Since I started this monthly column, I’ve had a number of people ask me when I’m going to cover alcohol-free wine. For a long time, I rejected the idea that the NoLo category, especially de-alcoholised wine, was even relevant to this column slot.

Is there an assumption that abstaining from alcohol is inherently ethical? Does it stem from the noise around the (contested) World Health Organisation guidelines that state that ‘no level of alcohol consumption is safe’? Is avoiding wine – and alcohol in general – more sustainable? I suppose that these questions are worth interrogating.

I haven’t picked up my pen to write about the best NoLo wines to try (in my opinion, there aren’t any; and anyway, Andrew Jefford poked at NoLo wine in his January 2026 column), or even to comment on the concept of drinking in moderation – my colleague Ines Salpico unpicked this eloquently in the June 2025 issue in her ‘Wine, moderation & pleasure’ article.

Instead, I want to discuss something that I think a lot of discourse around the NoLo category misses, which is real scrutiny of the products themselves.

Is the bottle unnecessarily heavy? Where has the liquid itself come from? If it’s originally made from grapes, or even if it’s made from other plants, how were they farmed? Who picked them? How far has it travelled? How much energy does de-alcoholisation consume? What is the terroir?

I recently spoke with Camille Vidal, founder of mindful drinking consultancy La Maison Wellness. Her work centres on training the trade to offer more and better choices to people who, for whatever reason, want to drink less – or no – alcohol.

She came to this, she tells me, ‘through being an industry professional seeing consumer behaviour changing and a desire to drink differently, within an industry that wasn’t providing this’.

The industry was lagging behind its own customers – is it still?

Camille is clear-eyed about the category’s shortcomings. There are plenty of NoLo products on the market, she says, ‘that are just cutting corners – badly made in a lab, full of artificial flavourings and preservatives’.

But she also makes the point that NoLo products are legally required to declare every ingredient on the label; wine isn’t.

What she wants – and what we should also be demanding – is ‘more’: ‘I want more storytelling. More origin and terroir. More amazing ingredients and fermentation techniques.’ In other words, the same things we demand of a serious bottle of wine.

Enter Gut Oggau. This renowned Austrian biodynamic estate has launched Gut Feeling, a 0% alcohol botanical drink that’s everything most NoLo products aren’t.

Revered around the world for transmitting the very essence of their Burgenland landscape into the glass, Eduard and Stephanie Tscheppe have built a cult following not just for their commitment to biodiversity and nurturing the vineyard ecosystem, but for their ability to inspire others through it.

Gut Feeling follows the same logic, made from herbs and other plants, including nettle, camomile, yarrow, dandelion and wormwood, that grow around their vineyards. Terroir and authenticity. This is exactly what this category needs.

A handful of other NoLo options that come close to this idea are Botivo, Everleaf, Mother Root, Muri, Osco and Saicho.

The most successful NoLo stories will be those where producers are building their product from the ground up – taking the best ingredients and creating a liquid that doesn’t yet exist in alcohol form, and tastes amazing.

The questions we ask of wine, about provenance, environmental credentials, terroir and social responsibility, are the same questions we should be asking of every NoLo product we pick up.

Right now, too few of them have satisfying answers. As wine lovers and conscious consumers, it’s on us to keep demanding that they do.

Sip to make a difference

A delicious, organic non-alcoholic drink that cuts no corners on flavour and complexity! Vertu (£17.50 Clapton Craft, Gnarly Vines) is from biodynamic Bordeaux estate Château Peybonhomme-les-Tours. Crucially, it’s not dealcoholised wine. It’s a blend of 65% herbal tea, 30% Merlot grape juice and a splash of verjus, carbonated for a light sparkle.

It smells reassuringly herbal, with notes of ginger, menthol, fig and grape. It’s sweet, but that deep, warm herbal character is balancing and soothing. Love it.

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I’ve been lucky enough to meet David Ramey, the rightly lauded California winemaker, a master of utterly delicious Chardonnay, several times.

I vividly remember watching him and the late Jim Clendenen at a masterclass – the room entirely captivated by these two heavyweights of California wine verbally sparring, both opinionated, talented, intelligent and witty.

It seems a bit unjust to introduce Alan Ramey’s debut book Pressing Matters (£20 Académie du Vin Library, April 2026) by talking about his father, but I do so merely to point out that brilliance clearly runs in the family.

'A real treat'

This compact book is a real treat – one that I’d urge you to invest in (and ‘invest’ seems an exaggeration given its reasonable price).

Ramey sets out to tackle ‘the debates, controversies and mysteries that have shaped the world of wine’ – with chapters covering terroir, appellation systems, organics, biodynamics, climate change, quality, value and natural wine.

It’s one of several recent books that take a multidisciplinary approach, and it does so brilliantly.

As he explores each of these topics, Ramey talks to a host of experts and characters both inside and outside the world of wine to help shed light on them.

He discusses rather than opines, underscoring the fact that the answer to almost everything ever is ‘It depends’, and laying out the world of wine in all its glorious shades of grey, highlighting the complexity and nuance that, for me, make wine so fascinating.

Unlike so many wine books, Pressing Matters is genuinely readable – so much so that I devoured it in a matter of days.

Ramey comes across as wonderfully intelligent, yet not at all a bore, with pleasing displays of wit sprinkled throughout. It’s not a light read, but nor is it impenetrable.

And, at just 185 pages long, excluding the comprehensive endnotes, it’s a book that won’t just sit on your shelf – it’s one you’ll actually read.

In Ramey’s concluding chapter, he writes: ‘In my conversations... it became clear that at least part of [people’s] fervour was derived from not having taken the time to meet and intellectually question a person who held a disliked belief. Those conversations by no means have to lead to changing one’s views – in many cases they should not – but at least they lead to better understanding of human values.’

That, I’m sure you’ll agree, is something that holds true far beyond the world of wine.

Listen: Earth sounds

BBC Rare Earth on the 'joy of soil'

The other day I was pottering about in my kitchen with the reassuring sounds of Radio 4 in the background when a program caught my ear (as so often happens).

It was an episode of the series Rare Earth, entitled ‘The Joy of Soil’ – and what a joy it was. It’s not wine-focused, but for anyone interested in the power of mere earth and why the way in which we farm matters, it’s brilliant – and so is much of the rest of the series. Catch it on BBC Sounds (wherever you are in the world).

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Earlier this year at the Millésime Bio organic wine fair in Montpellier, I tasted with Pierre Caizergues of Pierre & Antonin, a micro-négociant based in Malepère on Languedoc’s western frontier.

I’ll admit it was the wine labels that first caught my eye – frolicking foxes and unapologetically bright colours (I have a soft spot for foxes, especially the urban ones that have adopted my small London garden), but other aspects soon piqued my interest beyond the aesthetic charm: lightweight bottles, organic viticulture, minimal sulphur, indigenous yeasts – and, most strikingly, disease-resistant grape varieties.

Embracing hybrid grapes

Although they’re both from Languedoc, Pierre and his business partner Antonin Bonnet met in New York in 2010 while working in sales. After a decade of fermenting ideas, they returned to France and launched Pierre & Antonin in 2020.

Initially, they worked with a mix of classic varieties and hybrids. Gradually, though, they’ve shifted almost entirely to disease-resistant grapes such as Souvignier Gris, Cabernet Cortis, Artaban and Floréal, making red, white, rosé, orange and pét-nat wines.

They persuaded a small collective of growers to plant small plots, guaranteeing to buy the fruit.

Now their aim is to explore the potential of these hybrid grapes – showing that the wines can be made with minimal intervention, but can also be delicious and, crucially, affordable.

Vibrant, well-priced wines to be opened and shared

How can these factors be achieved? Due to the hybrids’ resistance to downy and powdery mildew, the cost of treatment products and labour are much lower and the lightweight bottles (only 370g) not only reduce carbon emissions during transport, but are also cheaper.

In a region where margins are tight and climate pressure is intensifying, these savings are no small consideration. And the elimination of fungicides means that fermentations start easily, so it’s easy to rely on indigenous yeasts.

The result is wines that are vibrant, unfussy, fruity, low in alcohol and well priced – bottles designed to be opened and shared rather than cellared.

This is arguably the ideal region to plough this furrow – the stakes aren’t as high as they would be in Beaune or Châteauneuf-du-Pape, say, and land is cheaper.

Later, I kept thinking back to how Pierre had referred to the hybrid grapes as ‘resistants’. In my mind this rang out as ‘resistance’.

There’s an undeniable semantic link – resistants/resistance – and the implications are strong. The word ‘resistance’ carries a lot of weight, but what does it mean in this context?

The wine world is at an uneasy juncture, so this is about resistance not only against vine disease, but against shifting tastes, climate chaos and economic volatility.

And then there’s resistance in the form of resilience and adaptation – not accepting that sustainability inevitably makes wine more expensive and less accessible. Opening a wine made from disease-resistant varieties is in itself an act of resistance.

Antonin believes that hybrids will be part of the future of wine – that they’ll be, at least in part, tomorrow’s answer to climate change.

‘There are masters of Syrah,’ he says. ‘There are many masters of Pinot Noir all over the world.’ But who will be the masters of Souvignier Gris, Cabernet Cortis and Floréal? Perhaps we’re about to find out.

Sip to make a difference

Souvignier Gris was Pierre and Antonin’s gateway grape. Alongside the still white Pierre & Antonin, Petit Sauvage Blanc, Languedoc, France 2025 (91pts, £17 Vindependents), they also make a pét-nat and a skin-maceration wine with it.

‘We love Souvignier Gris so much that we made it three ways,’ says Pierre. It’s bright and zesty, with fresh acidity, tropical fruit, some spice and a cool minty note, bringing great refreshment to sun-filled days.

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I recently turned 21 and, as an undergraduate student in Political Science and International Affairs at Florida State University in Tallahassee, I've been basking in the freedom of 21+ bars.

FSU consistently ranks among the top five party schools in the US, yet wine rarely works itself into the conversation. The average student will say ‘How about a shotgun?’, ‘Shots, anyone?’ or the classic ‘Make it strong!’

But, being the son of two wine enthusiasts, and nudged along by a study abroad stint in Spain, I’ve found myself reaching for wine relatively frequently.

I also discovered one of God's greatest creations: the rotating 2 for 1 deal on wine at supermarket Publix. Most of the time I go for Cabernet Sauvignon from various US West Coast producers, snagging two bottles for around $20.

For this challenge, I was granted the freedom of choice. And, after back-to-back exams, the time felt ripe. The evening chosen for my wine tasting was your typical Two-Dollar Tuesday at one of College Town's best bars; always a good time.

Why I chose it

Now, you may be wondering: where does my Decanter bottle come into that equation? Well, dear reader, some of you may find FSU’s drinking culture somewhat… barbaric. My plan was to ‘pregame’ with my chosen wine and then trek to the bar. Don’t judge.

My first thought for a bottle as I perused the range at Publix was Pinot Noir, as I typically prefer light reds.

Nothing initially grabbing me, I drifted over to the European section. And then I saw it: a 2023 Albariño from CVNE in Rías Baixas. The grape wasn't what clinched it, it was sentimental reasons.

During the aforementioned study abroad semester, I attended a wine tasting, tour and meal at CVNE in Spain’s La Rioja region. Enjoyed with some of my closest friends and with some great wines, it was a fond memory.

I scoured Publix’s shelves for my preferred Rioja Reserva, but the Albariño was the only CVNE contribution. So, for $16.99, I took it home with me.

What it tasted like

Running late and with my roommates ushering me to head out the door, I popped the cork on my Albariño and poured myself and a roommate a glass.

The acidity hit hard initially, with a tart bite similar to lemon juice. After that, it slowly mellowed, with more floral, green and fruity notes. The tartness was a bit hard to deal with at first, but actually paired quite well with my hastily cobbled together dinner of fried rice.

I apologise to the wine community for this next bit but, after I finished my first glass and shovelled down my food, I poured the rest of the bottle into a red solo cup and dashed out the door. Got places to be, you know?

I sipped my cup of wine on the way to the bar and, because I wasn't done by the time I got there, I may or may not have chugged the last 150ml at the door. The rest of the night was phenomenal.

As a red wine drinker, I did find this Albariño sharp at first but it became quite enjoyable when I got accustomed to it. I’d still always reach for a red, but if tangy whites are your thing, I definitely recommend it!

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Look up: we’ve got a revolution on our hands. The old order’s being swept away. No more steady state: for the first time in human history, significant decade-on-decade change is permanent, structural and accelerating.

Climate is now a rocket. Wine-growers (whose plants and products measure its effects with great exactitude) sit in the cockpit, seatbelts fastened. They’ll need them.

Hotter, colder, wetter, drier, windier, spikier, more violent: that’s tomorrow. Growers need to be alert, responsive, flexible – to retreat where necessary, but also to seize new chances and opportunities when they present.

Here’s an example of chance seized. It’s a sparsely populated, barely planted corner of the high Languedoc, way beyond the reach of any existing appellation. It had no wine distinction in the past – yet now it’s producing some of France’s most exciting new whites.

Cédric Guy of Domaine de Bon Augure is prime mover in this story. Faugères born and bred, he worked from 1995 with the Bouchard family at Abbaye Sylva Plana. From 10ha, Sylva Plana (certified organic since 2008) expanded to 54ha, a hotel and a restaurant. But Cédric had a dream: to make white wine, which he felt was ‘impossible’ in the heat of Faugères.

He searched – and found mountain vineyards (450m-600m) 40 minutes north, in the Monts d’Avène sector of the IGP Haute Vallée de l’Orb, planted with Chardonnay – to which he added Petit Manseng, Petite Arvine and other varieties. ‘Initially, I was happy if the must got to 11% or 11.5%. Wines with high levels of acidity weren’t much in demand 20 years ago, so I made sparkling wines.’

The rocket, though, had lifted off. Cédric sold his share of Sylva Plana in 2013 when his mountain- vineyard alcohols moved past 12% towards 13%; he switched to still wines.

‘It’s not politically correct to say it and I don’t want the planet to suffer, but the climate is now extremely favourable to producing great white wines here. We have lots of rain; we can preserve acidity; we have enough juice so the musts aren’t too concentrated.’

It was early April when I visited; Bourgogne had been fighting late-March frosts. ‘When I saw pictures of their vines,’ said Cédric, ‘I could see leaves. We still have sleeping buds. We have time lag that works at both ends of the season.’

I’m not a fan of ‘tight’, high-acid, low-alcohol wines... when they’re the result of early picking, of anxiety and adjustment, of peer-group pressure and media proselytising. The wines of Bon Augure, from vines immaculately tended on often steep, limestone breccia soils just north of the village of Joncels, aren’t like that. Their acidities are astonishing: tingling, zesty, energetic, dancing with flavour in their arms; you know that this acidity will settle, fill, convince and satisfy with time in the bottle.

Nothing is raw or uncovered here: there’s sap, sinew and wealth of flavour behind, together with the quiet aromatic allusions that recall natural landscapes.

Bon Augure produces four principal wines: a pure-Chardonnay ‘en terre étrangère’; the sculpted Chardonnay-Petit Manseng blend ‘Joncs-cella’; a mouthwatering and vivacious, amber-tinted skin-contact wine based on trois gris (Pinot Gris, Sauvignon Gris, Grenache Gris) called ‘Aux innocents les mains pleines’; and the dense, finely crafted DSLS Petite Arvine.

All are world- class. Note the varietal width: another good sign. There’s convincing Pinot and Cornalin, too.

Cédric isn’t alone. A local charity called Les Compagnons du Sens, led by a charismatic retired monk called Frère Marie-Pâques, has been helping younger growers set up in the Haute Vallée de l’Orb. Domaines to look out for include Angel Montgros, Bòria Bissio, Gravezon, Jouvet, Mas des Mesures, Peira Clara and Saint Antonin.

Monts d’Avène will appear on labels of IGP Haute Vallée de l’Orb from vintage 2025 for wines made from limestone-grown, barrel-fermented Chardonnay; it may eventually win an AP. If everything hasn’t changed by then.

In my glass this month

Bon Augure’s 2024 ‘en terre étrangère’ (pure Chardonnay from the domaine’s highest vineyards, part-barrel fermented in old oak, with full malolactic) is inspiring, assured wine.

Its spring- garden freshness suggests both plants and flowers; it’s complete on the tongue. You can’t escape the often-overused descriptors salt and stone here, once the acrobatic acidity has come down off its high trapeze and the applause is subsiding. Taste it and believe. (Via UK importer Saison Wines)

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Wales isn’t a regional subset, satellite story or quaint Celtic footnote to England’s impressive rise in the wine world.

Yet statistics can blur borders, so Wales is all too often folded into England during ‘home turf’ conversations.

But treating Welsh and English wine as the same thing distorts the viewpoint and, in doing so, fails to accurately represent what’s happening on the ground.

The list of differences between the Welsh and English wine scenes is long, but it largely boils down to culture, terroir and mindset.

Each of these alone makes a strong case for separate wine identities, but add them together and any conflation of these two nations’ wines seems both laughable and lazy.

Let’s start with culture. The lack of any modern wine legacy in Wales has turned out to be a gift.

Without the pressure to replicate traditional method wines or chase chalk-soil land or headlines, Welsh producers are following the path that best suits their situation and place.

This, together with the lyrical language and strong national identity, shapes the atmosphere in which Welsh wines are made.

I defy anyone to visit Wales, visit a Welsh vineyard or talk to a Welsh producer and not feel that this is a wholly different cultural ecosystem to England.

Logistics adds another degree of separation. As new producers start their journey, and others diversify away from livestock farming, they don’t all have winemaking facilities on site.

