. New distilleries are opening, lost names are coming back to life, and many of the old guard are reaching retirement and are being replaced by younger distilling talent. There, arguably, has never been a more interesting time in its whisky-producing history.    Hannett, who is on the younger side, says: “I’m excited to see how distilleries can continue to adapt to support the local community. We’ve got a special thing here, with a booming industry and nine working distilleries.”  Turner picks up the point: “It’s good to see the old distilleries are still thriving. The new ones have got a good future as well but they’ve got a good number of years before they get a good standard core range." He adds: “A good Islay whisky I would say is between 12, 15 to 18 years. So they’ve got a good few years to get to that, never mind becoming collectable.”  Turner has quietly been amassing a collection of his own since the early 1990s. “I was in since the very beginning,” he says. “I was lucky to be in at the right time and I’ve got a big collection. It’s not just quantity or some of the new releases. It’s old and rare and quality I’ve based mine on.”  Initially, Turner collected Bowmore and slowly started adding other Islay and Scotch limited releases to his collection. As interest in whisky grew, the Distillery Manager rejigged his collection to focus on Islay malts – at one point exclusively Bowmore, Laphroaig and Lagavulin. After a period of selling certain bottlings to buy other, more expensive ones, Turner now has an exclusively Bowmore collection. He doesn’t elaborate on this but he does add: “Aye, it’s got smaller but it’s got more quality and rarity attached to it.” One suspects it is quite something to behold.  As for his distillery, Turner says Bowmore has got “good quality stuff maturing” and “some good aged stocks”. “We were family-owned up until 1994 and the family and the directors at the time had good insight. They kept good aged stocks, so we’ve got good 30s, 40s, 50s – 51, 52-year-old whisky – maturing. This good aged stock will keep the collectability going.”  With impressive aged stocks slumbering at Bowmore and its neighbours, there’ll undoubtedly be more records broken in the coming years from this enchanting Scottish isle.    Explore all our Islay whiskies or read more Editorial 

Islay has cast its spell over the whisky cognoscenti for decades, driving independent and distillery bottlings ever higher. Holly Motion explores how this small Scottish island has bewitched fans and become the gold standard of whisky collectability  

Exploring why single malt whiskies from the remote Hebridean island of Islay have become the gold standard of collectability with Bruichladdich and Bowmore