In an ideal world, they might prefer to make their wine in-house, but by sharing facilities – and thus winemakers – they have fostered a real sense of collaboration, and there’s genuine pride in being part of that network.

Culture alone doesn’t shape a wine of course, but terroir can, and here the split between the nations is clear.

Different sense of place

No spoiler alerts necessary – Wales is generally cooler and wetter than England, and microclimates can shift dramatically, even over short distances.

This has cultivated a grape landscape that looks quite different from England’s. While Chardonnay and Pinot Noir do grow in Wales, they don’t dominate as they do across the border.

Instead, disease-resistant, late-ripening varieties such as Solaris and Rondo are often favoured, and importantly, they also produce some of Wales’ tastiest wines; these aren’t compromise grapes – they’re just an intelligent response to place.

Take Murmur y Môr. This new Harlech vineyard has responded thoughtfully to what the site – rooted in slate similar to the Mosel valley and alluvial soils reminiscent of New Zealand’s greywacke – needs.

Founders Mark and Tabitha Lewis, rather than defaulting to the usual (English) suspects, have planted Divico, Rondo and Phoenix, among others, all with suitability in mind.

Perhaps the biggest difference, though, is mindset. Welsh producers are at a different stage of recognition and development, and this creates an inherently different attitude.

Without the pressure of expectation, they still have plenty of wiggle room to experiment, plus their scale demands adaptability and thoughtful risk taking, so the wines that have emerged are shaped by both necessity and imagination.

As James Kinsey-Jones of Whinyard Rocks in mid-Wales, producer of a red cuvée called Col Rondo (get it?), says: ‘We can’t just glance over the fence to see what the neighbour is doing.’

Wales also has a high incidence of low intervention, organic and biodynamic viticulture – another sign that producers are comfortable doing things their own way.

I’m happy that Wales and England have joint support bodies to carry them into the future, but rolling all of Wales’ talent and natural resources into the same conversation as England misses the point.

England’s reputation is richly deserved, but Wales is charting its own course.

Its climate, grape (and therefore style) choices, logistical realities and cultural independence combine to create something distinct and dynamic, proving that Wales has its own serious-wine flag to proudly wave.

In my glass this month

The fields around my childhood home in west Wales were typically filled with cows, but today – just 24km away – the land is now being used for a different type of farming.

At Hebron Vineyard, Jemma Vickers and Paul Rolt champion regenerative viticulture and produce world class, low intervention wines such as the Natural Amphora Solaris, Carmarthenshire 2023 (£34-£35 Blas ar Fwyd, Hebron Vineyard), a lip-smacking summer beauty riffing with zesty grapefruit, tangy lime and sea salt.

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I recently took the train from London to the rolling countryside of southwest England.

I was on my way to River Cottage, near Axminster in Devon, to hear more about a new wine range developed through a collaboration between Domaine Gayda in Languedoc and much-loved UK celebrity chef, broadcaster and campaigner Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.

If you live in the UK, you’ll likely know of Hugh; for years, he’s been challenging the way that the nation thinks about food, through TV series, documentaries and the written word.

An ethical-food advocate, he’s known for confronting inadequate food systems, exposing animal welfare issues, campaigning against single-use plastic, lobbying the government for a more urgent response to climate change, and more.

River Cottage is his certified-organic restaurant and cookery school. As well-spoken as he is, Hugh is down to earth and worldly, with an ability to connect to a wide audience.

When I heard about the new River Cottage wines, it raised an interesting question beyond whether they would be any good: can wine be part of the same ethical framework as food?

Wine is, after all, a luxury product, while food is a necessity. But wine, like a lot of our food, is also an agricultural product. And yet, it has, until very recently, avoided the same scrutiny as food in terms of soil health, climate impact, seasonality, waste and labour standards.

For Hugh, it’s clear-cut: ‘It’s an extension of the way I think about food. It’s important to see it as a product of agriculture that we consume.’

This is what makes this wine launch so interesting. It signals that sustainable farming practices, welfare and environmental impact aren’t just niche concerns.

When someone well known and so closely associated with making ethical and sustainable food accessible to a wider audience turns their attention to wine, it presents wine through that lens, too, and brings it into the mainstream conversation.

There are clearly several synergies between Domaine Gayda and River Cottage. The wine estate, which was set up from scratch from 2003-2004 by British horticulturalist Tim Ford and South African entrepreneur Anthony Record MBE, is certified organic.

It’s known for being something of a rebel and a pioneer, making wine from ‘outside’ grape varieties, such as Chenin Blanc and Cabernet Franc, and labelling as Vin de France or IGP.

Some biodynamic preparations are used in the vineyards, and hedgerows are being restored to encourage and support biodiversity. Hugh says that this all really chimed with River Cottage. In fact, Hugh and Tim bonded over a shared love of birds; each of the four wines’ labels show a bird species that’s thriving in Domaine Gayda’s vineyards.

As someone who’s recently discovered birdwatching herself (don’t worry I won’t bore you with further details), I really loved that the QR code on the back label takes you to the sound of the bird’s call on the Cornell Lab of Ornithology website.

Hugh helped create the wine blends with winemaker Vincent Chansault; crucially, he wanted wines with moderate alcohol levels. In a warm, increasingly sun-baked region, this isn’t an easy feat.

‘In Languedoc, it’s really difficult to have good ripeness at low alcohol levels,’ says Vincent, and Hugh says he was nervous about them being ‘great big bottles of sunshine’.

With some early-harvest Mourvèdre, though, Vincent was able to achieve a red at 13%. It seems the exercise was mutually beneficial: ‘Having these discussions and making the wine with Hugh really challenged me,’ says Vincent, ‘[since trying to keep alcohol low] made me question the grapes that we plant, or try to buy.’

The collaboration makes sense, and the wines are really drinkable and characterful.

If River Cottage helped us to think more about how our food gets onto our plate, maybe its wines will encourage more of us to think through the story of how our wine gets into the glass.

Sip to make a difference

River Cottage, The Finch, Pays d’Oc 2024

A southern French blend of Grenache Blanc, Macabeu and Chenin Blanc, sourced from organic vineyards and made by Domaine Gayda, River Cottage’s The Finch, Pays d’Oc 2024 (90pts, £16.95-£18.50 JN Wine, River Cottage) is a super-zesty white. Lemon pith and white-fleshed peach, and a tingly, mineral finish. Check out the QR code [on the bottle label] to hear the call of the serin finch!

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Seven pairs of eyes turn to me expectantly as the waiter approaches our table. I’ve spent more than a decade learning about wine, but that doesn’t make this moment any less intimidating: in fact, it might make it worse.

I’m a people pleaser, so choosing for a group is my worst nightmare.

At this table, one friend enjoys a zingy Riesling while another prefers riper fruit, a generous splash of oak and, naturally, the tricky customer to my left ‘just can’t stand white wine’.

And what about the price! ‘We trust your judgement!’ my tablemates chorus, returning to their easy chatter as I sift maniacally through a leather-bound minefield the weight of the Yellow Pages.

My friends wouldn’t ask me to order their dinner for them if I were a food writer, but the wine machine – producers, marketeers, writers like me – has created such a fuss over fermented grape juice that we’ll do anything to absolve ourselves of the responsibility of choosing a glass of wine.

Wine has many ways of tying us in knots, of forcing us to perform a production of confidence and connoisseurship.

There’s the ceremony of being presented with a bottle by an aproned waiter, the requirement to assess it publicly with a foolish swirl, an anxious sniff.

Or the toe-curling panic that follows fine dining’s most loaded question: ‘How do you like the wine?’

Viral humour

It’s no surprise, then, that some of today’s most successful wine communicators are those who show wine for the joyful thing it is – a delicious drink; a celebration of people and geography – rather than focusing on its more serious side.

Tom Gilbey rose to fame when a video of him blind tasting at every mile of the London Marathon went viral; Hannah Crosbie has brought a new generation to wine by riffing on cultural references with deadpan humour; and Alan Carr and Lee Peart recently launched Bottoms Up!, a wine podcast with ‘a touch of havoc’.

Many producers are doing the same. Master of Wine Tim Wildman – who has described himself as ‘the world’s most disruptive MW’ – makes joyful pét-nats and recommends ‘no fruit descriptors, no sniffing and definitely no swirling’.

English producer Folc launched a range of coupe glasses moulded from women’s breasts in a provocative challenge to Champenois tradition; and, according to Gilbey, Aussie giant Jam Shed constantly encourages him to ‘take the mick’ out of them.

An ode to joy

At the more traditional end of the spectrum, Champagne Bollinger has been dabbling in humour for years.

In 2025, it celebrated the 25th anniversary of the Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize for Comic Fiction, which famously names a pig after the winning title each year.

I attended the awards ceremony in December and reading the shortlisted titles reminded me that comedy isn’t just about entertainment.

In Rosanna Pike’s A Little Trickerie, it acts as a counterpoint to abuse and loss; in Fundamentally, Nussaibah Younis uses it to humanise the character of an ISIS bride; and in Kate Greathead’s The Book of George, it exposes the weaknesses that make us human.

It’s this ability to expose that makes comedy such a powerful tool in wine communication.

When Crosbie uses a well-chosen meme to highlight the eccentricities of our industry, or producers such as Wildman encourage us to drink wine ‘just for fun’, it strips away the ceremony and performance that can make wine feel intimidating or exclusionary, reminding us why our ancestors started fermenting grapes in the first place: to have a good time.

Don’t get me wrong, I can be a sucker for wine’s performative side – I read wine lists like books, adore fine dining and have my own small but carefully guarded wine collection.

I also value the way writers, sommeliers and marketeers respect the hard work, risk and skill behind quality-driven bottles.

But in our ever-darkening times, I’d wager an emphasis on joy, playfulness and even a little comedy will capture drinkers’ imaginations – and open wallets – far more readily than the ceremonies of old.

In my glass this month...

With Lost in a Field, Tim Wildman MW hopes to save disappearing old-vine heritage varieties planted in the UK in the last century.

His Frolic 2023 (£23-£35 EW Wines, Grape Britannia, Native Vine) is a sprightly low-intervention pét-nat that blends six varieties from vineyards planted across four English counties.

It’s cloudy coral pink, with scents of meadow flowers, wild strawberry, elderflower and watermelon, and a light dusting of tangy grapefruit sherbet. It’s pure, delicious fun.

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Australian wines took the top two places, from 27 global examples of premium Chardonnay judged blind, at the London Wine Fair’s third annual Icon Tasting.

Billed as a benchmark tasting to assess the finest Chardonnay from classic and emerging regions, Tolpuddle Vineyard’s 2023 Chardonnay from Tasmania’s Coal River Valley claimed victory over Vasse Felix’s 2020 Heytesbury Chardonnay from Margaret River in Western Australia.

A third Australian, Shaw & Smith’s 2021 M3 Chardonnay from Adelaide Hills in South Australia, claimed seventh spot as well as third place in the Best Value ranking.

This year’s LWF Icon Tasting follows 2025’s Battle of the Bubbles and the Judgement of London in 2024, which paid homage to Steven Spurrier’s landmark 1976 Judgement of Paris event.

With the theme changing each year, the aim of the tastings are to identify whether there is a level platform across the world’s best wine regions.

Chardonnay: 'a global language for the best of wine'

Conceived by Hannah Tovey, head of the LWF, the Icon Tasting wines are selected by Ronan Sayburn MS, Decanter World Wine Awards co-Chair and CEO of the Court of Master Sommeliers, and Sarah Abbott MW, wine marketing consultant and co-founder of The Old Vine Conference.

This year, two sparkling and 25 still wines – chosen as benchmark premium examples from key Chardonnay-producing regions around the world – were flighted according to style, terroir, winemaking technique, oak ageing and cultural lens or heritage.

Tasting the wine in two flights over two hours, the 18-strong judging panel represented all aspects of the wine trade, including one Master Sommelier and 11 Masters of Wine.

In announcing the results at LWF the day before World Chardonnay Day on 21 May, Sayburn said they offered ‘an interesting snapshot of contemporary Chardonnay preferences rather than a definitive ranking of the world’s greatest wines’.

Abbott said the tasting showed ‘that fine Chardonnay is a global language for the best of wine’, reflecting ‘the staggering adaptability of this iconic grape variety’.

Looking at the top 10 wines, results were evenly split between Europe and non-European regions.

Chardonnay Showdown: The top 10

1. Tolpuddle Vineyard, Chardonnay, Coal River Valley, Tasmania, Australia 2023
2. Vasse Felix, Heytesbury Chardonnay, Margaret River, Western Australia 2020
3. Danbury Ridge, Octagon Block Chardonnay, Crouch Valley, Essex, England 2023
4. Dom Ruinart, Blanc de Blancs, Champagne, France 2013
5. Domaine Henri Boillot, Bâtard-Montrachet Grand Cru, Burgundy, France 2022
6. Bell Hill, Limeworks, North Canterbury, New Zealand 2020
7. Shaw & Smith, M3, Adelaide Hills, South Australia 2021
8. Felton Road, Chardonnay, Bannockburn, Central Otago, New Zealand 2021
9. Antinori, Cervaro, Castello della Sala, Umbria, Italy 2023
10. Domaine Donatsch, Unique Chardonnay, Malans, Graubünden, Switzerland 2024

My equal highest scores went to the same top two wines as well as the Shaw & Smith M3 (you can take the Australian out of Australia…), alongside Bell Hill’s Limeworks and a real discovery – for me – in Domaine Katsaros’ 2020 Stella Chardonnay from Krania in Thessaly, Greece.

In terms of the wines Sayburn and Abbott deemed best value (based on the highest points per retail price), after the Shaw & Smith, my highest scorers (in descending order) were Storm’s Ridge Chardonnay, Ataraxia, Viña Aquitania and Familia Deicas.

The best value

1. Familia Deicas, Preludio Barrel Select Lote No 29, Juanicó, Canelones, Uruguay 2020 (£24-£30)
2. Ataraxia, Chardonnay, Hemel-en-Aarde, Walker Bay, South Africa 2024 (£28-£25)
3. Shaw & Smith, M3, Adelaide Hills, South Australia 2021 (£35-£40)
4. Storm, Ridge Chardonnay, Hemel-en-Aarde, Walker Bay, South Africa 2024 (£41)
5. Viña Aquitania, Sol de Sol Chardonnay, Traiguén, Valle de Malleco, Chile 2024 (£25.50)

I did find it odd that just two wines represented the global breadth of Chardonnay-based sparklings. Perhaps this was because last year’s LWF Icon Tasting, Battle of the Bubbles, featured at least five Blanc de Blancs?

Better to have replaced the fizzes this year with two more still Chardonnays, which would have enabled the inclusion of one Oregon wine – undoubtedly one of the world’s leading Chardonnay-producing regions. Canada’s Niagara Peninsula, and Argentina too, might also feel like they deserved to be among the contenders.

Nevertheless, the quality of the 27 wines on show in this Chardonnay Challenge was indisputable, with none scoring less than a strong Silver on my tasting sheet.

Chardonnay Showdown: The wines (in tasting/flight order)

1. Dom Ruinart, Blanc de Blancs, Champagne, France 2013
2. Graham Beck, CH14:227 Blanc de Blancs, Robertson, South Africa 2020
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3. Storm, Ridge Chardonnay, Hemel-en-Aarde, Walker Bay, South Africa 2024
4. Sieur d’Arques, Toques et Clocher, Haute Vallée Chardonnay, Limoux, France 2024
5. Ataraxia, Chardonnay, Hemel-en-Aarde, Walker Bay, South Africa 2024
   ---
6. Domaine Donatsch, Unique Chardonnay, Malans, Graubünden, Switzerland 2024
7. Domaine Takahiko Soga, Yoichi-Nobori Chardonnay, Hokkaido, Japan 2024
8. Dr Heger, Ihringer Winklerberg Chardonnay, Baden, Germany 2023
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9. Danbury Ridge, Octagon Block Chardonnay, Crouch Valley, Essex, England 2023
10. Chapel Down, Kit’s Coty Chardonnay, Kent, England 2023
11. Familia Deicas, Preludio Barrel Select Lote No 29, Juanicó, Canelones, Uruguay 2020
    ---
12. Tolpuddle Vineyard, Chardonnay, Coal River Valley, Tasmania, Australia 2023
13. Shaw & Smith, M3, Adelaide Hills, South Australia 2021
14. Vasse Felix, Heytesbury Chardonnay, Margaret River, Western Australia 2020
    ---
15. Kistler, Les Noisetiers, Sonoma Coast, California, USA 2022
16. Peter Michael Winery, Belle Côte Chardonnay, Sonoma County, California USA 2021
17. Penfolds, Yattarna Bin 144 Chardonnay, Australia 2019
    ---
18. Viña Aquitania, Sol de Sol Chardonnay, Traiguén, Valle de Malleco, Chile 2024
19. Bell Hill, Limeworks, North Canterbury, New Zealand 2020
20. Domaine Coche-Dury, Bourgogne Blanc, Burgundy, France 2020
    ---
21. Domaine François Raveneau, Montée de Tonnerre 1er Cru, Chablis, Burgundy, France 2021
22. Alex Moreau, Les Chenevottes 1er Cru, Chassagne-Montrachet, Burgundy, France 2022
23. Domaine Henri Boillot, Bâtard-Montrachet Grand Cru, Burgundy, France 2022
    ---
24. Antinori, Cervaro, Castello della Sala, Umbria, Italy 2023
25. Domaine Katsaros, Stella Chardonnay, Krania, Thessaly, Greece 2020
26. Felton Road, Chardonnay, Bannockburn, Central Otago, New Zealand 2021
27. Torres, Milmanda, Conca de Barberà, Spain 2018

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Michael Broadbent, an almost godlike figure in the world of wine of his day, wrote a column in every issue of Decanter for four decades.

He made it easy for himself. He simply told us what he and his wife Daphne had been drinking, whether at home or abroad. Will you think I’m taking a shortcut if I do the same?

In this house, a lot has been English. We’re making a conscious effort to study and support our increasingly exciting new industry. Bubbly is the natural starting point; so far it’s what we do best.

Soon I hope we shall discover England’s Chablis, whether it emerges on the North Downs, the South Downs, in Hampshire or Berkshire, in Wiltshire or perhaps on the Isle of Wight.

People urge us to try some of the new or newish varieties that have been bred to overcome the perceived difficulty of achieving ripeness in this country. But it’s a problem that’s rapidly fading as our weather warms.

Timing has been more of a problem than temperature. The vine has to fit in 100 days of decent growing weather between its fruit forming and being ripe enough to pick for wine.

Ripe enough is easier for sparkling wine, where high acidity is essential. What we need most is dry and sunny Octobers. There’s more discouragement from our government than from the climate. The French must bless their obtuse practice of charging the same taxes wherever the wine is grown.

One promising development is a modestly priced blend from various parts of the country. Full disclosure: it’s my son’s business. It’s called Albion and comes in white or pink versions. I like the pink; sometimes I add a dash of Ribena to the white. Good thirst-quenchers, both of them.

Which is England’s reddest red? It will come from one or some of the varieties bred for the purpose. England’s best, though, is not its reddest. I haven’t tried enough of our Pinots Noir to say, and you don’t judge Pinot Noir by its colour. The scent is the thing; it can sting your nostrils.

Robert Browning distinguished between the moth’s and the bee’s kisses. ‘Kiss me as if you entered gay my heart at some noonday… so all is rendered up.’ That would have been Musigny.

England’s moth’s kiss might be Danbury Ridge. I’m not sure we have a bee’s kiss yet.

Get first access to DWWA 2026 results on 17 June

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This was different. My previous journeys to Rioja unfolded in summer. From Madrid, Barcelona or Zaragoza: treks through dusty landscapes of the sort Cervantes described, in light so bright and shimmering that windmills might indeed have seemed like giants with flailing arms. Not this time; winter was lingering. Rioja’s Centennial Celebration of the awarding of its denominación de origen on 6 June 1925 (more than 10 years before France’s appellations, note) took place in February 2026.

I arrived from Bilbao: a journey through the mountains. It had rained on and off for two months; platoons of mist manoeuvred amid the sodden parcels. When the sun shone, it threw lamplight on fierce indigo clouds. Finally, I could feel Rioja for what it is: a high-elevation region.

Spain, remember, is the second-highest country in Europe after Switzerland. Few vineyards here lie below 350m, higher than most in Burgundy, and Himalayan compared to Bordeaux; many lie at 900m or more. The average vineyard elevation in Rioja is 495m.

What I’d remembered accurately was the chaos of the landscape. Yes, it’s a broad valley, incised by the river Ebro; but the vineyards are rooted in terraces that rise and fall incessantly, a topographical rough draft. Vines thrive here: around 30% of Rioja’s 66,639ha are old plantings (the OIV definition: 35 years or more), with 600 vineyard parcels (182ha) certified as centenarian. Old vines may yield modestly, but they’re healthy, they’re content.

And the wines? Magnificent – or at least the ones we were shown the next morning were: I don’t remember a five-hour sit-down tasting more amply strewn with smile-inducing, muscle-softening wine pleasure. Still more came tumbling into our roomy Riedel glasses (16 each: my heart went out to the washers-up) at the gala dinner.

For affability, warmth and welcome, Europe has no fine red wines to match these; elsewhere in the world, only Napa comes close. Rioja’s genius is to combine gentleness and tenderness with generosity and grandeur, despite significant structure. Rioja doesn’t just endure, moreover, but builds beauty in time: a rarer quality. They’re the kind of red wines that, when you return to them after a sojourn away, you think ‘Why do I ever drink anything else?’

But I’ve set off on the wrong foot. ‘Rioja doesn’t exist,’ Pedro Ballesteros Torres MW (of whom more in a subsequent column) assured the hall full of tasters. ‘You have to add adjectives.’ He was drawing attention to growing differences of style. Climate change has made every grower ask questions and think again about site, about harvest and about balance; and the questioning of our old assumptions about oak (see my March 2026 column) hasn’t gone un-echoed in Rioja, though it’s still true to say that the relationship between oak (American included) and young, Tempranillo-based blends remains singularly successful here.

Our morning tasting was divided into a set of ‘new departure’ wines and magnificent older wines; the dinner set bridged these two worlds. No space here for extensive tasting notes, but in addition to the Queirón wine mentioned, below, new departures include the supple, perfumed 2024 José Gil from Vignerons de la Sonsierra; a fascinating pure-Benedicto wine (Benedicto is thought to be a parent, with Albillo, of Tempranillo) from Luis Cañas, unfinished but insistent; and Miguel Merino’s virtuoso 2022 La Loma from vineyards in Briones.

And whites? The oaky classics are splendid: Murrieta’s Castillo Ygay 1986 seduced us all, thanks to skill, wood and its cellar years. Swing the spotlight onto Viura as a young, fresh wine, though, and even the best underwhelm; they lack Tempranillo’s authority, complexity and command. Might greater use of other varieties help? It may not be hip to say this, but I love the Faustino white Gran Reserva – thanks to its Chardonnay component, which brings gold, cream… and Rioja’s old, enduring joy: tenderness and gentleness.

In my glass this month

Dominio de Queirón, Mi Lugar, Rioja 2021

The 2021 Mi Lugar from Queirón (ex-UK, £26 Vinissimus) is a ‘Vino de Quel’ – Quel being a village in Rioja Oriental (formerly Rioja Baja) lying at almost 500m, with its vineyards rising to 850m.

The pure-Garnacha El Arca is very fine, but emotionally speaking Mi Lugar (90% Tempranillo with 10% Garnacha) is more captivating still: cool-shot fruit, riffling with hill grasses and wild herbs, and finely structured on the palate. Subtle, vital and wild – but yes, finally tender, too.

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My name is Lauren and I’m 23 years old. I’m currently studying for a Master's in Conflict Resolution and Reconciliation in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

After a long day of academic endeavours, sharing a bottle of wine to reflect on such heavy topics has some appeal. A glass of wine has become a reliable companion over these years of study.

Before this I spent a year living in Paris – the capital of a country that thrives on its reputation for wine. Interestingly, I found that everyday wine in France and in Ireland was not so different (at least not in my circles).

Paris is now my main residence, and where I sought out my bottle for this Decanter challenge. For me, the choice of wine is always a no-brainer: it’s red wine for aperitif, for dinner or for a night out! Having grown up in Bordeaux, one might explain the other…

I am also very grateful for having two parents who work in wine. They’d kindly leave out a box of bottles for me to sample that they didn’t want. Cheap red wine has always been my calling.

Why I chose it

Ahead of a board games evening, a friend and I headed to a local wine merchant – Cave à la Bastille in Paris’ 11th arrondissement – where the staff were very helpful in talking us through the selection.

There was such a variety of choices, we found ourselves captivated by the bottle labels – and specifically the wine names. We spent about 40 minutes trying to decide on ‘the one’.

There were some close contenders such as Pablo est au Bar (Pablo is at the Bar), L’art d’être Heureux (The Art of being Happy), L’Oiselet (Little Bird) and Les Vieux de la Vielle (The Old Guard). Every bottle was a unique proposition, offering a distinctive experience to enhance the night ahead.

The bottle we eventually chose, from Yannick Pelletier in the Languedoc, was a non-vintage Grenache-Carignan blend called Pennard. Pennard is French wordplay between peinard (laidback, relaxed and carefree) and pinard (slang for a cheap red quaffing wine). And it only cost €10!

What it tasted like

After getting back home, we poured and swished the wine in our glasses, smelling it first then leaving it to settle before our second sniff. Fresh, fruity and herbaceous.

When we tasted it, we described it as ‘full bouche’ – mouthfilling with nice tannins – with a bubbly tang at the end. The wine merchant had told us that some producers were following this trend to make wines more accessible.

It was surprising but perfect for an apéro, the spritz giving you a friendly tickle, essential for a games night. As a wine to have with dinner, it might be a bit too light but, then again, that might just be us.

As we played our trivia game of Trou Noir, the wine flowed almost as quickly as our conversation. A lovely bottle at an accessible price.

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When speaking of wines from England, vibrant and increasingly sophisticated sparkling wines may spring to mind first. But what about English still wines?

In recent years, partly benefiting from a warming climate, English still wines have shown clear potential. As a previous Decanter Panel Tasting demonstrated, 30 out of 64 wines tasted achieved 90 points or above.

With many producers reporting a splendid 2025 vintage, the timing couldn’t be better to explore English still wines. What should you look for when picking your first bottle?

We’ve asked our experts for their top tips – find a quick cheat sheet below, and read on for further explanation.

The quality and value verdict… for now

‘We’ve been in business for seven years now, and for all that time, around two-thirds of our range has been still English wines. We wouldn’t have survived if they weren’t good,’ says Matt Hodgson, founder of English and Welsh wine specialist merchant Grape Britannia.

And more consumers are drinking them. As Dror Nativ MW, senior wine buyer at Marks & Spencer, puts it: ‘We have six still wines from England, and it’s quite a fast-growing category in terms of volume.’

But just how good are they – especially when value and global benchmarks are taken into account?

‘If you try to get English wines to compete with Grand Cru Burgundy, that’s not going to work,’ says wine writer and broadcaster Susie Barrie MW, who chaired Decanter Panel Tastings on English and Welsh wines for three consecutive years. ‘If you try to go to entry level, that’s not the sweet spot either.’

‘I think the sweet spot is right in the middle – where they’re competing with high-end New Zealand or Australian still wines.’

The stellar grapes

The experts point to £15 and above as the ‘entry-level’ price for English still wines – and if you enjoy a fresh, aromatic New World Sauvignon Blanc, Bacchus is usually an affordable, easy-drinking option.

‘Our bestselling white is Bacchus,’ says Nativ, highlighting a Bacchus from Lyme Bay in Devon (£15, M&S). ‘We do have other varieties, but it seems the Sauvignon Blanc-like aroma, acidity and character really appeal to customers.’

But for a bottle that truly impresses, ‘you’ve got to be paying about £30 to really get the best from England,’ notes Barrie.

From both a value and reliability standpoint, Chardonnay is the grape of choice, according to our experts.

‘On average, the quality of English Chardonnay is really high across the board and moving into the territory of good value,’ says Hodgson.

For Pinot Noir, results are more mixed, largely due to the climatic challenges of disease pressure and achieving perfect ripeness, according to Charlie Holland, winemaker of Jackson Family Wines’ Marbury Wines project in Crouch Valley, Essex and former CEO of Kentish estate Gusbourne.

‘It’s a difficult grape to grow in England, but if you get it right, it’s amazing.’

Crouch Valley on the rise

Crouch Valley, located in south-east Essex along the River Crouch estuary, is one of the places where value and quality meet for English still wines, says Barrie.

'Among the warmest and driest parts of England, the region’s signature London clay soils retain water in dry spells and become less permeable in wet conditions, Holland explains.'

Lower disease pressure, combined with low yields (around 1-2 tonnes per acre, or 18-35hl/ha), means vineyards can regularly pick healthy, concentrated and fully ripe grapes, many destined for quality still wines.

'That was the case even in 2024 – when many other English regions reported difficult growing conditions,' adds the winemaker.

Does vintage matter?

The short answer is yes – and more so for still wines than sparkling wines in England, says Hodgson.

‘Typically, you want the hotter vintages. But counterintuitively, with Bacchus, over the past few years we’ve found a lot of quite green and unappetising examples in a warm vintage such as 2022, whereas the 2021 and 2023 vintages are actually much fresher.’

This may be because Bacchus drops its acidity very quickly, he adds. ‘As a result, many producers picked early to preserve freshness, but the wines didn’t always achieve full phenolic ripeness.’

Yields have an impact, too, says Barrie.

‘Take 2018 – the yields were actually too high. It worked for sparkling, which can handle higher yields, but many of the still wines from that year ended up a little thin.’

An ideal vintage for still wine would be ‘a warm vintage that’s also relatively small’, she explains, and it depends on the variety: ‘Bacchus doesn’t really want a very warm year, whereas Chardonnay and, especially, Pinot Noir benefit from a bit more warmth.’

With the soon-to-be-released 2025 vintage widely tipped as outstanding, it’s one to watch, said the experts.

It’s only the beginning

However, it’s still early days to define a signature grape or style, agree the experts.

‘The English still wine industry is still in its infancy, even more so than the sparkling wine sector. It’s only in the last decade that it has started to find its feet, and Pinot Noir and Chardonnay were obvious candidates,’ says Hodgson.

‘Producers are still experimenting and discovering which other varieties might work in the UK. It’s far too early to say that the future is just about Chardonnay and Pinot Noir.’

Experimental bottlings are already being made from Albariño, Sauvignon Blanc, Ortega, Solaris and Gamay, alongside a new wave of PIWI grapes (fungus-resistant hybrids), many of which show genuine promise.

Part of this innovative drive, powered by a younger generation of winemakers and fewer regulatory constraints compared to classic regions, has also given rise to distinctive styles such as white Pinot Noir and Dermot Sugrue’s ‘Bonkers’ – a flor-aged, multi-vintage Chardonnay blend, the experts add.

'Still rosé is another area of potential growth,' says Barrie.

‘I don’t think the UK has quite cracked rosé yet, but there’s no reason why it can’t. Interestingly, one of the top rosés last year at the WineGB Awards was made from Gamay – a slightly oaked, more premium example – which shows the potential of the style.’

Consistency remains the key issue, but the market is already there, she adds.

‘It’s clearly an area still to be developed, but with so many producers already making rosé as part of their cellar door offering, there’s every reason to think it will improve.’

Any final tips?

‘Don’t penny-pinch,’ is Barrie’s final tip for wine lovers embarking on a journey into the English still wine category. ‘Go for a £30 bottle and choose Chardonnay – treat yourself and go for a name you’ve been recommended.’

Nativ shares the sentiment: ‘There’s a virtuous cycle – the more people buy English still wine, the better the wines will become, as winemakers have the incentive to improve.’

Visiting English vineyards and tasting wines at the cellar door also adds an extra dimension to the experience, adds the MW.

As Hodgson puts it, ‘once you’ve bought and enjoyed that first bottle, there are endless avenues to explore.’

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'The Look of Wine: Reading Wine Color'

One of the things that the Master of Wine courses teach you is that colour doesn’t really matter in wine.

It can offer hints – the nutty shade of an amontillado versus a fino Sherry, the generally paler shade of Nebbiolo or Pinot Noir, the ‘rusting’ of reds with age – but it’s rarely a defining factor in figuring out a wine’s identity. In fact, it can often mislead.

But in a new book, The Look of Wine: Reading Wine Color (£35 Abrams, April 2025), colour designer Florence de la Rivière argues that colour is an integral element in assessing wine.

Sight transmits 20 times as much information as smell, and 10 times faster, yet it doesn’t, in her view, get nearly enough airtime in vinous circles.

The book came about after de la Rivière was asked to lecture at the Institut des Sciences de la Vigne et du Vin in Bordeaux.

Inspired by her research, she spoke to a range of producers around the world about wine and colour – building a vivid vocabulary that she brings to life in her book as she encourages drinkers to engage further with wine’s appearance.

Following an introduction to colour and its role in tasting wine, the book is divided into three main sections, looking at reds, rosés and whites, with shades of each explored through the lens of specific grape varieties, wines and famous producers.

There are brief interviews, with different perspectives being brought in by the likes of sommelier Pascaline Lepeltier, Domaine de la Romanée-Conti’s Aubert de Villaine and Château Cheval Blanc’s Pierre Lurton.

The book is thought-provoking, but the translation stumbles in places. The use of the terms ‘lady sommelier’ and ‘lady winemaker’ is irksome and outdated.

I’d have loved to see more about the effects of whole-bunch fermentation and sulphur dioxide on colour, and there are lines that betray a lack of specialist knowledge.

I found the small section on the history of colour in art fascinating – and couldn’t help thinking that it could be an even more interesting way to look at the topic.

Has the book shifted the way that I think about wine and colour? In short, no.

I agree that a wine’s colour can enhance enjoyment – the glimmer and gleam in the glass, the way it refracts candlelight, its gentle shift at the rim and evolution with time all add to wine’s appeal – but I’m not convinced it’s integral to our understanding of wine.

Regardless of its textual contents, the book is, in itself, an objet d’art: a beautiful hardback with deliciously thick paper, but – most importantly – packed with stunning photography by Jérôme Bryon.

His work is saturated with character – complementing what could seem a somewhat staid topic with colourful shots of wineries, winemakers and wines in the glass.

What I'm listening to

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I’m Emily, 26 years old, working and living in London with my boyfriend.

I’d say my relationship with wine is pretty simple: I know what I like; I’m curious about trying new things; and I’m most likely opening a bottle for dinner, rather than pouring a glass just for the sake of it.

I’m not chasing anything too complicated – I just want something that tastes good, ideally with food, and feels like it’s worth the money.

My relationship with wine began long before I ever enjoyed drinking it.