Exploring Islay whisky’s popularity

The enchanting isle of Islay

Historically peat was used as a fuel source. In recent history, it has been a source of great fervour and one-upmanship as whisky producers clambered to create the peatiest whisky on the market.  For the most part, this narrative and competition has played out on the remote and beguiling Hebridean isle of Islay and its nine malt distilleries. One even deciding the prefix “super” was required on the label because “heavily-peated” was no longer sufficient. But this could all be about to change as Seattle-based Westland Distillery finetunes an industry first: locally-peated American single malt whiskey.   “We are not trying to make it taste like Islay,” Co-Founder and Managing Director Matthew Hofmann says. “We want Solum to exhibit its own terroir and its own flavour influence so long as it tastes good.”   In the 10 years since it was founded, Westland has sought to challenge every stage of whisk(e)y-making convention from barley, casks and now peat. For the past five years the team has been encountering setbacks while they navigated the uncharted territory of producing peated malt in the United States. The first was the discovery that a peat malting company didn’t exist in America, despite Washington State boasting 50,000 acres of peat.   While Hofmann worked on options closer to home, Westland turned to the historic Glasgow-based malt producer Baird’s. But he knew he had struck on something and eventually started working with a start-up malting company, Skagit Valley Malting, to produce what the company believes is the first commercially produced batch of peated malts in America.   Pioneering a locally-peated whiskey created all sorts of headaches – or as Hofmann calls them “interesting challenges” – for the team. In one of the first blind tastings, peat flavour notes were entirely absent.   “When you are trying something new like this, there is an inherent amount of risk,” Hofmann says. “It’s very much an ongoing process and we are far from being finished. It’s more accurate to say we have barely begun on this project.”   Westland uses approximately two cubic yards of peat from a local 30-acre bog which equates to a month’s production and roughly 100 casks of whiskey a year. Whereas others typically cut and drain peat – which has a negative impact on carbon dioxide and methane release, and damages the ecology of the area – Westland uses a different process with a backhoe which keeps the bog intact apart from the small amount of peat they use.   “The stuff we have got out here is wild,” Hofmann says with unfettered excitement. “There’s 11 different species of stagnant mosses. There’s wild cranberries. There’s wild crab-apples. There’s a lot more woody materials – cedar – that end up making it into the bog itself because the area is still heavily wooded as well. So, the result on the peat and aroma is very different.”   Hofmann said Westland will release Solum – Latin for “soil” – in winter 2023 but admits he doesn’t know what the product will taste like yet. He says there is a Mezcal profile at this stage, with vegetal smokiness and spice, but cask impact factors are currently unknown.   “This has been one of the most difficult things we have worked on here at Westland,” he says. “Which is saying something because we have a habit of diving headfirst into things we know very little about.”  One of the main challenges, Hofmann says, is the lack of industry and by extension experts in the country. “Nobody understands the impact of peat and how to use it,” he explains. “That can be quite interesting because when you’re learning it from scratch and you have zero base line knowledge, you tend to approach things in a different way.”   This has led to further innovation in production with engineers at the helm of the project and meant sustainability has been high on the agenda in the notoriously eco-cognisant region.   “We don’t quite know yet what the path is with Solum,” he adds. “Is it going to be about the different areas of the bog and peat flavours you might get from that – kind of like Colere is with barley? Or is it going to be about a general Washington State peat flavour?”  The exact destination may be unknown, but it’s guaranteed to be an entirely new take on a very old tradition.   Browse all current whisky listings or read more Editorial 

It’s one of the oldest styles of whisky in the world and has been known to unite as much as it divides. So why is a Pacific Northwest distillery moving heaven and earth to produce the first batch of American peated malts? Holly Motion digs into it 

Digging into why Pacific Northwest distillery Westland is moving heaven and earth to produce the first batch of American peated malts. 