My dad is the sort of man who can turn a simple glass of red into a lengthy masterclass: terroir, tannins, the name of the wine-grower’s dog – you name it!

Childhood summer holidays spent visiting Tuscan vineyards were some of my fondest memories, and definitely where my interest in wine began.

Why I chose it

One of my favourite wines is Chablis, so when I was choosing my £20 bottle, I didn’t want to play it too safe and go for something obvious.

Instead, I picked Villard's Le Chardonnay from the Casablanca region in Chile. It’s the same grape as Chablis, but from a high-altitude vineyard, which made me think it would have a similar freshness and acidity – but hopefully with a different personality.

I liked the idea of trying something familiar, but not too predictable.

What it tasted like

Straight away on the nose, it felt bright and inviting. Lots of citrus – lime and lemon – with softer stone fruit notes too.

I picked up peach, pear and apricot, which gave it a nice balance between freshness and ripeness. It already smelled like it had a bit more going on than a lean, mineral Chardonnay.

On the palate, I’d say that this wine definitely packs a punch! It is weightier than a Chablis and feels bolder, with more intensity and less restraint.

The acidity is noticeable – sharper and more upfront – but it’s balanced by oak undertones that bring in gentle vanilla flavours.

As it sat in the glass and had time to breathe, the oak really started to show itself, along with hints of spiced apple.

Why I'd recommend it

That being said, this is not a wine I’d reach for to drink on its own; it very much made me want to eat something.

So I enjoyed a glass over dinner with my boyfriend, pairing it with white fish in a creamy cheese and parsley sauce. That’s when the wine really came into its own.

The richness of the food cut through the acidity perfectly, making the whole thing feel far more balanced and enjoyable.

The citrus freshness kept things lively, while the oak added warmth and depth. It was one of those wines that genuinely tasted better with every sip once food was involved.

Overall, this felt like a great choice for something a bit different without straying too far from my comfort zone.

It’s not the most refined Chardonnay I’ve ever had, but it’s bold, characterful and clearly meant for the table.

For the price, I’d happily buy it again – especially if I knew I had the right food to go with it.

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After my spotlight on sake books, the Japanese theme continues this month with a new guide to the country’s wines.

I stumbled across this self-published work on Instagram (a reward for my hours of mindless scrolling). Nick Rowan – aka @winefogg on the platform – isn’t an industry veteran, but has clearly fallen hard for the world of wine in recent years, undertaking WSET courses and setting up a blog.

And now, he’s published a book: Japanese Wine: History, Regions, Wineries (and Cheese) (£49 Wine Fogg, December 2025).

A true labour of love

Rowan, who previously lived in Japan, has put an extraordinary amount of thought and work into the book. A true labour of love, it’s a comprehensive guide to the wines of Japan (as well as a nod to the country’s nascent cheese industry), written with the tourist in mind.

It offers a broad-brush introduction to the country’s wines – the history, main grapes and styles, viticulture and winemaking – before diving into profiles of each prefecture and the producers; but you’ll also find shortlists of wine shops, bars and restaurants in every area covered, as well as useful travel tips. (A note for those who are as confused as I was at first: MBA doesn’t stand for Master of Business Administration, but Muscat Bailey A, otherwise Bailey A, an outstanding sibling for Melon B in the Spice Grapes band I’m compiling.)

The appendices include an array of additional information – from the estates with the best winery cats/dogs/goats/ chickens and statistics on wine production to a (very) brief guide to parsing Japanese.

'Ideal if you're planning a vinous tour of Japan'

Dear reader, you may be aware that I don’t always gush with praise when it comes to self-publishing – and it certainly comes with limitations.

Inevitably, there are a few more typos or formatting quirks than in traditionally published books; the design may leave a lot to be desired; and the imagery can be awful. Editors are generally very helpful in shaping a book – and can be sorely missed.

Rowan, however, has managed to dodge the worst of these potential pitfalls. His book is stripped back – text heavy, but for good reason. This isn’t a coffee table book, nor one you’re likely to read cover to cover, but rather a solid reference guide – and ideal if you’re planning a vinous tour of Japan.

An editor would likely have cut the best winery animals from the appendix; I’m glad there wasn’t one to do so. If you buy the book directly through Rowan’s site (rather than Amazon), you can add a custom wine stain, made with a specific Japanese wine of your choice – a curious yet creative way to tip an amateur author if ever I saw one.

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'You have to go looking for negative wine reviews'

Tool’s 2001 album Lateralus is, in my opinion, among the most ambitious, accomplished metal records of all time.

It also has a 1.9/10 rating from Pitchfork.

That famously scathing publication may be an outlier – its critics relishing the chance to lambast – but you see it with reviews of films, books and restaurants, too. Just look at the recent media response to Wuthering Heights.

You have to go looking for negative wine reviews.

Trawl through the hundreds of thousands of entries on specialist sites such as Robert Parker Wine Advocate or jancisrobinson.com and you will find some damning notes and scores; you won’t find so many in print.

And out in the wild, you’re unlikely to see a retailer or producer shouting about an 82-point score. Why would they?

A conscientious critic may think better of rubbishing Domaine X’s new vintage when they could use the same (limited) column inches to celebrate the quality at Domaine Y.

Some producers have the financial muscle to absorb bad press, but many don’t.

The industry is full of small, often family-run firms; it’s tough enough ekeing out a living without the spectre of a bad review.

And while self-confidence is a required trait in a critic, most will admit that they’re not infallible; what if they’ve got it wrong? Better to say nothing at all, sometimes.

Walking the line

Omission is tricky, though. Let’s say that a critic feels a wine isn’t good enough to comment on, so they say nothing. A reader might then infer that what isn’t written about isn’t worth buying.

Tool frontman Maynard James Keenan makes wine in Arizona at Caduceus Cellars. I can find reviews from just one major critic (a wide spectrum, from 86 points up to ‘The greatest wine made in Arizona in modern times!’).

Have other critics not tasted these wines or have they done so but opted to say nothing? In not publishing the bad, the picture is incomplete and potentially obscured.

We’re not talking about investigative journalism here, but there can still be an element of speaking truth to power.

Bordeaux first growths are powerful, but so too are the major Italian cooperatives and bulk producers in California.

Critics should be calling out bad wine, especially if it’s being made by a big producer. But can they?

Jamie Goode (wineanorak.com) has proposed that some wines are ‘beyond criticism’ – so legendary, so firmly established as excellent that no self-respecting critic would dare claim otherwise.

Take a stand against a heavyweight and you risk losing access to the sort of tastings on which your work depends. The story goes that Robert Parker himself had a dog set on him after giving a château a bad review.

Critics today wield a fraction of Parker’s influence; how much bargaining power do they really have? Wine criticism depends on support from the wine industry. Critics can’t afford to self-fund their travels and tastings.

Legacy media is struggling, and though advertisers can help plug the gap, they’re often the very producers whose wines are in the market for review.

Critical compulsion

There’s a fine balance, and if critics have a problem with any of it, tough: it’s a competitive field and there’s a small army of experts who would take their job in a heartbeat. Presuming, of course, that the job exists at all.

I’m not suggesting that critics are working for wineries, but they’re not exactly working against them.

Critics should feel compelled, obliged even, to publish the bad as well as the good.

There’s lots of great wine out there, and they should shout about it; but the good isn’t always as good as it could or should be, and a healthy dialogue keeps everybody sharp.

Thoughtful reviews get people talking and wine needs more of that.

That Lateralus review remains one of Pitchfork’s most talked about, 25 years later.

Some say the critic was trolling; others say it was just Pitchfork doing what it does; still others point to the many positive reviews for the album elsewhere, and the reverence in which it’s held by its fans.

Crucially, they’re talking. It’s a reminder that when critics have teeth, criticism – positive or negative – remains relevant.

In my glass this month

I’ve always filed Marsanne away somewhere as a Rhône-adjacent supporting character. In Tahbilk’s Museum Release Marsanne 2019 (£13.95 The Wine Society), it’s the star of the show.

There is a lot going on here, with all sorts of complex little nods to the wine’s extended bottle age.

There’s hay, honey and nutty notes and a pleasantly savoury edge to it all, but there’s also a tangy apple-and-citrus side.

This has weight and substance without fatness, and it’s surprisingly bright and refreshing.

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France's wine appellations: Then and now

Appellations celebrate their 90th birthday next month. The first six of what (using EU nomenclature) we now refer to as appellations d’origine protegée or APs came into being on 15 May 1936.

A torrent followed by 1938, including most Bordeaux and Burgundy appellations. This was a decade of soggy weather, depressed markets, struggling sales and gathering political storms, though the principal motive for creating ‘names of controlled origin’ was to fight against post-phylloxera fraud.

Guess what? French wine now finds itself… in the middle of a decade of depressed markets, struggling sales and political storms; the miserable weather of the 1930s has become the wild, unpredictable and increasingly torrid weather of the 2020s.

It’s impossible to imagine wine creation today without what have become more generally known as ‘geographical indications’ (GIs – modelled on APs, but often with looser rules). Instituting a workable system of GIs marks the passage to adulthood for every aspiring wineproducing nation.

The dossiers prepared to obtain French appellation status build on centuries of quiet work by local growers: they protect communal property rights, but they also conserve cultural wealth. In a world where brands are king, appellations (brands for the brandless) help open markets for small growers.

French wine appellations facing their 'di Lampedusa moment'

When I last touched on this topic five years ago, wine (a notable consolation during the Covid-19 epidemic) was selling well, though I pointed out then that appellations will decay without maintenance and revision.

Now, amid the multiple crises affecting French wine, appellations are facing their di Lampedusa moment. ‘Se vogliamo che tutto rimanga com’è, bisogna che tutto cambi’, says Tancredi Falconeri in Giuseppe di Lampedusa’s Il Gattopardo (‘The Leopard’): ‘If we want things to stay as they are, everything needs to change.’

To explain why, let me share a personal anniversary: my family and I have now lived in France for 15 years. There have been many positive surprises: the health service is magnificent, as is France’s infrastructure, its care for patrimony, its consensus that those who need support should have it, and the discipline of many of its institutions and state actors.

But even modest earners are taxed heavily, the bureaucratic hurdles of everday life are onerous, its political class prefers posture to responsibility and compromise, and its otherwise admirable educational system punishes imagination.

Apply this to France’s wine scene; speak to any grower. They’ll complain about regulatory rigidity, a colossal bureaucratic burden and the difficulty of making changes or implementing innovations; many of the most creative have quit the appellation system; producers below prestige strata struggle to stay afloat, crushed by ever-rising costs and social charges.

But when problems accrue, the expectation is always that the state should solve the problem: the trap of learned helplessness. The French culture of anger (rarely helpful, even when righteous) often then kicks in, together with anti-democratic rituals of direct action and strikes. Attempts at sane reform are suffocated by political hysteria. The result is a noisy immobilisme (‘stasis’).

Imagine if France’s wine sector was to lead the way for the nation. All appellations would be handed over to local growers to run as they see fit, with the option of a complete reset of every regulatory stipulation in the cahiers des charges: the appellation rule books.

The alcohol communication stipulations of the 1991 Loi Evin legislation would be repealed, enabling growers once again to take pride in their contribution to the nation’s life, and talk warmly, creatively and responsibly about the intricate richness of France’s wine traditions.

The French state would indeed help those who need to cease wine production exit with dignity… but otherwise retreat from economic paternalism and regulatory overkill. Imagine.

In my glass this month

Languedoc’s Domaine de la Dourbie is a model of imagination: every cuvée is astutely thought through, making the most of its old-vine patrimony. Its top white L’Intemporal is the best (and least austere) Grenache Gris I know. The 2021 has fennel-and-quince perfume and is mellow, succulent and deep; a little orange creeps in on the palate. Look for the gorgeously fruited Oscar cuvées (UK importer Moreno); a cunning Terret-based pét-nat called Tuf; and an exciting range from the newly acquired Mas Moustache, too.

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Our relationship with water: The missing link

Two rivers in California, the Klamath and the Colorado, which act as vineyard lifelines, have been legally recognised as living beings, with the same legal rights as people under local indigenous law, in 2019 and 2025 respectively.

This recognition reflects the growing global spread of the indigenous worldview, another example being the growing number of Māori-owned wineries in Aotearoa (New Zealand), such as te Pā, Tiki and Kuru Kuru.

The bestowal of ‘personhood’ encapsulates the core of indigenous knowledge, an ancestral respect for the Earth and its ecologies.

One guiding principle is that you take only what you need. This is the missing link in our modern relationship with water. We no longer worship it; we commodify it.

'Freshwater irrigation of a luxury crop isn't viable'

Water now dominates the global wine conversation. I’ve been writing about this for a decade, including in a 2019 UN-commissioned paper on why freshwater irrigation of a luxury crop isn’t viable.

Distracted by the glare of solar panels and the hum of electric tractors, this truth is glossed over.

As I wrote in my paper, in the New World, 83% of the area under vine is irrigated, as opposed to 10% in the Old World. For wineries that practice irrigation, it accounts for most of the winery’s water footprint.

Is dry farming the answer?

The most ancient indigenous water-conservation tradition is dry farming.

When it comes to grape growing, this isn’t just about not irrigating, but a holistic system of practices to create deep-rooted vines, water-retentive soils, balanced canopies and more. Implemented effectively, dry farming can lead to drought-resilient vineyards, healthy yields and terroir-driven wines.

As Lauren Pesch of Leeds & Pesch Vineyard Consulting in Napa Valley, who advises vineyard owners on dry farming conversion, explains: ‘Dry farming is an ancient technique that is gaining renewed attention as we seek to adapt to changing climates and resource challenges. It’s about cultivating a deeper, more resilient plant that can consistently produce exceptional fruit.’

Adrian Bridge, managing director and chairman of Taylor’s Port, says that dry farming has been used in Portugal’s Douro region for more than 300 years.

He suggests that its concentrated wines and Ports would be ‘diluted’ by irrigation and that the practice would be ‘counterproductive to the quality that we produce’.

John Paul, founder of Oregon’s Deep Roots Coalition and winemaker at Cameron Winery in the Dundee Hills, says that ‘irrigating grapevines is a decision based solely on increasing returns on investments, not on increasing quality’.

Lauren Pesch’s father Frank Leeds, a longtime proponent of dry farming at Napa’s Frog’s Leap, concurs: ‘We dry farm because of wine quality, vine health and the tradition of it.’

Where the tension lies

There is, however, the unavoidable truth that you simply can’t grow vines in some places without irrigating the vineyards.

This is where the tension lies. As California winemaker Randall Grahm, founder of Bonny Doon Vineyard, asks: ‘In a world of limited resources, who is to decide which plantations are worthy of preservation?’

History offers a clue. In 1930s France, the creation of the wine appellation system led to severe restrictions on irrigation to control yields and protect quality (the practice was banned for AOC vines in 1964).

Similarly, many of Europe’s prestigious appellations treat irrigation as either forbidden or culturally taboo. Born from an economic and moral crisis, this became a terroir doctrine and today, inadvertently, serves as the perfect blueprint for climate resilience.

With irrigation restrictions now easing across many of Europe’s wine regions, in order to mitigate the effects of climate change, we have to ask: do we adapt our farming to the land, or drain the land to suit our farming?

Sip to make a difference

The Cameron, Dundee Hills Chardonnay, Willamette Valley, Oregon, USA 2023 (94pts, £49.95 AG Wines), made with fruit from drygrown, organically farmed old vines, is clean, crisp and beautifully structured. Discreet oak with fleshy apricots and peaches on the palate, and a mineral finish.

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As a 21-year-old Sociology undergraduate at the University of Aberdeen, I tend to fulfil typical student stereotypes when it comes to my wine habits. I drink the cheapest white or rosé available, keeping my usual bottle spend under £7. Whether for a night in with a pal or to pair with a dinner, supermarket Pinot Grigio is yet to fail me.

I’m not embarrassed to say that my choice of wine for Decanter's Gen Z Wine Challenge was entirely motivated by appearance. At home in Edinburgh, I work in a whisky bar with a limited wine stock, so I’m definitely no expert on grapes, tannins or that sort of thing.

Why I chose it

What I can appreciate though, is something pretty. As someone who, before today, would never spend £20 on one wine, I felt I had to stretch the bottle’s usage. By choosing the most aesthetically pleasing bottle, and repurposing it after drinking, it was like doubling the benefits.

I chose M&S for my shopping and beelined straight to the white wines. None of the labels jumped out at me, but I checked out the rosés as I left and was struck by one called Lady A. It had copper detailing and a graffiti-esque butterfly on the front; sleek and minimalist. At £18, I knew this Provence pink was coming home with me.

Always keen to be thrifty, I wanted such a fancy wine to fuel more than a light buzz inside the confines of my flat. So I decided to keep it for Aberdeen’s top night out for alternative students: Krakatoa Karaoke.

As student tradition goes, pre-drinks (or ‘pres’) are a crucial element of a good night out. And as someone known to crack open cheap Pinot Grigio for this purpose, Lady A was certainly classy dance-floor fuel.

What it tasted like

I opened the bottle before I started getting ready and sipped it throughout. It was a themed Valentine’s night at the bar, so my pink wine felt on point. I shared it with my boyfriend and blasted my ‘pres’ playlist, keeping the energy high.

Part of me felt every sip should be savoured more than I would a ‘regular’ wine. I found Lady A crisp, fruity and refreshing – a perfect style to counter how warm I often get while getting ready.

The bottle’s coppery foil nicely mirrored the colour of the wine, and the peach and berry flavours were delicious. As I suspected, the quality difference compared to my usual £7 purchases was clear in taste, and I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Once finished, I made sure to quickly put my beautiful bottle to work, shaving down a taper and letting the bottle be a candlestick holder. It’s now covered in wax drippings, matching the graffiti-style label.