Digging into American peated malts

Breaking new ground

The benefit of hindsight tells us this story did not end happily ever after, but for the 750
million people tuning in to the wedding of Lady Diana Spencer and the Prince of Wales, the day was fit for a fairy-tale complete with gold-encrusted carriage, silk slippers and trumpet fanfares aplenty.   The Champagne of choice? Magnums of Dom Pérignon 1961–  Diana’s birth year and a legendary vintage. The 600 bottles were disgorged in March 1981, just four months before Diana took the long walk down the aisle at St Paul’s cathedral but the quality of this 50/50 Chardonnay/Pinot Noir blend had long been appreciated: it is the only Champagne to have been awarded six stars by the late Michael Broadbent in his vintage guide – the maximum was five – while sparkling wine expert Tom Stevenson called it “the best Dom Pérignon I have ever tasted”. It wasn’t just Champagne that made wine fit for royalty in 1961. The warm, dry summer produced wines that had the Bordelais salivating from the first crush. In his annual
vintage report, Bordeaux négociant Peter Sichel, said:  “We have no doubts at all about the quality of this vintage. The wines are dark in colour, firm and complete in composition
and classic in flavour…they are great wines ranking with the 1928’s, 1929’s and 1945’s.” Despite the evident quality, there wasn’t much of it to go around: an intense cold spell at
the end of May made a huge dent in yields and this caused massive headaches. Bordeaux was far from wealthy at this time and the sur souche system was still in operation, which meant producers sold part of their crop before a grape had been harvested. It helped with cashflow and kept the bank manager far from the château gates but the system backfired in 1961 when nature turned against the vines: there was hardly any fruit; some châteaux couldn’t fulfil contracts and had to reimburse their customers for failure to supply.  Under the stable ownership of American financier Clarence Dillon, however, there were no such concerns at Château Haut-Brion. Instead, 1961 will be remembered as the “ripe and concentrated” debut vintage for Jean-Bernard Delmas who took over from his father and made the revolutionary step of introducing stainless steel fermentation tanks.  His son Jean-Philippe was handed the winemaking reins in 2004 and explains that the introduction of tanks brought greater precision to Haut-Brion. He tasted the 1961 earlier this year and recalls: “It was powerful, complex, so rich in tannins, ample, fleshy and complete. A pinnacle in quality, slightly similar to our 1989, that can still age and flourish for several decades. 1961 and 1989 are really the best made by my father.” The year 1961 will also be remembered as a killer year for the northern Rhône. Paul Jaboulet Ainé’s Hermitage La Chapelle, a cuvee that takes its name from the pint-sized chapel on top of the Hermitage hill, was lauded by wine critic Robert Parker and played no small part in creating a semi-mythical status. “This is unquestionably one of the greatest wines made in the twentieth century,” he declared. “In the two dozen tastings where I have had the 1961 La Chapelle, I rated it 100 points twenty times,” which would give it a sum total of 2000 Parker points. Heading further south through the Mont Blanc tunnel, the conditions that produced a stunning Rhône season made this the vintage of the decade in Piedmont. It is even a
strong contender for vintage of the century. According to Angelo Gaja, the makers of Barolo and Barbaresco would have to wait until 1970 for a vintage in the same league and then, like buses, they had another the following year (although some would argue the quality of 1967 was in a similar league).  By 1961, the staunch traditional Barolo maker, Bartolo Mascarello, already had 40-odd vintages under his belt and it would prove to be one of the vintages of a lifetime. While fully mature, it continues to drink well, although it’s not one for long-term cellaring at nearly 60 years old.  The late Mascarello’s unwavering commitment to long maceration times and traditional aging in large format Slovenian oak (botti) in the face of a modernist Barolo movement continues under the guardianship of his daughter Maria-Teresa. Fashions have come and gone since Mascarello first made this wine but it’s clear that he knew how to capture the greatness of his sites And if it ain’t broke… Explore more Editorial

In conversation amongst collectors and critics around the world, 1961 is certainly a vintage that piques a lot of interest. It was a vintage that arguably produced some of the finest bottles of the century. In the latest installment in our Vintage Series, we explore the vintage of 1961.

According to collectors and critics around the world, 1961 is a vintage that produced some of the finest bottles of the century. We explore the golden year

Exploring the 1961 vintage globally 

A year in wine: 1961

Philippe Guigal hadn’t yet met his future wife – it would be another nine years before he finally walked down the aisle but he had long known what vintage he would serve at his then-imaginary wedding. The 1999 season in the northern Rhône was as perfect as it gets and when he was picking the beautiful berries that were worthy of photographing he told his father it would the wines of the 1999 vintage would be served on his wedding day.  Baltimore-base wine critic Robert Parker seemed to agree with Philippe that Domaine E. Guigal’s 1999s were worthy of the most important day of a man’s life, handing out three perfect scores to its trio of Côte Rôtie wines, known affectionately as the La Las. It wasn’t just
one northern Rhône producer who basked in the glory of the 1999 summer: Michel Ogier’s Cuvée Belle Helène and Rene Rostaing’s Côte Blonde both nabbed their first–ever 100 Parker points and Michel Chapoutier’s Ermite l’Ermite Blanc received its first, of what would be many, 100-point scores.  While Parker was accustomed to handing out awards to the French wine fraternity, the tables were turned in 1999; he was named an officer of the Legion d’Honneur by French President Jacques Chirac “being the man who taught America about French wine”. France’s highest award, he joined an illustrious list of recipients including Queen Elizabeth II, American President Dwight D. Eisenhower and French poet Victor Hugo.  Another American Robert was making waves in Europe in the autumn of 1999. Robert Mondavi Winery bought a stake in Tenuta dell’Ornellaia, one of a handful of so-called Super Tuscan estates made famous for their law-breaking use of non-Tuscan grape varieties and
the superlative quality of the resulting wines. But it wasn’t just Antinori who was celebrating his windfall in 1999: it was a magnificent season growers across Tuscany. The winemakers of Brunello di Montalcino enjoyed a superb follow-up to the opulent 1997 vintage in an otherwise unremarkable decade for the area.  Burgundy was also bringing the century to a close with flourish: it was a record year with around 20 million more bottles than the five-year average. The late Henri Jayer, affectionately known as the "pope of winegrowers" recorded his thoughts on each vintage in notebooks and, in 1999, he said: "One has to go back to 1934 to find a similar association of quantity and quality."  If growers did not thin their crops, however, the vines struggled to ripen their loads while producers that normally ferment their wine with a portion of whole bunch had to destem to make room in their vats.  From the off the wines were succulent and seductive but they had greater staying power than many envisaged due to their rich phenolics and fine acidity. In 2018, Burgundy critic Stephen Tanzer said that the reds had just entered "their periods of peak drinkability" and this is a great time to crack the 1999 reds from the Côte d'Or. It was a truly great vintage to see out the 20th century. 
François Millet of Chambolle Musigny's Domaine Georges Comte de Vogüé shares his memories of the 1999 vintage. "The 1999 vintage was abundant. The previous vintage - 1998 - was marked by a hard frost and, as is often the case after a small crop, it is followed by a large one - like 2017 after 2016.  "The most important factor in 1999 was consequently whether you limited yields or not. We
had been very vigilant at the domaine and didn't hesitate to do a severe green harvest. The weather during the season was beautiful and we harvested on 20 September. It was not an early vintage and maturity was reached calmly.  "The wines are concentrated, complete, elegant and refined with black fruit dominating and a
beautifully spicy structure. It was quite a serious vintage in terms of its expression while also retaining a beautiful elegance; it is a quiet force that inspires respect." On Musigny "When it comes to the winemaking, there was no pigeage because I think that Musigny is a
sensitive terroir that doesn't like much intervention; you have to have a lot of empathy for the wine and to be forceful with it would risk having vegetal tannins and bitterness, which I perceive as a form of anger. By its structural nature, if you were too brutal with it, the 1999 vintage, could very quickly have become monstrous. [On the other hand] Bonnes-Mares likes and needs more intervention to best express itself and so I punch down.  For me, making wine is a message of peace and empathy, particularly for Musigny. As Claude Debussy said: 'Music is the silence between the notes'." Explore more Editorial 

In the latest installment of our Vintage Series, we explore the last year of the 20th century. Francois Millet from Domaine Georges Comte de Vogue tells us what makes the year 1999 so special.

Exploring what makes 1999 so special with Francois Millet from Domaine Georges Comte de Vogue  