While I still have a year of skint studying ahead, I’d definitely reach for Lady A again if I had the cash. Perhaps for a special occasion, or as a gift to a friend.

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White wine 'the future of winemaking'

When I visited Angelo Gaja in Barbaresco a while ago, he said something surprising: ‘The future of winemaking is in white wines.’

This was an unexpected sentiment from the maestro of Nebbiolo, the great black grape of Barbaresco and Barolo.

Always an innovator, always a visionary, Gaja had already broken with precedent by making two Chardonnays in Piedmont – Gaia & Rey and Rossj Bass – and the Alteni di Brassica Sauvignon Blanc.

Now Gaja has followed the argument’s logic to its extreme by constructing an entire new winery, about 10km southeast of the Barbaresco winery, for producing white wines only.

The new winery, a brooding presence on a hilltop, has the capacity to handle 250,000 bottles and is surrounded by 30ha of vines planted 90% to Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc, with small amounts of indigenous varieties and an experimental plot of Nebbiolo. Overall, it’s a large commitment to the belief in the future of white wine.

'The wine world hasn't settled on a response to global warming'

The wine world hasn’t really settled on a response to global warming yet, but if there’s any consensus, it’s that you can plant higher up, vineyards might face north instead of south, and you might plant varieties that previously were grown in warmer climates.

Warmer regions, though, may be problematic for making white wines, because of a lack of acidity when the grapes reach ripeness.

Sometimes there’s acceptance of the need for change; sometimes there’s denial. Higher plantings are now a reality in Chianti Classico, in Tuscany, where the permitted limit is 700m, although the majority plant up to about 600m. Barolo producers recently decided against allowing the planting of Nebbiolo on north-facing slopes.

Burgundians are completely resistant to any notion that climate change might require a revision of the hierarchy of vineyards based on position on the slope. Bordeaux is too flat to have any option of going higher.

Reversing conventional wisdom

Conventional wisdom suggests that black grapes require warmer conditions to reach ripeness than white grapes.

Indeed, one consequence of climate change has been a move to grow more black grapes in areas formerly associated with whites. Pinot Noir is performing well in Alsace, Sancerre and Baden (southern Germany); in Alsace, some growers are even beginning to have success with Syrah.

The case for whites effectively reverses convention by arguing that, with reds, you have to wait for the skins to reach ripeness, whereas with whites you can harvest on the basis of acidity and ripeness of the juice.

So whites offer better options for harvesting earlier to maintain freshness. There are producers who believe Languedoc in southern France may have more of a future producing fresh white wines, based on earlier harvesting, than reds, where alcohol is being driven up towards 15%.

And whites offer better options for blending, combining older vineyards planted lower down that produce richness from very ripe grapes with newer vineyards higher up that bring acidity.

Gaja’s existing whites are a case in point. Since 1983, the Chardonnays have come from vineyards in Treiso (in Barbaresco) and Serralunga d’Alba (in Barolo). Now they will include grapes from the new vineyards in Alta Langa.

‘We are introducing the new lots to mitigate the effects of global warming and keep the same character,’ Angelo’s son Giovanni says.

The moral is that if you go higher and go northfacing, blending with grapes from existing vineyards can keep freshness in wines without losing historical character. That’s more likely to be a solution for white grapes, because with black grapes there is always the risk of green (underripe) tannins.

This is only the beginning. What will it do to the world of wine if the focus turns from reds to whites? What will happen to the world’s great red wine regions if the locations of vineyards have to be changed and black varieties replaced with white?

If the greatest wines of the past have (mostly) been red, what will be the greatest wines of the future?

In my glass this month

In the past, I’ve found Gaja’s Gaia & Rey Langhe Chardonnay to have a rich, oaky style. Due for release soon, the 2024 vintage is different. The nose is smooth and nutty. The palate moves in a mineral direction, with richness underneath. Oak isn’t obvious. A silky texture underlines a lean style. ‘2024 was a challenge for Nebbiolo, but it was beautiful and expressive for whites,’ Giovanni Gaja says.

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What’s the relationship between vineyard and forest? Does one need the other? I’m not thinking of plant communities and root-system interactions – but chainsaws biting 100-year-old trunks to create tuns, barriques, staves and chips. Where are we with wine and oak?

Raw new wine can be exciting (hence the heurige or ‘this year’ traditions of drinking milky-looking, heady new wine in Austria and Germany in autumn), but it’s more often violent, chaotic and indigestible. Most wine needs time to calm down and ‘grow up’ (as implied by the French term élevage). Where do you put it for the duration?

Sealing it in a tank is not a good idea: it needs aeration to avoid the stinkiness normally described in wine circles as ‘reduction’.

Leaving it in a half-empty vessel is no wiser: it will quickly gobble up too much oxygen and fall flat, turn acetic, or both. Clean, topped-up barrels are the classical solution, allowing discreet air-exchange without oxidative or acetic spoilage. Small, young barrels bring more flavour and oxygen-exchange than large, old tuns.

Our century began with lashings of oak. Some winemakers gave their wines ‘200% new oak’ (a new barrel to begin with, then another new barrel halfway through the ageing process); new oak was de rigueur for any ambitious wine. ‘Barrel select’, ‘vieilli en fûts de chêne’ and other local-language equivalents littered labels and helped sell bottles.

Then… disenchantment set in. Isn’t wine meant to be about terroir? Terroir is the taste of a place; oak is a winery artefact. Since 2000, oak has been in retreat, and ageing in steel, concrete, glass or fired-clay containers of various sorts, shapes and sizes has been ascendant. The avant-garde today would chortle at 200% new oak: naff or what? They prefer quiet clay.

Wait, though: this question is a deliciously complex one. I dislike ‘oakiness’. But I’ve come to realise that I also relish it. Here’s how...

I distinguish barrel fermentation from barrel ageing. Barrel fermentation is almost always a white-wine technique; it’s laborious and expensive, so is generally used for ambitious white wines from high-quality grapes.

When successful, this (for me) is the best reason to fell centenarian oaks, since it’s a three-way, multi-layered relationship (wine, yeast and wood), with complex interactions between each of the agents both during the fermentative process and afterwards. It brings richness and texture more than oak flavour; indeed its flavour legacy is more likely to be oatflake-creamy than oaky.

This truly serves terroir for certain white-wine styles – it’s impossible to imagine (for example) great white Burgundy or Sauternes attaining optimum dimensionality in any other way.

None of this is true for barrel-ageing alone. Put a new white into a new oak barrel and the wine quickly becomes ‘oaky’ – in contrast to the result if it’s been fermented in that barrel and left on its lees.

High-quality reds from certain grape varieties or locations do, by contrast, profit from small-barrel ageing after fermentation. In terms of concentration and texture, they can both take it and profit from it. The glory of a grand aged Bordeaux is derived in part from oak – but in maturity you shouldn’t spot it; the oak will have been digested by the wine.

Oak, though, becomes a liability whenever this is not true. If a red wine is oaky in youth yet still shows oakily at point of drinking, it’s a flop. Few drinkers nowadays want the homogeneity of permanent extraneous oak.

Many of the red wines that were routinely barrel-aged 20 years ago, we now realise, don’t need small or young oak at all, notably those from warm-climate zones, or from varieties such as Grenache, Mourvèdre, Nebbiolo or Sangiovese.

This change in taste is a genuine 21st-century wine revolution; even so, many ambitious reds remain defaced rather than ennobled by oak. The revolution has some way to run.

In my glass this month

Johannes Hasselbach’s Gunderloch, Roter Schiefer Riesling Trocken 2024 comes from the less well-sited parts of the great Roter Hang vineyard, but still has the gorgeous burnt tang that this red slate site seems to impart, as well as the texture and flavour resonance of a wine at twice its price.

It’s kept well away from oak barriques, of course, as almost all Riesling wines are – with all the benefits that that implies for purity, clarity and limpidity of flavour.

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Exploring books on sake: literary escapism

It seems as though almost everyone I know is going on holiday to Japan – and I’m filled with envy.

I drool over their pictures of ramen and yakitori, ogle the backstreets of Tokyo and gape at the landscapes spied on their high-speed train journeys.

While I wait for someone to whisk me away (invitations are welcome, please and thank you), I’ve been making do with literary escapism – dipping a toe into the sake waters, looking for the best books about Japan’s national drink.

The Story of Dassai: The Art of Sake

Anthony Rose (who wrote the Classic Wine Library’s Sake and the Wines of Japan; £35 Académie du Vin Library, 2024) has recently published The Story of Dassai: The Art of Sake (£40 First Press Editions, October 2025).

While this is a producer-funded publication, and therefore has a certain PR angle, there’s an interesting story within, covering how the relatively modern brewer shifted its focus to quality and became one of Japan’s leading names.

Kanpai: The History of Sake

Last year, too, Eric C Rath published Kanpai: The History of Sake (£17.99 Reaktion Books) – the first history of the drink to make its way into English (kanpai equates to ‘cheers’).

Academic and a little heavygoing in places, this compact publication is nevertheless fascinating, tracing sake’s evolution over two millennia and its place in Japanese history – from why it was once made almost exclusively by women to how medieval samurai had their own version of ‘splitting the G’ (ensuring that the line between the head of a freshly poured Guinness and the beer beneath bisects the word Guinness on the pint glass after your first sip).

Sake: The Art and Craft of Japan’s National Drink

For the ultimate guide to sake, however, look no further than Yoshiko UenoMüller’s Sake: The Art and Craft of Japan’s National Drink (£50 Prestel, 2024).

It swept up awards on release (taking home a James Beard and Fortnum & Mason’s Debut Drink Book 2025, to name two) and it’s easy to see why. It’s stunning – beautifully designed, the text given space to breathe, with gorgeous photography (mostly from Markus Bassler) and serious paper with a mix of finishes that all combine to make it very coffee-table-esque.

This is much more than just a pretty book, however, with thoughtful, precise and evocative writing from Ueno-Müller.

It’s broken down into three main sections: Origins (covering a brief cultural history of sake, raw materials and production), The Country and the People (a look at the places and people that define sake culture today), and A Feast for All the Senses (a tasting and drinking guide, including pairing advice – how to appreciate and enjoy sake).

She brings life to the topic with profiles of real people – brewers, mainly, but also a rice farmer and barrel-maker, for example – in among all the reference material.

It left me desperate to go and buy a whole host of bottles – and maybe book those flights myself. Kanpai, indeed.

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Château d'Anglès: Embracing regenerative viticulture

Château d’Anglès sits on the northeastern flank of the Massif de la Clape, a rugged, sparsely populated limestone outcrop that rises above the glistening cobalt waters of the Mediterranean on Languedoc’s western coast.

The estate was bought in 2002 by Eric Fabre, ex-technical director of Château Lafite Rothschild, on the hunt for suitable Mourvèdre terroir. With Bandol (on Provence’s Côte d’Azur) too expensive, he found La Clape and its Mediterranean soul, and made the voyage from Médoc to Languedoc.

His son Vianney took over in 2017, converting to organics then biodynamics and now regenerative viticulture.

When I visited back in 2023, I was struck not only by the wines’ clarity and saline imprint – not to mention their affordability – but also Vianney’s excitement and acute observations around soil health.

What interests him isn’t dogma but results. ‘I don’t think the vine cares very much about the moon and the stars,’ he says. Instead, it’s visible soil regeneration and the impact on the wines themselves that push him forward.

‘Grapes reach maturity, both alcoholic and phenolic, earlier, at a lower degree of alcohol,’ he says. ‘We’ve seen that at 13.5%, Syrah is ripe, while before it was at 14.5% or maybe more.’

Recognition and support

I was delighted to hear that Château d’Anglès was one of the winners of The Wine Society’s inaugural 2024 Climate and Nature Programme.

The UK member-owned merchant launched the scheme to award financial support directly to its producers each year, ‘insetting’ funding directly into its supply chain rather than offsetting equivalent funds in external carbon removal schemes. In the first year, £64,000 was distributed between 11 producers worldwide.

Curious to see how meaningful that investment could be on the ground, I checked in with Vianney and Dom de Ville, the Society’s director of sustainability and social impact, to understand how the funding had been used.

Investment such as this makes particular sense in La Clape, a highly protected area that’s classified as a natural heritage site, a regional natural park and a European Union Natura 2000 site.

Vineyard plots are stitched into hollows and vales, wedged into crevices beneath rocky cliff faces, skirting dense pine forests and patches of scrubby garrigue.

It’s an improbably wild enclave, considering its close proximity to the city of Narbonne to the west, and wide sandy beaches and well-trodden tourist trails to the east.

'This thoughtful, practical work, backed by the right support, feeds directly into the glass'

One of the cornerstones of regenerative agriculture is avoiding ‘opening’ the soil through tilling, which disrupts soil structure and delicate underground networks of microorganisms.

The cost of equipment can be a significant barrier to the adoption of regenerative practices, so most of the funding that Château d’Anglès received was put towards a no-till direct seeder – a machine that’s used to sow multi-seed cover crops without opening the soil.

Vianney reports that this has been a great success across the domaine’s 43ha.

He also says that one of the best parts of this process has been working with a community workshop called L’Atelier Paysan to build a homemade roller to flatten the cover crops during early summer, which helps to protect soils against the increasingly high temperatures, retain soil moisture and reduce erosion.

The funding has also allowed the estate to plant more than 500 trees and shrubs (towards a target of 950 over three years), and install 80 beehives in spring, and for Vianney to attend an extensive agroecology course.

This thoughtful, practical work, backed by the right kind of support, feeds directly into the glass, making for better, fresher, more compelling wines.

It’s a brilliant example of how retailers can use their influence intelligently, showing how small projects can make a big impact.

Sip to make a difference

With its wafts of sea spray and citrus, Château d’Anglès, Classique Blanc 2024 (94pts, £11.50 The Wine Society) has the hallmarks of an excellent organic La Clape white made with a hefty dollop of Bourboulenc, a grape thought to originate in Vaucluse, Provence. It’s as crystalline and clear as the salty waters lapping at its feet, balancing the crunch of an underripe pêche de vigne with a briny tang and lots of texture. There’s a hint of honeysuckle and lemon-pith amaro on the finish. Amazing pleasure to value ratio.

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As I sit down to write the first column of 2026, I’ve realised that I never really addressed its title: ‘The ethical drinker’. What does ‘ethical drinking’ actually mean? Does it relate more to the act of drinking alcohol, or to the product itself?

There isn’t really a straight answer to this, as it’s probably a bit of both: an awareness of the way we consume, a curiosity about the wines we choose, their provenance and their wider impact, and acting on this curiosity and awareness in our buying behaviours.

As I reflected on the topics covered over the last year – from labour standards, bees and biochar to the importance of community, the health of the oceans and packaging – I found myself revisiting the wines and people that made me stop and think; wines that challenged assumptions about flavour, or of farming standards; people who prompted me to widen the lens beyond my enjoyment of what’s in the glass.

That is what this column is all about. So here I’m highlighting three bottles – and the experiences that went with them – that made me think, question or act.

Maxime Magnon, La Bégou Corbières Blanc, Languedoc, France 2019 | 98pts

£44.40-£45.25 (2022) Parched, Roberson

France’s largest wildfire in more than 70 years rampaged through the Corbières region in early August 2025, burning more than 17,000ha of land a few weeks before harvest. Residents lost homes, one person lost their life, and many growers suffered catastrophic vineyard losses.

I opened this bottle of Maxime Magnon’s white Corbières in solidarity with those affected. Despite the sombre motivation, the wine was beautiful: fragrant with beeswax and almond oil, linden flowers and honeysuckle, its texture like fine lace, carried by a keen saline bolt through the finish. Drink: 2025-2030. Alcohol: 12.5%

Charlie Herring Wines, Promised Land Riesling, Hampshire, England 2022 | 95pts

£40 The Solent Cellar

I finally managed to visit Tim Phillips at his tiny garage winery in Lymington in southern England, on the one day of the year that he opens his doors. A deeply thoughtful and curious man, Tim treats each vintage – indeed each week – as a precious opportunity to learn, grow and tweak.

Just 4km from the coast, amid orchards, woodland and vegetable gardens, he tends a tiny walled vineyard of Riesling, Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc. This wine was a real revelation, one that feels like a beautiful tribute to its balanced ecosystem, carrying aromas of lime zest, rye bread, quince paste and crushed rock, and a long, textured finish. It’s quietly compelling and will take many years to unfurl. Drink: 2025-2035. Alc: 11%

Domaine Lissner, Gewurztraminer Grand Cru Altenberg de Wolxheim, Alsace, France 2023 | 95pts

See: lissner.fr

Spending a day with Bruno Schloegel of Domaine Lissner in Wolxheim, Alsace, was eye-opening. His approach (a Masanobu Fukuoka-inspired, ‘do-nothing’ style of farming) is unlike anything I’ve encountered. One way to describe it is simply ‘wild’. But that does a disservice to the intricate interplay of animal, vine, earth, mycorrhizae and, of course, human intention.

It was March, and the vines’ spindly cordons were still unpruned. Some trunks were so covered in ivy that the bark was no longer visible; some vines were trained up fruit trees. Countless plant species thrive under the vines and between the rows, hinting at the vast biodiversity below ground. Bruno readily admits that yields are low – reduced by competition among the plants and losses to disease in some years – but eliminating chemical inputs and a reduced need for labour makes it economically viable.

We picked wild leeks from between the rows, which Bruno later used on the tarte flambée he cooked us for lunch. This Gewurztraminer was electric. Spicy, immediate and precise, with orange blossom, mango and grapefruit-tinged acidity. Drink: 2025-2035. Alc: 13.5%.

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I’m curious. Imagine we’re going to have dinner together: aperitif, white wine with the starter, red wine with the second course and a glass of Port (young, vintage) to finish. As I serve the first course, I mention that tonight’s white is from Bordeaux. What’s your reaction? He’s gone for a cheap option? Maybe. It’ll be a soundly made fresh white without much personality? Perhaps. Wow: an intriguing terroir choice! Doubtful. He’s found an exciting alternative to white Burgundy? Improbable.

That’s Bordeaux’s white problem. We’re hazy about it, we struggle to find benchmarks, it lacks precise origin and few nowadays see it as essential to the gastronomic toolkit. Prediction: this will change. And fact: you could have answered ‘yes’ to all of the deductions above. All.

The backdrop? Our world is heating: we want more chilled white wine. According to OIV figures, white wine accounted for 45.6% of global production between 2000 and 2004; that had risen to 49.3% between 2017 and 2021.

In Bordeaux, white wine helps proprietors escape from a marketing prison of haughty grandeur that fails to engage younger drinkers and leaves sommeliers bored and frustrated. White wine allows proprietors to be creative and intriguing; they can surprise and re-engage with consumers. Margaux second growth Château Durfort-Vivens’ beautifully labelled Blanc de Noir is an example: it’s made from Cabernet Franc and Muscadelle, and almost exclusively aged in amphora.

Bordeaux can produce outstanding white wine. Simple blends of Sauvignon and Semillon with a little Muscadelle fragrance can offer compelling satisfaction and drinkability for their price while, at the top of the ladder, the sensual allure of grand Bordeaux whites can be sublime.

The success of dry white wine is already changing the dire economics of Sauternes: Château Guiraud now devotes half its vineyards to dry white, while Château Suduiraut expects to be two-thirds dry white by 2030. Suduiraut’s dry 2020 Vieilles Vignes (see right) sells for about £40-£50 in the UK at the time of writing; to find a white Burgundy of equivalent quality, you’d need to pay at least three times that price.

The arrival, in August 2025, of a Médoc Blanc appellation marks the moment. It covers the eight Médoc APs (Haut-Médoc, Médoc, Listrac-Médoc, Moulis, Margaux, St-Julien, St-Estèphe and Pauillac) and the rules have been written with more varietal flexibility than the French norm, though three months’ wood ageing for 30% of the blend is mysteriously required.

St-Emilion and its satellites are planning their own appellation extensions for white wines, too. Will it help? Remember that the dry whites of Château d’Yquem (named Y, or ‘Ygrec’ in French) and its Sauternes peers, as well as of Château Margaux (Pavillon Blanc) and Château Mouton Rothschild (Aile d’Argent) all go to market under the plain ‘Bordeaux Blanc’ appellation. This has creative advantages, as does Vin de France (used by Châteaux Palmer and Kirwan for their whites). But it also has consumer disadvantages – notably our inability to tell whether or not the wine in the bottle comes from grapes grown on the stated property, an issue the pan-Médoc Blanc AP won’t solve.

The resurgence of Bordeaux white should, of course, benefit Pessac-Léognan above all. Why ‘should’? The fact that some proprietors here took against Semillon over the last two decades and switched to making Sauvignon-dominated or pure Sauvignon whites was, in my view, a mistake.

The grandeur of white Bordeaux is grounded on a blend of Semillon and Sauvignon: the former for flesh, the latter for brightness, pungency and zest. Take away the flesh, and the wine can be too firm and linear. Plantings take time to resolve, so this situation plays into Sauternes properties’ hands at present. They’re the ones sitting on most of the Semillon – and they have great terroir stories to tell.

In my glass this month

One of my wines of the year for 2025, the Château Suduiraut, Vieilles Vignes Grand Vin Blanc Sec 2020 (AP Bordeaux) is not only a seductive blend (56% Semillon and 44% Sauvignon Blanc, from vines with an average age of 45 years) but also embodies the teasing, creamy richness of a wholly successful oaked white wine. Our family loved its honeyed aromatic allure; its weight and balance; and its seamless leafysmoky complexities. Brilliant with food. You’ll go on sipping once the plates are clean, too.

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Tasmania is Australia’s smallest state, a coven of those who seek change from the mainland cities, or a cadence away from the mainstream. There is that rare species, too, that was simply born there.

The bucolic undulations of Tasmania’s north, from the Tamar to Pipers River, are juxtaposed against the salt-bitten ruggedness of the east coast and the drier Derwent and Coal river valleys, where consistency of crop and proximity to the state capital Hobart account for a concentration of wineries.

Further south, sunlight jitters between gum leaves, vineyards and the road’s next bend, revealing silver bays-cum-cobalt tributaries in which fishing boats nestle in the Huon valley.

The Apple Isle has long been secure in its moorings as a spectacular place to grow grapes, traditionally those for sparkling wine and still Pinot Noir. Looking at Tasmania’s landscape today, it’s fascinating to ponder the veracity of empirical barometers such as sunlight hours and latitude – solid, sensible and traditional dictates for planting the likes of Riesling, now increasingly being pulled up or grafted over to more commercially viable options, despite superb examples from the likes of Stargazer and Pooley. Sauvignon Blanc, too, is going the way of the dodo.

Today, Chardonnay makes up just over 26% of Tasmania’s total plantings, while Meunier plantings are growing. These varieties are mostly used for fizz, the state’s most popular wine style, but also for still wines, reflecting global trends favouring whites and friskier reds. Of this lighter idiom, but far from the madding crowd of commercial obviousness, is Stoney Rise, Trousseau 2024. Energetic and eclectic, this delicious wine exhibits notes of distilled cherry, bound by a mandala of sinuous tannins, attesting to Tasmania’s capacity for diversity.

When established trains of thought are challenged, we ask whether there is something else; whether there are alternatives to the status quo. Climate change is shattering preconceptions with a velocity that can make established norms feel anachronistic, forcing us to be open to discovery, or to cling doggedly to that sinking ship of hyperbolic scores, rich wines and Boomer affectations.

Factors including soil structure and geology help determine quality vineyard sites and appropriate plantings, yet alignments once benign are increasingly malignant, as shade and elevation find favour in the quest to obviate heat and UV intensity in warmer regions, while peripatetic weather patterns in Tasmania are sublimated to a search for warmer, protected pockets to ripen grapes. What was once a bane is often a virtue as the environment’s variable nature challenges the vinous establishment.

A recent tasting of still Tasmanian wines did just that. While Pinot Noir was the inevitable focus, attendees expressed unsolicited support for Syrah. The irrefutable quality of many wines suggests that this later-ripening variety represents an exciting new frontier as the climate warms. Yet official figures indicate little statistical enthusiasm. Syrah plantings remain stagnant overall, nudging just under 2% of the state’s total. No wonder, since earlier renditions (then called Shiraz) largely bring recollections of ungenerous wines marked by the bitter astringency of an ill-suited climate.

Misguidedly, certain producers sought to emulate headier South Australian bottlings via extraction and oak. But today, a raft of midweight wines dabbed with lilac, tapenade, blue fruits and smoked meat touch on the cracked-pepper vibrato of the northern Rhône, tempered by Aussie generosity.

Impressive examples come from Stefano Lubiana and hughes & hughes, and a ferrous, almost sinewy expression from Grey Sands, parrying with a svelte, fine-boned one from Marion’s Vineyard. Syrah makes sense, perhaps, if Tasmania is understood through a logic of specific sites that combat coldness, rather than the holistic Pinot-centric narrative of the establishment.

In my glass this month

Claudio Radenti of Freycinet Vineyard crafts fine Syrah. His overall parlance is cool climate, yet he focuses on ‘north- to east- facing warmer slopes, sheltered from winds’. The 2017 Shiraz (yes, that word) has now aged impressively, while the younger-vine Louis Syrah 2021 is electric, taut and redolent of souk spices.

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The last decade has seen an explosion in wine’s ‘other’ side – other grapes, regions, countries, styles – and a tearing up of the vinous rule book. But now, we in the trade are seeing a shift back towards the known, the familiar and, ultimately, the comforting, as people seek out recognisable grape varieties and appellations once again.

When I joined the wine trade in 2012, I did so on the foundations of WSET textbook learning and the pillars of Old World regions and grape varieties. Unbeknown to me, international wine culture and, indeed, my own understanding of wine were on the cusp of a profound change.

Sauvignon Blanc, Nebbiolo and Riesling were going to start rubbing shoulders with Blaufränkisch, Listán Negro and Terret; wine lists would begin to boast myriad new countries; and styles such as orange, pét-nat and the red-white blended blouge were to become more common. Every season seemed to bring some new, dazzling iteration of what wine was capable of.

Jo Radford, wine buyer for Michelin one-star Timberyard in Edinburgh, and I met almost 10 years ago – two sommeliers immersed in this new-wave scene – at a party thrown by natural wine importer Tutto Wines. Jo recalled that time as ‘a push into this more feral, wild, experimentative world’, but noted: ‘Everyone grew up – us, the restaurant, the scene, the winemakers. Naturally, our tastes began to change.’

As the generation now governing wine lists and buying strategies, is this latest shift in part our fault? Perhaps we’re feeling more responsible to the guests we serve and the money they spend. When a glass of wine can typically cost £10 plus service charge, there’s real, justifiable sensitivity to what’s poured. And when prices are so punchy, yet you have no idea what will turn up in the glass, the constant gamble can begin to feel exhausting.

The ‘scene’ feels like it’s being rightly forced to mature. While recent years have opened our minds and taste buds to wine’s incredible diversity, they also opened the floodgates to mediocre wine dressed up as something natural or alternative. Of course, mediocrity isn’t unique to this corner of the wine world. But in this new wave we’re beginning to ride, quality and artisanship have become the new cornerstones.

Justé Karbauskaité, wine director for Morchella and Perilla restaurants in London, argues that the ever-rising cost of wine has seen quality, consistency and recognisability becoming the key factors for guests, as well as buyers themselves. Jo says it has become a joy to ‘dig deep into traditional appellations, exploring the best that these regions can do and the depths the different grape varieties can express, while staying within the boundaries’, all the while appreciating that ‘in regions like this, there is comfort and a clear association of quality and money well spent’.

Across the board, my peers agree that consumers are more knowledgeable and comfortable discussing wine and engaging in the details behind the label. Oliver Fletcher, head sommelier of Climat in Manchester, said that people are more curious about the nitty gritty of the winemakers and their vineyards, ‘because these things all give colour and authenticity to their experience drinking the wine’.

As we turn back to well-trodden paths, I believe it will happen with a renewed demand for excellence and transparency. Our best-loved regions will no longer be able to rest on their laurels. Our swing into the world of natural and alternative wine will leave in its wake a consciousness around sustainable farming, indigenous grape varieties and artisanship that will continue well into the future.

In my glass this month

Many wine professionals have a love-hate relationship with Sauvignon Blanc – which has fallen prey to mass production and perceptions of being a little passé. Yet some producers are revitalising and reimagining it in classic regions. Alexandre Bain in Pouilly-Fumé pushes the variety’s limits. His 2018 L d’Ange Vin de France cuvée (£47 Berry Bros & Rudd), grown on limestone and aged four years before bottling, brings a wine filled with lime, spice and a salty backbone. Seductive and surprising.

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We live in strange times. How appropriate, then, that the weirdest development ever to affect the wine world is now its hottest trend. Namely, NoLo (no- and low-alcohol wines).

Definitions of these terms remain fluid; neither the EU nor the UK has yet fixed its terminology, while the USA defines ‘non-alcoholic wine’ as being under 0.5% alcohol by volume and ‘alcohol-free wine’ as being under 0.05% abv. Low-alcohol wine has a wide spread of definitions; best to check the abv on the label rather than relying on generic descriptors.

But the trend is scorching. At a time of widely reported declining global sales of wine, sales of no-alcohol wines have been forecast to grow by 7% annually through to 2028, and by 10.4% by 2034. Sales have already risen by 88% between 2021 and 2024.

Why weird? Simple. If you’re used to the taste of wine, these drinks are profoundly disappointing. They taste shallow and empty. Any fresh fruit juice or smoothie blend is richer in flavour and texture, more exciting to drink, more nutritious and generally much cheaper. Mineral water is as beautifully packaged and more refreshing; it often sparkles, too.

Fine tea from China, Japan and India is more complex and satisfying, and accompanies food well (see Fiona Beckett’s feature in Decanter magazine’s January 2026 issue) – at whatever temperature you wish.

Energy drinks and soft drinks offer a parallel universe, from classics such as Coke, 7 Up and Irn-Bru to whacky and ephemeral fantasy creations. There is no need to drink NoLo wine.

Should these products even be called ‘wine’? No. The dictionary definition of wine (Merriam-Webster in this instance, but all agree) is ‘the alcoholic fermented juice of fresh grapes used as a beverage’. Wine is alcoholic. No alcohol: no fermentative complexity. NoLo alternatives are soft drinks based on denatured wine as an ingredient. I’m not, though, going to win this nomenclature argument. Here’s why.

The wine world, under siege at present, desperately needs this sales outlet for its grapes. NoLo may help keep wine producers solvent while they wait for better times – or prepare an orderly exit, if declining wine consumption is a permanent trend.

A more important reason, though, takes us back to weirdness: the disappointing flavour doesn’t matter. Abstaining drinkers still want the wine experience. They want the culture, the history, the complexity and the sophistication of wine. They want something that looks like wine, poured from a weighty and portentous container. They want something with the chic and allure of wine. When they pour the drink into a ‘wine glass’, they want to dream of the aroma and flavour complexity of wine. They want something not too sweet to match food. They want the wine ritual; they may even want to spend extravagantly, just like real drinkers do for real wine.

The trend is surfing upmarket. Château Sigalas Rabaud, a Sauternes premier cru classé, will launch a NoLo version later this year; others will follow. These drinks will cling on to the ‘wine’ name like a climber on a cliff edge, abetted by the wine world at large.

Yes, quality will improve. I had a chance to taste and judge 26 NoLo contenders over the summer; some are much better than others. A sparkle helps fill up the empty middle; so does a little sugar. Tannin can be a problem; acidity often lacks juiciness; but perfume brings interest, and some subtle oak flavour can help.

Among the widely distributed producers in the tasting who succeed in denaturing wine to make soft drinks of modest palatability are Carl Jung, Weingut St Antony, Becksteiner Winzer, Chavin, Levin, Oddbird, La Gioiosa, Torres Natureo and JP Chenet.

I don’t always drink alcohol – and enjoy the ‘time off’. Forget soft drinks prepared with denatured wine; I relish steaming sencha tea, a freshly made citron pressé, an orange juice from Pret or a glass of Vichy Catalan or Ste Yorre water. They all refresh. They all have a middle.

In my glass this month

A sumptuous winter white for those whose January (like mine) remains undry: the La Pèira Blanc, Pays d’Herault 2022 (£82.80 Corney & Barrow) offers powdery honey-and-mimosa scents. It’s rich and structured: vinous, vivacious and commanding. The almondy flavours are sustained. Its core is based on Roussanne, Marsanne and Viognier, but Grenache and Clairette sometimes tiptoe into the blend, too. Close harmonies from this sub-Larzac Languedoc.

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As wildfires have battered the wine industry in recent years, follow-up reports have largely focused on the damage. But perhaps we’ve missed the larger point. What if the real question isn’t how fires threaten wine, but whether wine regions could shield the rest of us from wildfires?

Consider Napa’s recent transformation from victim to warrior. After the devastating fires of 2017 and 2020, Napa Firewise CEO Joseph Nordlinger and his team identified two barriers to resilience that plague fire-prone regions: fragmented efforts and simple complacency. In response, the team built a shared-services hub for Napa County, coordinating equipment, planning and funding ‘so we don’t have 23 Fire Safe Councils competing with one another for grant funds’, explains Nordlinger.

Napa Firewise next developed a countywide network of ‘enhanced resilience sites’ – strategically located properties where advancing flame fronts tend to break. Mapped, catalogued and funded from pooled resources, the sites eliminate the costly, time-consuming scouting and set-up typically required after a fire starts.

Now, Cal Fire’s live incident-command system can immediately dispatch crews to these staging sites, with their essential access roads and water sources. Response times have dropped from hours to minutes, saving not just vineyards, but entire communities. During the August 2025 Pickett Fire, firefighters used Napa Firewise enhanced resilience site data to deploy promptly and contain the blaze.

Wine regions are uniquely suited to this approach. Growers already manage large, contiguous areas that are wild yet accessible via vineyard roads. They already coordinate across property lines, whether for water, disease prevention or ecosystem management. And they already think in generational terms.

They also have a far-reaching incentive to stay ahead of fire risk. On the US west coast, wildfires often strike during harvest, when grape skins are thinnest and most vulnerable. Even far, far away from a burn zone, ripe grapes can absorb acrid smoke compounds, making for undrinkable wines that worsen with age.

Here in Oregon, energy utility company PacifiCorp recently paid a $125 million settlement to wineries for smoke-taint losses from Oregon’s 2020 Labor Day fires.

Wine-growers also have a secret weapon in the war against wildfire: vine rows. ‘Vineyards provide a good firebreak,’ affirms Oregon climatologist and vintner Greg Jones. Well spaced, high in moisture and low in fuel, vineyards – especially irrigated ones – can slow or even stop the flames’ advance.