The 1999 vintage in wine

A year in wine: 1999

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

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

Wine, though the most intimate of pleasures, lends itself to the most expansive of texts. We drink wine most often – tastings aside – in pairings of two, or in lonesome but agreeable solitude, and, its narcotic pleasure being felt internally, we feel its effects as we feel a fever: almost secretly, in shivers. Though wine is like sex in its intimacy, unlike sex, the form in which we fetishise wine – our vine erotica – is not hushed and illicit but encyclopedic. On the shelves of any wine drinker, there are likely to be catalogues, dictionaries organised by region, old Parker buying guides some 600 pages long that somehow, though dated, can’t be discarded.  Wine seems singular among human pleasures in this. We don’t, as a rule, rush from reading a poem to great anthologies of poetry, or add to the savour of seeing a play by reading a big atlas of dramatic literature – not, at least, after we graduate from school. Sports fans, it’s true, like big books of statistics, but then sports-watching is a social act in the first instance – the more people in the stands, the merrier the occasion. With wine, we like the macro with our micro: with a solitary glass in hand, we look, in print, over the next hill, or the current vintage, at the vineyard across the way, or the vintage yet to come. It’s part of the pleasure the glass provides. The reasons for this micro and macro turn are, on reflection, commercial and artisanal as much as aesthetic. The business of wine needs a big picture of its domain, its resources, and its potential market – scale sets the stage for commerce. The makers of wine like to place themselves on a broader map of where wine is and what it’s made with. The great Bordeaux classification of 1855 is not just the noblest public monument to a beverage ever attempted, but a model of market-making and even market price-fixing. Once a hierarchy of growths has been established, it is easy to slot in the price tags. But there is a truth of taste beneath the ordering of value. With wine, we know that what we are experiencing is, however singular, still an intersection of opposed forces – as the peerless wine writer Jancis Robinson MW says of her first glass of Chambolle-Musigny 1959; “I knew at once that there was something in the glass that was sensually delicious but that it was also made, produced, and therefore suggested a history of intellect and discernment.” The pleasure of wine is the crossing of a place, a grape and a people; and so, we turn to the big books to frame the small pleasures.  What distinguishes wine from even a good glass of ale or a local brew is the specificity of the pleasure set against the scale of the system that made it – one that historically embraces the planet. It’s a First Growth, or a domaine Burgundy, or a Ridge Zinfandel or a New Zealand Pinot Noir made to a Burgundy model by American wine makers … the more we know, the more we’re free to feel. Most sensory pleasures are specific to the point of being illicit – aside from the bemused fetishist, romance is a spontaneous pleasure, often aided, to be sure, by a systematic wine. Wine is premeditated; we choose a bottle, let it ripen, and break it open. Even casual table drinking has a tale to tell, a journey to trace on a map. These thoughts are brought to mind in contemplation of Wine Grapes, the monosyllabically titled but unprecedentedly expansive dictionary of grape varieties grown to be crushed and fermented on this green planet. Authored by Robinson, along with Julia Harding MW and the geneticist Dr José Vouillamoz, it marks an epoch – several epochs – in our understanding of wine, from both a professional planet-straddling and an amateur glass-in-hand perspective. A book of its time (published in 2012), it was made possible, in part, by a revolution in the DNA analysis of wine grapes to help discover their origins and histories.  The DNA profiling of wine grapes only began in 1993, and the first ‘paternity test’ successfully concluded in 1997 – a mere few days ago by historical perspective – with specialists, Dr Vouillamoz among them, drawing astonishing Darwinian lines among seemingly unrelated grapes. Zinfandel, it has been discovered in the last 40 years, is not only the Siamese twin of Primitivo, but its Croatian Siamese twin. In proper Darwinian fashion, the book tells us, “It looks increasingly as though an enormous proportion of the grapes we know today are members of a few key families.”  The leading families of wine, Pinot and Nebbiolo and the rest, like the leading houses of Westeros, jostle and engage in incestuous inter-breeding as they move towards dominance. As Jancis Robinson admits, the quest for the origins of grapes can become surprisingly emotional. “The Zin quest is so … heated. There was a Zinfandel conference in Croatia, with all the great Zin makers, even Joel ‘King of Zin’ Peterson from Ravenswood, and we all had to present our various things about Zinfandel. There was a small cohort of people from Montenegro who reckoned that their variety – whose name is unpronounceable – was the true progenitor of modern Zinfandel, not the Croatian one. It became so … Balkan! And you know what? They may be right!” Wine Grapes is of its time in another sense as well, marking the moment when we have started to think of wine not solely in terms of region, but much more in terms of variety, with the semi-mystical term ‘terroir’ acting as a kind of Holy Spirit between them. Thinking ‘grape’ more than ‘place’ releases our imaginations. The wholesome instructive pleasures of the book, to which we’ll come, shrink beside the unwholesome, guilty pleasures of turning the pages to meet the failures among grapes – the near-misses, the long-forgotten