Sadly, this was illustrated in the reverse in August this year, when conflagrations swept across the Aude region in southern France. The disaster was aggravated by the recent removal of fire buffer zones in the form of some 5,000ha of wine grapevine plantings, incentivised by subsidies provided by the French Ministry of Agriculture.

So, what now? Searching for answers, I recently called the co-founder of a UC Berkeley-founded lab developing an AI-driven wildfire-prediction model, called Interlinked, that forecasts ignition risk with remarkable precision in real time, à la the ‘pre-crime unit’ of the 2002 film Minority Report.

But the more I learned, the less relevant predictive technology seemed to be for vineyards. Annual-crop farmers can replant tomatoes or move livestock if warned of an encroaching fire. Wine-growers, whose vines stay in the ground for decades, can’t just rip up and relocate every time the wind changes and an AI model raises an alarm.

Rather, they must be smarter, more strategic, more vigilant. And increasingly, they are. Napa County, for one, is proving that wine regions are not just vulnerable landscapes. They are also filled with people of radical practicality.

In my glass this month

Twice lately, I’ve returned to Portland, Oregon restaurant L’Echelle for Champagne Mouzon Leroux’s L’Incandescent (£55-£70 Lay & Wheeler, Parched, Sip Wines), a Pinot Noir-driven, silex (flint) soil-powered extra brut from biodynamic grower Sébastien Mouzon in the grand cru village of Verzy. Fourteen hours of maceration make for a saignée rosé that’s a gorgeous ruby colour, with berry, spice and mineral notes that match the heartiest winter fare.

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Taste is as personal as it is poetic. It’s mired in nostalgia; lived experience. For me, certain salty Sicilian whites taste like Rockaway Beach, while Roussillon muscats recall an old perfume of my grandmother’s.

I know of one Champagne that tastes like turning 30, and another, like East Coast oyster shells. For you, however, the same bottle may conjure a wedding, a funeral, or buttered toast. Either way, the association stands.

With that in mind – amidst our requisite end-of-year round-ups, our ’best of’ lists and our trend reports – I thought it wise to consider the prevailing flavours of 2025.

In the great wide world of associative, sensory bliss, was this year rife with milestone celebratory bubbles? With minerality and rocky encounters? With instances of residual sweetness? Mouse and cork taint?

On my end, one bottle in particular comes to mind: 2025, for me, tastes like Château de Béru, Montserre Chablis from 2022 – the very vineyard where I worked my first harvest…in none other than 2022. It’s memorable for its pointed, loud acidity and its lush roundness – though difficult to mistake for the richer, more traditional Chardonnays grown in the surrounding area. I hadn’t tasted this particular vintage until late October – when it was poured at the release party for my first book (quite a number of entrenched firsts).

More conceptually speaking, this is a wine that never tastes quite like I think it will. There’s a consistent element of surprise in the tartness and brightness. It demands attention; an unwillingness to rest on the laurels of predictability.

And to that end, no piece of 2025 felt precisely as I imagined it would, either: Not the book, not the new apartment, not the dear friend I lost to a bike accident mere weeks after we’d returned from working in vines together in the South of France. Not the plane trips, or the family dinners, or the messy, late-night conversations. Not the devastating news reports, the sweltering August heat, the relentless December snowstorms.

In the spirit of lyricism, then – and in homage to the specificity of taste we’ve asked other wine professionals to weigh in on what, precisely, 2025 tasted like for them… be it rich and warming, racing and intense, dark and brooding, or something else altogether.

What better way to compress a full year’s worth of glory and turmoil into something as digestible as a glass of wine?

For Joe Hirsch, wine importer at Terrestrial Wines, it feels like we’ve gone back in time a little:

‘Much like the world at large, this year, the wine world took a turn towards the traditional, the more rigid, the bolder, and — depending on where you stand — it lurched towards regression. People have begun to question natural wine, progressive approaches, and general risk-taking. 2025 tasted a bit bigger, a bit bolder, less three-dimensional, and perhaps a bit less free and optimistic than in years past. Vin Noé Pommard ‘Rêve Américain’ 2023 comes to mind. A wine from a traditional region, but made by one of the most envelope-pushing winemakers out there, who still has immense respect for the land he works on. Here’s to the tide turning back once again in 2026!’

Nikita Malhotra, the wine director at Smithereens, sees it as a year of simple pleasures:

‘2025 was a year of enjoying the simple act of drinking a glass of wine rather than lusting over a unicorn bottle. It was as if I was going back to the basics, revisiting regions and styles I hadn’t tasted or cared for in years. I enjoyed glasses of Riesling at Smithereens that tasted like home. On visits to the Chinatown, wine bar Lei, I tasted Chinese wine that floored me. 2025 was my year of not being trendy — and Clos du Rouge, Gorge Côtes Catalanes Jeunes Vignes 2024 was the most representative bottle I drank.’

Keara Driscoll, wine director at acclaimed Brooklyn restaurant Bridges, sees 2025 as a uniquely life-changing experience:

‘My bottle of the year was Mas Candí, ‘Montombra’ Blanco 2019. It’s Xarel·lo and Malvasia from a single parcel of rehabilitated vines on the slopes of a mountain in the Massís del Garraf, in western Penedès. I bought this wine as an inexperienced buyer when the bottling was first released in 2021. It needed time; I didn’t understand it.

‘It was one of the first wines I drank after having my son, and it was singing: suede-like texture, lightly aromatic, saline but not sharp. Parenthood so far has been: dizzying, heady, marvellous, and with the constant feeling that all things will be revealed as you need to know them. This bottle was a reminder: it’s a good thing to admit what you don’t know and what you’re not ready for, and in that experience, true joy is most often found.’

Haden Riles, sommelier at the Upper East Side’s Sushi Noz :

‘I have to split the year into two. Not, like, one half and then the other – these currents run parallel. Julie Balagny’s Minouche, Fleurie Beaujolais tastes like unfiltered sincerity to me. Poised between pluck and flirtation. Like those moments where you recall or relive the easy highs of your youth. It’s something like the temptation and the flush of a first kiss.

‘On the other hand, Rosewood’s Neptune Riesling, Niagara VQA, is something I tried for the first time more recently, and it transformed my understanding of what Riesling is capable of, just as many other experiences this year challenged my perceptions. It’s like Walter Scott meets Coche meets Portuguese Arinto meets saline salt-water taffy meets golden-hued orchards arrayed from east to west and blessed by both the sun and the sea. It is aggressive and refined. Bold. Unyielding yet sensual. Embodied. Plush. So many things at once.’

Daniel de la Nuez, founder of Brooklyn’s Forthave Spirits, is pretty definitive about 2025:

‘A Gamay because God is dead.’

Sammi Schachter, wine director at Manhattan’s Nudibranch:

‘This year tasted like Manzanilla sherry: Salty and nutty, reminiscent of another time and place, adaptable to wherever we are now. Specifically, Buelan Mirador, Manzanilla’

Sophie Stettler-Eno, server at Washington, DC’s Reveler’s Hour:

‘The city of DC has become much more conservative in many ways in 2025. We’re still pouring fun freaky stuff at Reveler’s Hour, but the list has many more recognisable gaps at the moment. It seems like everyone is drinking more trad bottles these days, myself included. So Domaine Verdier Logel, La Volcanique, Côtes Du Forez 2023 was my bottle of the year, so delicious, fantastic, and very Gamay-y.’

Mariano Garay, server at Manhattan’s Cove:

‘This year felt like a mix of Riesling, Nebbiolo, and Champagne to me. The year started with a lot of drive and mineral focus (Riesling). As the year progressed, the idea of excitement, change, and energy started to arise (Champagne), but through and through, this year has always had a feeling of confidence and strong footing (Nebbiolo). In particular, I’ve been thinking about Vollenweider Goldgrube Kabinett 2021, an Emmanuel Brochet Champagne, and the Elio Sandri Barolo Riserva Perno Vigna Disa 2018.

Travelling chef Henry Elliman sees a silver lining in it all:

‘2025 tasted like a natural sparkling white wine. Active, alive, slightly unpredictable. Bubbles feel like the start of something, and I like that sense of hope, possibility and joy. After quitting my corporate job to travel, cook, and host dinner parties, I made a winter stew and instinctively reached for a sparkling white to flavour it. The funky bubbles added a light effervescence to the beef cheeks, and the whole thing felt reminiscent of this year’s optimism and experimentation. The bottle was Julien Altaber’s L’Écume Vin Mousseux, Extra Brut, Pinot Noir Aligoté Blend.

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Everyone knows her as Bepa, though Josipa Marinov is her name: white hair, scrawny, nimble, energetic. Bent double to prune then, a moment later, straightening and standing upright, her hand shading her eyes from the sun.

She called out to us, waving her secateurs. It was a sunny Saturday last June, mid-morning and hot already; she was out trimming the family’s red Babić vines with her sons. In her 80s… but looking and sounding 20 years younger.

She’d spotted us coming up the path; I was with Croatia’s leading wine writer Saša Špiranec and Leo Gracin, the professor of oenology at Split University. We’d just visited the fishing village of Primošten, with its waving tamarisk trees and white sand; Leo has his own vinarija cellar door there. Now we’d come down the coast; some of Leo’s own vines were close by.

While they chatted, Bepa’s laughter ringing in the air, I wandered towards the cobalt Adriatic inlet next to the vineyards and looked back. Garments aside, this same Saturday morning scene could have unfolded at any time over the last millennium.

Another scene, a few days earlier, on the island of Korčula: this vineyard, too, lay open to the sea, close to the village of Lumbarda; the vines (white Grk this time) grew in similar limestones. Frano Bire stood next to his €25,000 drone – waist-high on the ground, bulky as a condor – and I took a photo. Then we stood back while his son flew it. It lifted 20 metres, turned elegantly, then moved off to spray its 50-litre payload over the family vines, well clear of human lungs.

When I’d last visited Croatia in 2019, the Istrian wine-grower Gianfranco Kozlović had lamented Croatia’s ‘lost century’ to me, describing how three wars had swallowed the efforts of four generations. Indeed; but the country is catching up fast. What matters in wine-growing are the timeless gestures: work, care, observation, taste. All the progress we’ve made – the drones, the sorting machines, the gravity wineries – are only there to help us make those gestures more effectively.

Long time, geologists’ time, is the gift that has created our planet’s ever-changing landscapes and skies. Wine’s joy is difference; these are its ultimate source. A second gift, one that has evolved over human or millennial time, is genetic: grape varieties, our tools for revealing and perfecting difference. Dalmatia, Europe’s most intricate archipelago, has been lavished with both.

Its jigsaw of islands and peninsulas, of aspects and soils, of winds and waves is why both white and red varieties flourish equally here. The ‘black island’ of Korčula, so called because its native holm oaks looked sombre to passing ships, not only has the sinewy, sappy Grk (Frano Bire’s are benchmarks) but is home to the softer, scented white Pošip, Croatia’s biggest hit.

The island of Hvar has its own white specialities – the zesty Bogdanuša and fragrant Prč – while the third, more far-flung island of Vis makes apricotty whites from Vugava. Maraština is lighter and more delicate, found up and down the coast.

The reds are no less diverse. Babić is the juiciest and, according to Leo Gracin, it needs tough, stony soils of the sort that he and the Marinov family work; Lasina is silky and light. Tribidrag (the original Zinfandel) is lushly fruity, though more structured here than in California.

An island variety I loved was the densely textured Dobričić. It hails from tiny Šolta, though the example which so impressed me was grown in the mainland vineyard of Vlačine, just above the town of Kaštela, north of Split. It was crafted by Jakša Bedalov: dense and powerful, sumptuous yet concentrated.

The grandee is Plavac Mali, the offspring of Tribidrag and Dobričić. It’s grown throughout Dalmatia, but at its finest in the two astonishing vineyard zones of Postup and Dingač. These giant slopes face the Adriatic on the island-like peninsula of Pelješac, looking across to Korčula; they produce outsize, brooding winter reds. All are better known to tourists than on export markets as yet, but give them time. If you love difference, it’s here. Just waiting.

In my glass this month

The vast solar amphitheatre of Dingač is a ‘roasted slope’ if ever I saw one: getting its bulk and force into drinkable form is not easy. The Saints Hills, Ernest Tolj Dingač 2021 met the challenge: lithe freshness to its aromas; lifted, pure fruit; and an overall sense of grace and gentleness despite its compelling amplitude and power. It’s made from selected Plavac Mali fruit from the best spots on the big hill, in the finest years only. A winter wine to spend time with.

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Unfortunately, you do need to think a tiny bit about the people you’re gifting to. Do they know anything about wine? Do they only like certain types of wine? Are they a recovering alcoholic?

Luckily, you can rule out certain bottles right away. Even though people make this mistake all the time, don’t gift a mass-market luxury wine. It’s a commodity, so everyone knows its price.

A bottle of Veuve Clicquot in that yellow box might as well be a $60 Amazon gift card. It says: ‘Thanks to my kid’s teacher, whose name I don’t remember.’ Unlike the Amazon gift card, however, it will never be used; it will be regifted eternally. A friend once received a bottle of Veuve Clicquot with a happy anniversary card attached, and she had never been married.

The more the person knows about wine, the more obscure your gift needs to be. It should make the receiver think, ‘Oh, I didn’t even know this existed’.

I like to go with a Chateau Musar from Lebanon, which allows me to express both sympathy for the country’s wars and knowledge about them. And since it’s one of the world’s oldest winemaking regions, I also get to talk about the history of wine. And that, truly, is the gift I’m giving.

A confusing label is an even better demonstration of your sophistication. German Riesling is obviously perfect for this – perhaps a Mosel-Saar-Ruwer Trockenbeerenauslese Qualitätswein mit Prädikat.

But I’d be excited to watch a friend unwrap a bottle of Txomín Etxaniz Getariako Txakolina from Spain’s Basque Country. Make sure you learn how to pronounce each word on the label so you can say it very slowly and loudly to him or her.

Ideally, you’d like the giftee to keep this bottle for years, so they occasionally run across it and think, ‘That was a really thoughtful gift from our generous, sophisticated, emotionally intelligent, environmentalist friend.’

So avoid anything people enjoy, such as a Sauvignon Blanc or a Beaujolais, because they’ll drink it right away. Sure, a Burgundy or Bordeaux could age for decades, but why not think really long term? When will they open a Sauternes or a Port? If they know a lot about wine, try a Barolo and maybe a joke in the card about how their great- grandchildren will enjoy that Giacomo Fenocchio.

The real challenge is that most giftees won’t know or care much about wine. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t gift them wine; remember, this isn’t about them.

What you need to do is stop thinking about what kind of wine to get them and instead focus on how much wine to get them. You give someone a three-litre bottle – or better yet, a six-litre bottle – and they’re going to be impressed. I got a textured-glass jeroboam of Bellussi Prosecco at Costco for $40. The person I’m gifting it to is never going to invite 12 people to her house for brunch, so she’s going to be thinking about me until she dies.

For someone you actually care about, you can go to an online auction and bid on a bottle from their birth year. You don’t want to do this if they’re too old, not because they’ll be sensitive to people seeing ‘1971’ on their bottle, but because bottles that old are expensive. But off-vintage Rioja and even old Port can be reasonable.

If, for some reason, none of these ideas seem right, you might have to actually think about the specific person you’re giving it to.

Do you remember them boring you about some trip they took? If so, get them a bottle from that part of the world. It will allow them to relive their experience. Unfortunately, it will also allow them to go on and on about the wine they had there, which ruins the whole reason for giving someone wine, which is to let you show off.

But if you can force yourself to pay attention, one day you’ll be able to bore someone else with the information they give you. It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Like that Veuve Clicquot.

In my glass this month

When my mom went with me to visit Babak Shokrian in his funky, Persian-rug-strewn, vinyl-record-spinning shack of a tasting room at his beautiful vineyard in Santa Barbara County, on her first sip of his delicious Grenache rosé, she looked at him and exclaimed: ‘I don’t like this.’

It was like living the movie Sideways. But even she was wowed by everything else he makes. His Shokrian Vineyard, Syrah 2019 (US$48) is meditative but fresh, and just as cool as his artist-painted labels.

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A toast to the happy couple

Tina Gellie

Weyborne Estate general manager Ben Abric shared a charming analogy for the difference between the still-maturing 2022 vintage of the West Sussex sparkling estate’s Oriana cuvée and the Oriana Golden Spur, the early release of the same wine.

‘The Golden Spur is your daughter celebrating her engagement. And then in a few months she will celebrate her wedding!’

With low stock of the inaugural 2018 and awarded Oriana 2019 (Silver at DWWA 2025; £46.99 Hay Wines), and no wines released in 2020 and 2021, Abric admitted there was pressure to get a new wine to market.

‘But in tastings we realised Oriana 2022 was at a point of its lees ageing – a fresh, bright point – where we thought it offered something different.’ So some was bottled as Golden Spur in July 2023 and given a 4g/L (extra brut) dosage after disgorgement in August this year.

Golden Spur stays true to the estate’s signature oxidative style, with first fermentation in open tank and 3% in barrel, followed by full malolactic fermentation in barrel. While more time on lees (and lower dosage, says Abric) will give the eventual Oriana 2022 greater opulence, depth and texture, Golden Spur (£45-£48 Farr Vintners, Hawkins Bros, Weyborne Estate, Wine & Earth) shows a soft, youthful side to flavours of grilled lemon, crab apple and apricot blossom.

Five generations of modern tradition

Ines Salpico

A fascinating masterclass in Lisbon, in late October, took attendees on an epic journey through the long history of storied Douro winery Alves de Sousa.