and forlorn lost toys – which please more than the patterns of primacy. The pleasure of reading about the grapes whose juice we do drink is nothing compared to reading about those we don’t. In dictionaries, oddities and parentheses fascinate us more than the major entries. No one turns to the dictionary to study ‘and’; we go to study ‘antediluvian’. So, turning these pages, flipping through the P’s on our way to encounter the great Pinot families, we come upon the lesser gods, even the little misshapen gnomes and dwarves of the wine world, and we delight in meeting them. (A fascination added to by the forthright sub-heads the editors provide.) On our way to Burgundy and Pinot Noir, we also meet Pinotin, a ‘recent obscure Swiss hybrid’ which edges into Pionnier, ‘a minor but complex, cold-hardy American hybrid used in blends in Québec’, and, of course, Pinotage ‘South Africa’s very own cross, both loved and despised’, which leads us on to Pugnitello and even Pukhliakovsky (a Russian variety ‘with erratic yields producing light wines’) and even unto Pules – ‘a minor Albanian white’. Radiating out from five pages on the major Merlot, we bump into Merseguera, ‘an uninspiring variety’ from Spain, and Merzifon Karasi, and Merzling, dismissed as a ‘very minor disease-resistant German hybrid’. Why these lost or obscure kinds of grapes bring so much delight with them is a fascinating question. It has in part to do with our general appetite for oddities and obscurities, which once produced ‘freak shows’ and still makes us fascinated with archaic musical instruments: we are curious to hear the sackbut because we want to know what led to the trombone. It is also the virtuous case that variety is the safeguard of continuity. In an age of ever-decreasing biodiversity with just a few varieties taking the place of many possibilities, one Quixotic California winemaker, driving through the fields of Cabernet and Chardonnay, dismissed them all – with a wave of the hand – as “chocolate and vanilla, chocolate and vanilla”.  The health of the planet is safeguarded by the persistence of so many kinds. It is also because the existence of these minor yet still thriving varieties gives us a satisfying picture of adaptation, the central biological act. Each of these grapes has found a home in the world. It may not be much of a home, but then neither, face the facts, is ours. We identify with the unknown grape. We are all more like a very minor disease-resistant German, or a cold-hardy Québec hybrid, than we are something noble and complicated. Few of us are bottles of Burgundy; we can all identify as minor Albanian whites. In conversation, Jancis Robinson, sheltering at home near Kings Cross in London, a home with a view of a graveyard (though a cheerful one she assures an interviewer) – talks of the wine almanac with the blunt enthusiasm that marks her writing. Robinson, in addition to her obvious honours and credentials, is a rare thing in the wine world, or any world: a writer who writes with equal parts brio and expertise. She explains the origins of Wine Grapes. “What happened was that one of the co-authors, Dr José Vouillamoz, who had been at University of California, Davis, felt that he needed to earn more of a living, and came back to Switzerland and got a job working on Alpine botanicals. But he didn’t want to lose his relationship with wine, and he came to me and said that he’d like to collaborate on a book about grape varieties. I’d already written one in 1986, based on our very fractional knowledge then.  Over lunch, I took along Julia Harding, a wine writer who works on my website. She’s extremely punctilious.” (Robinson, punctilious herself, says this with such emphasis that the listener feels that, with Harding, we must be talking about new frontiers, not to say dimensions, in punctiliousness.) “She had exactly the right sort of brain for a project like this. José suggested that we focus on the 10 or 12 most planted grape varieties to help simplify it. I thought that that book didn’t sound interesting enough. I waited until we were quite far down a bottle of Valpolicella and said, ‘I think our book should be about every single grape variety we can find.’ He gulped and said, ‘Then that’s what we shall do!’” The idea of creating a ‘perfect map’ of a subject is one of the itches that govern modern life. John James Audubon set out to describe not the major but every bird and beast in North America, and that’s what he did. Similar ‘almanacs of everything’ fill our botanical and anthropological shelves. It is an ambition so tied to modernity that in the mid-19th century, Lewis Carroll perfectly satirised it in his novel, Sylvie & Bruno, where two mad professors talk about their dream of making a map that would be on a one-to-one relation to the actual world – utterly perfect, if impossible to unroll. “I loved the scale of the thing,” Robinson says of her perfect map. “So, we carved things up: José did all the DNA stuff and history because he had good access to it, Julia, bless her, did the footwork – how much of each grape is planted where – while trying to taste as many as possible, too! And I wrote the entries on the best-known varieties, and the introduction and read every single word.  As with any dictionary, we used what came before: we went through appellation lists, with all of the varieties allowed, some of them almost extinct. A nice little detail of the book is that we persuaded the publisher that it should have some colour plates, and we were particularly keen to include the plates from the world’s first oenological book, L’Ampélographie: Traité Général de Viticulture, of 1901 … just out of copyright!” She pauses. “Of course,” she adds reflectively, “it was José, naturally, who discovered that Pinot and Syrah are related.” The offhand nature of her mention can’t conceal the significance of the remark. Of all the discoveries offered in the book, this is perhaps, for the amateur wine drinker, the most exemplary and astonishing. Painstakingly tracing the DNA heritage of the varieties, these two noble houses, Syrah and Pinot – the grapes of the Rhône Valley and those of Burgundy, the heart of Côte-Rôtie and the soul of Chambertin – are unified as cousins. This happened not through willed cultivation but in the natural evolutionary way: through variation and adaptation. Initially, the elegance of Pinot Noir was transformed through the usual evolutionary pressures of place and mutations, into the earthy pleasures of Syrah.  Chance mutation and lucky planting turned one grape into its near opposite. (‘Cross-fertilisation’, we’re told, ‘was common until the early 20th century because several grape varieties were often intermixed in the vineyards, facilitating natural crossings between distinct grape varieties’.) The phylloxera epidemic in France from the 1860s on – though it did not destroy as much as is sometimes thought – acted as a kind of sieve or filter of grape varieties, a sort of extinction event in large-scale natural history, forcing hard choices and making obscure varieties less desirable to save by root grafting with New World vines.   One virtue of the book is to propose, in effect, a new order of wines by celebrating ‘secondary’ grape varieties. “For me, among the obscure wines, something about as well-known as Cinsault stands out – it can make such lovely wines,” Robinson says. “There’s been such a sea change as the century turned. Everybody once wanted to make fruit bombs to one of three standard recipes. Then in this century, higher acidity, lighter wines are finally revaluing, and so Cinsault comes into its own. “Sometimes I come across a grape that isn’t well known but that’s so obviously superior. There’s Aglianico – the name suggests it’s Greek, though no Greek variety has ever been found and you only get it in Southern Italy. Perfect for late ripeness, and not for cool climates – and now it has travelled to Australia, where they’re desperate for hot weather varieties.  The whole array of Portuguese and Greek grape varieties are so fantastic! And so individual. And I love that after a dalliance with international varieties, both countries are now celebrating their own. There’s another white grape, an Iberian variety that’s stunning, and, again, I’m not sure it’s yet been planted much: Godello! It’s a bit crass to say it makes wines that taste like Montrachet, if a little more terroir-y and mineral … but it does. I could drink Cinsault for red and Godello for white into the next century. “There’s such a gap nowadays,” Robinson goes on, “between the Napa Cab thing, and these young people who are buying unknown grape varieties that sell for a fraction of the price, that are really good. Such a lot has happened in the field of recuperating old vines, some so obscure that they don’t even have a name. Miguel Torres, the scion of that great company in northeast Spain became very interested in grapes.  At first, he said, ‘Hey Dad, we need the posh varieties, Cabernet and Chardonnay’ – and made all these wines which did well in the Judgement of Paris. But, with time, he realised that it made more sense to concentrate on the indigenous varieties. He’s been engaged for 30 years, putting classified ads in the local press – ‘If you know of a wine grape that you can’t identify, let us know of it, and – if we think we can propagate out – we’ll do micro-vinification.’ He’s actually rescued Catalan varieties that were on the brink of disappearing; I think he found 30 varieties, and recuperated eight for micro-vinification with sufficient character to give them a new lease of life. And much the same thing has been happening all over Italy. If we published the book today, we’d be up to at least 1,500 kinds of grapes.” The great sorting question of our time, of course, is the question of climate change and its effects on wine cultivation. Robinson is cautiously hopeful about Burgundy. “I was lucky enough to go there and spend some time. The 2020 harvest is the earliest ever, at least since the 14th century. But, whereas the 2003 vintage, that legendary hot summer in France, produced wines that were pretty bizarre, the 2019s seem as fresh as a daisy, with pure fruit. I’m no plant biologist, but the vines seem to be getting used to the conditions … or the winemakers are. They’re not extracting as heavily, but, given that, there’s no sign of added acidity (it’s routinely added in the southern hemisphere), the acidity is coming from the grapes as well. Even some real old Burgundy hands, when you ask why the wines are so fresh, say, ‘I really don’t know.’” About the Southern Rhône, though, she is more pessimistic. “They’re not helping themselves in the Southern Rhône: too many are trying to make concentrated, high alcohol, 16% wines. And maybe consultants are too powerful down there – one consultant can be responsible for 20 or 30 labels, and so you’re going to have 20 or 30 wines that reflect that.” It’s here, though, that the knowledge of grapes, and our possession of this specialist dictionary, seems particularly valuable. If wine is to save itself from the vagaries of climate change, it will probably be through the introduction and new use of ‘marginal’ or forgotten ‘heirloom’ grapes. Only recently, France’s Institut National de l’Origine et de la Qualité (INAO) officially approved six new varieties: four red grapes – Arinarnoa, Castes, Marselan, and Touriga Nacional; and two whites – Alvarinho and Liliorila – all described as ‘well-adapted to alleviate hydric stress associated with temperature increases and shorter growing cycles’, potential saviours of the region against the villain of global warming. All of them, of course, are charted and explicated in Wine Grapes.

In the end, the great strange truth of wine is the truth of life: a thousand vectors press down on us at once – place, history, time, temperature, luck and breeding – and somehow in the intersection we find, or make, our pleasures. The question of type and variation was very different before Darwin who wrote, oddly (or perhaps not so oddly) almost simultaneously with the great classification of Bordeaux, publishing On the Origin of Species in 1859.  (Oddly because his theory would have been true in any other time; not so oddly because the urge to map the world, for the ‘almanac of everything’, was typical of mid-19th century confidence, as Carroll’s satire suggests.) Before Darwin, who loved wine, the fundamental view of the world was that the superintending categories, species and varieties, were the fixed things in the world. Everyone took it for granted that the ‘kind’ the ‘essence’, was the real thing and all the little variants merely particular shades away from it. A grape was a better or worse instance of its variety. Grapes, like apes, were of one fixed sort. Darwin’s great overriding insight was that only particulars exist, and that species and superintending categories are the labile and ever-changing kinds. Every kind of living thing came from somewhere weird and is on its way to somewhere weirder, with a brief stopover at being the thing it is now. The elegance of Pinot Noir is a close cousin of the earthiness of Syrah, one state is simply a moment in the life of the other, and each are moments in the life of the surging, unfixable whole. Wine, braiding through the planet and only coming to rest on a name for a moment in one place, is a bit of scientific epistemology in your glass, the truth of the particular made potable. It’s a fine destiny for a simple pleasure. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One Photography by Gavin Bond; floral set design by Studio Lupine

Essayist and author Adam Gopnik takes a look at the world of wine through the lens of seminal wine-lover’s bible, Wine Grapes, and talks to one of its three co-authors, Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

Adam Gopnik talks to Wine Grapes co-author Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

FONDATA: Pleasure in the detail

Pleasure in the detail

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

Isle of Lewis

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