Led by father and son Domingos and Tiago Alves de Sousa, the lineup included wines going back to 1995. Tiago – who has long established his own reputation as a winemaker and academic – joined the family venture in 2002, and has since taken over technical direction and export management.

Rather than allowing his father to retire, this has built a fruitful intergenerational platform that has eased in gentle stylistic innovation while remaining fiercely deferential to tradition. The result of this dialogue between past and future – founded on a shared curiosity for the (sometimes overlooked) viticultural heritage of the Douro – was on show as the pair talked the audience through canonic labels and more recent additions to the Alves de Sousa portfolio.

In the latter camp are the delicious Rosa Celeste, a Tinto Cão-based oak-aged rosé, and the characterful Memórias (£159.99/magnum Delicias UK), a multi-vintage blend of the best plots and years across each decade – signs of the timeless modernity that Alves de Sousa expresses by remaining unassumingly true to itself.

Vermentino discovery at Vinitaly USA

Clive Pursehouse

Decanter is a media partner with Vinitaly USA, and this October I joined the team in Chicago to host a panel on Italy’s next generation. I was enthralled by one of the wines – a late-harvest botrytised Vermentino di Gallura that is fully dry.

‘We can’t make this every year,’ Rafaelle Gregu of Tenute Gregu explained. Called Pitraia, it comes from a small vineyard in northern Sardinia surrounded by a forest of cork trees and flanked on either side by a river. It’s harvested fully botrytised, then spends 18 months on lees with weekly batonnage.

The 2024 Pitraia Vermentino di Gallura Superiore DOCG has soaring notes of mint and pine sap. It carries an undeniable Mediterranean seaside character of salt and stone, with juicy citrus and stone fruits, and a beguiling texture. It’s unlike any wine I’ve ever tasted. 

Dynamic duo

James Button

Two Italian wineries at the top of their game visited the Decanter offices in September. Altesino from Montalcino was the first to introduce a Montosoli cru bottling, with its inaugural 1972 vintage released in 1975.

Montosoli is a cool hill to the north of the town, where a handful of producers farm about 30 hectares of vines.

The current vintage of Altesino’s Montosoli Brunello di Montalcino, 2020 (£105-£115 Noble Grape, London End Wines, Vinvm), is full of succulent blood orange and ferrous notes, lifted yet with depth. A new Rosso di Montalcino from the hill is due to be released next year, too.

Marchesi di Barolo is a historic winery in the town of Barolo. While Barolo is of course a focus, the estate also makes some delicious wines from the likes of Barbera and Arneis. The Sarmassa Barolo 2019 (£82.80 Millésima) stood out for me, however, with its earthy dried oregano and balsamic herb qualities. Its fine structure, minty acidity and floral finish reflect the elevated, steep, rocky site perfectly.

Graceful Australian Grenache

Julie Sheppard

I first tasted Mark Bulman’s wines at London’s Next Generation Grenache tasting in April – and was immediately blown away.

Bulman was the first person ever to win the Jimmy Watson Memorial Trophy for a Grenache, putting the variety on Australia’s vinous map, back in 2017 when he was working for Turkey Flat.

Now focusing on his own project, he works with just two vineyards in Eden Valley and McLaren Vale’s Blewitt Springs. Both wines are made in exactly the same way, avoiding oxygen throughout the entire process, allowing differences in terroir to sing loud and clear.

‘Grenache is such a good medium to show site. It seems to be a variety that doesn’t have much of an ego by itself, so it’s happy to transform into the site,’ he explained as we tasted the inaugural Bulman vintages at Decanter HQ.

Named after grower Gary Whaite, Gary’s Vineyard 2023 (96pts, £50.60 The Sourcing Table) is made from vines planted in 2007 in Blewitt Spings. It’s detailed and dancing, with Negroni-like herbal aromatics and an intricate palate of crystalline red fruit with Nebbiolo-like tannins.

Glen’s Vineyard 2023 (96pts, £50.60 The Sourcing Table) is named for Glen Monaghan, custodian of a vineyard first planted in 1857 in Eden Valley, and has a more savoury edge, with slatey minerality chasing lifted purple-hued fruit, sprinkled with white pepper spice. What a debut! 

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Terroir as a concept originated in the Middle Ages, when describing a wine as having ‘the goût de terroir’ was often disparaging: literally, the taste of dirt. Appropriate, then, that terroir today has become as common as muck.

Yet as late as the 20th century, it was of little interest to wine writers. George Saintsbury’s Notes on a Cellar-Book (published 1920) doesn’t mention it. In Alexis Lichine’s Wines of France (1951) there’s an index entry for terrine de lapin but not for terroir; André Simon didn’t think it worth including in his otherwise comprehensive glossary to The Noble Grapes and the Great Wines of France (1957).

That’s because the widespread appearance of the word occurs only after the 1976 Judgement of Paris comparative tasting, when California triumphed over Bordeaux. The adoption of the word terroir in wine writing is – ironically enough – a consequence of wine experts’ failure to recognise it under blind conditions.

Far from being a profound philosophy of place, terroir was little more than a rearguard action by the French against the fallout from the world’s most infamous blind tasting. Yet it met with astonishing success. In the ensuing decades, terroir transformed dirt to doctrine thanks to France’s vinous prestige, despite scepticism from elsewhere.

As a word, terroir has evolved, and in its broadest contemporary meaning as a sense of place – encompassing culture, food, history and, crucially, typicity – it does have value. Yet, although terroir is largely justified by these ideas of identity and distinctiveness, today it’s mostly used as a fancy synonym for vineyard or soil, as evidenced by the increasing use of the plural, terroirs.

This creates a dilemma, because although history, culture and identity are increasingly important in a globalised world, the idea of single-site expression, soil composition, water retention and potassium content are not, and never have been, interesting for the vast majority of even serious wine lovers.

Cru-led expression may motivate winemakers and a minority of drinkers, but does it engage the typical Decanter reader, for example, or does it bore them with complex classifications that challenge even top wine professionals? Does terroir even register when you drink a bottle with dinner rather than tasting a lineup in a masterclass? Is it significant that a soil is millions of years old, or that a region was once under the sea? How many people walk into a shop asking for wines grown on alluvial marls?

In any case, for every great wine that is terroir-driven, such as a single-site Riesling with an indelible character that transcends vintage, there are others that aren’t, such as colheita Port, a wine defined by blending, ageing and careful craft. Expressing terroir isn’t a requirement of good or even great wine. Nor do we reflect enough on whether the assumptions of terroir prejudice us against quality wines from emerging regions or exceptional wines that don’t prioritise notions of terroir.

Defining terroir is, admittedly, like trying to nail schist to a wall. In some ways, it’s a definitionless word, capable of meaning everything and nothing at once, yet words are ultimately defined by usage. In its grandest, numinous sense, terroir does help to embody all that we don’t know about wine. But today it’s far more likely to be used as the basis for aggrandising every dull detail that we do know, ensuring that we see the trees, but not the wood.

As consumption falls and engagement wanes, we must question whether terroir is really why people drink wine, and whether it’s the best way to talk about the drink we love. At its worst, terroir obsesses about soil when we need to reveal soul. After all, the greatest wines are about far more than just dirt.

In my glass this month

Pieter Walser’s Blankbottle, Smaug the Magnificent 2022 (£29.95-£32.50 Butlers Wine Cellar, Swig) embodies the creative spirit of new-wave South African wine. The label is based on a childhood drawing by his son, Luca, not on the vineyards or the varieties used.

A scintillating, ageworthy white blend from Voor-Paardeberg fruit, its technical details stay behind the scenes. As Walser says: ‘The most courageous act in life is still to think for yourself.’ Curious drinkers can scan a QR code.

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Droughts, heat spikes, hailstorms, wildfires: the catastrophic effects of climate change on the world’s vineyards are evident.

There is some talk of ‘solutions’ and more of mitigation, but the truth is that hundreds of billions of tonnes of fossil carbon is now squatting in our atmosphere that wasn’t there in the pre-phylloxera era. And it’s stuck. Nature’s removal of carbon from the atmosphere is considerably slower than the rate at which we’re adding it.

The atmosphere, remember, is the critical part of terroir. Soils and landforms are typically stable over brief geological periods of a few thousand years. Extreme climate change, by contrast, may render our greatest vineyards unusable in two human lifetimes. All of our wine places, consequently, are changing. Wine’s pleasure map is blurring.

Most (67.3%) of our planet’s land lies in the northern hemisphere – so it will both suffer most and benefit most from climate change. Southern Europe is now climate-anguished and even classic, mid-latitude fine-wine regions such as Bordeaux, Burgundy, Piedmont and Tuscany are threatened.

In contrast to much of the southern hemisphere, though, where wine regions are already clustering around the southernmost land extremities (Patagonia excepted), the northern hemisphere has higher-latitude sites aplenty. England’s transition from Quixotic outsider to bright, new, cool-climate star, a transition that the magnificent 2025 vintage will hasten further, is a stark example.

Everywhere, though, is changing. In most cases this is gradual – so gradual we might not notice. Here’s an example of that ‘quiet change’. Twenty years ago, Germany was struggling to make balanced Rieslings in trocken (dry) style. Job now done. Today’s Germany is becoming a ‘Pinot paradise’ – or so the Germans are claiming.

The figures are impressive. According to German Wine Institute figures, Pinot varieties accounted for 17% of Germany’s vineyards at the turn of the millennium; by 2024, it had reached 31%. Plantings of white Pinot family varieties (Pinot Gris, Pinot Blanc, Chardonnay and Auxerrois) increased by an astonishing 199% over the same period. Pinot Noir is increasing, too – by 24% between 2000 and 2024; it’s now Germany’s most widely planted Pinot variety (11,437ha in 2024). Most Pinot plantings are in the southernmost regions of Baden and southern Pfalz, but no region is without a Pinot presence.

During a brief stay in Frankfurt in early August, I visited one of the new Pinot specialists – Braunewell in the Selztal in northern Rheinhessen, based in the village of Essenheim. Pinot varieties are well established on the rolling hills and limey marl soils of the village’s main vineyard sites (Teufelspfad, Blume and Klopp). Stefan Braunewell’s grandfather, he says, ‘was a big fan of Pinot Gris and planted it in 1971 and 1974 – they’re the oldest vineyards we have’.

Nowadays, though, Stefan feels that the star is Chardonnay, ‘though no one is waiting for German Chardonnay – or rather they don’t know they are waiting for it’. That’s the challenge for the quiet changes wrought by warming: the market needs time to catch up.

As well as tasting the Braunewell family’s wines (a 2020 Chardonnay from the am Römerberg plateau site was vinous, intense, long, dramatic and pure; while the 2023 Pinot Gris from Teufelspfad was delicate, rounded and tender), I also had the chance to try eye-opening Chardonnays from Friedrich Becker and Jülg in the Pfalz, and opulent Pinot Gris (Grauburgunder) from Salwey’s Grosses Gewächs site of Oberrotweiler Eichberg in Baden’s Kaisterstuhl.

Most impressive of all, since this is a Pinot family member rarely taken seriously elsewhere, was the structured and sinewy Juliusspital Grosses Gewächs Pinot Blanc (Weissburgunder) from Volkacher Karthäuser in Franken and the leaner, tauter, more fragrant Berghaupten Schützenberg version from Freiherr von und zu Franckenstein in Baden.

Germany, clearly, is no longer quite what you or I thought it was. Don’t miss out.

In my glass this month

The stars of the Pinotfication of Germany are the country’s top red-wine producers – such as Baden’s Julian Huber of Bernhard Huber. His Malterdinger Alte Reben Spätburgunder 2017 (US$129 Wine Watch) was a revelation: aromas of mellow Pinot Noir classicism at mid-maturity; the layered, finely crafted flavours are perfectly pitched between unforced fruit sweetness and a harmonious, fruit-saturated acidity. The oaking is also more skilful than it was during Germany’s debut Pinot Noir years.

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Restaurants, in all their totality, are a form of improbable magic. In the best of cases, they’re the antidote to real life: dimly lit rooms buoyed by the current of disparate conversations, removed from the noise of the outside world, where sensory pleasure is delivered on silver platters, glasses are never emptied, and someone else handles washing the dishes.

Needless to say, the escapist grandeur of that dining experience is the sum of many parts. Yes, at the forefront, there’s the food – but there’s also the decor, the lighting, the music, the staff, the pacing, the glassware, and of course, the wine programme.

So why, then, does the latter feel so curiously absent from restaurant reviews?

The quintessential ‘restaurant review’ carries a great deal of power. Amidst our current cast of media-fluent, keyed-in consumers, it dictates a sizeable number of dining decisions – and as such, in an extraordinarily competitive (and oversaturated) restaurant scene, reviews can indeed make or break a venue.

That said, for all the immense influence these critics wield, they seem curiously allergic to the matter of wine.

In the recent raving review of Smithereens in The New York Times, the unique (off-dry-Riesling-forward) wine programme was entirely absent save for one line – and in a similarly timed review of Le Veau D’Or, the wine director’s name was misprinted (a local legend for his curatorial acumen).

While reviewing Manuela, a LA Weekly critic mentions ordering wine, but doesn’t specify what kind.

Drinks writer Alex Delany puts the problem simply: ‘Reviewing only select parts of a restaurant is a disservice to the reader and the diner. It would be like reviewing ¾ of a movie.’

‘Excellent wine programmes are not transferable’

Listen, I’m well aware that not all diners drink – but not all diners eat red meat either, and you’d be hard pressed to find a critic who won’t order the steak. And of course, wine is not made in-house like perhaps the bread service (you can purchase the very same bottle at a variety of restaurants) – but the art of the wine list is not craftsmanship, it’s curation.

And a well-wrought wine list is no small feat. It requires cross-regional and cross-vintage knowledge, as well as consistent updating. It requires breadth and versatility to suit a number of different palates. It requires foresight – an understanding of what to cellar, what to open, what to print on the list, what to pour by the glass. It requires an eye for bottles that offer value… without egregious price tags. And most of all, it requires a keen attunement to pairings.

Excellent wine programmes are not transferable – they’re entirely tailored to the food (and the rooms) they serve.

‘Beverage programmes are often there to make food taste better… sometimes without people even realising it,’ says Yana Volfson, who’s created award-winning wine programmes across Enrique Olvera’s restaurants in NYC and Los Angeles (Cosme, Atla, Damian).

‘We’re like a secret weapon: we come in, slide a wine glass in front of you and splash you with something that makes you smile – and the next thing you know, your palate is layered and blanketed with another nuance of flavour meant to contrast or align with a bite you’ve just had, or one you’re about to have.’

Volfson is right: While beverage programmes have plenty of standalone items to offer, in the grand scheme of a restaurant ecosystem, they’re particularly impressive when they’re so well incorporated, they simply exist to elevate everything else you’re consuming (whether or not you notice). They’re supporting actors, humbly forfeiting the spotlight while bolstering the star of the show (the food).

An ‘endlessly intimidating’ industry

Of course, it’s worth mentioning that I am a wine journalist by trade. Much to the (rightful) chagrin of my dining companions, I can spend far more time than feels appropriate poring over a wine list or enquiring after the sommelier’s points of interest. This is not the case for all diners.

‘I actually don’t feel like I need to know anything about a wine list ahead of time. I’ll ask someone else to choose for me based on what I’m ordering, either way,’ a friend told me when I asked whether or not she, too, felt the lack of beverage focus in restaurant reviews.

‘I don’t need to know anything crazy in depth,’ another friend reported. ‘But I do wanna know if I should be ordering wine instead of cocktails, or if the somm is cool and interesting, or if there’s some scheme or process behind the list. I find it a little strange that somms and beverage directors are never interviewed in any of the reviews the way chefs are.’

Amidst a handful of individuals polled, the reviews were mixed – which is to say, plenty of folks did not feel slighted by a lack of beverage discourse.

Per Eric Asimov, the wine critic at The New York Times, the same general poll holds true: ‘How a critic treats a wine list depends both on the restaurant and the format of the publication… when wine is crucial to the character of a restaurant, I would like to see a few sentences in the text of the review. For a general interest audience, I don’t think you need more than that.’

And according to Volfson, beverage is not always absent – she’s been properly commended for her beverage programmes in reviews more than once in the past, noting that former critics like Sam Sifton and Frank Bruni often paid close attention to what was available to drink.

As Asimov points out, there are restaurants for which the wine or the beverage programme is indeed a far smaller consideration than the food. Their lists are afterthoughts in the grand scheme of the dining experience in question, and thus it goes without saying that their corresponding chefly pursuits deserve greater review real estate.

Then again, the opposite case is just as likely. ‘When we opened Torrisi, it received a glowing three-star review from Pete Wells,’ says Bradley Nugent, who helms wine programmes across all Major Food Group properties. ‘The amount of time and energy I put into that wine programme and our bar manager puts into that cocktail programme was insane… and it was completely glazed over.’

As he explains it, Rich Torrisi, the man responsible for the venue’s food, is enormously talented – and he deserved every bit of the praise that appeared in The New York Times. But why not make space for beverage in addition?

‘In today’s age, it feels like skilled beverage experts are few and far between. Most places don’t even have somms anymore,’ he continues. ‘But if you’re a critic and you sit down in a restaurant that’s taken the time, energy and capital to hire a somm or beverage director, shouldn’t you notice that? Shouldn’t that experience factor into your review?’

It’s also worth noting that wine is plenty gatekept.

It’s an industry that’s endlessly intimidating to enter. Rife with niche scientific knowledge, difficult pronunciations, and a rolodex of grape varieties, regions, and producers that ought to be kept in mind, it can feel utterly impenetrable.

In fact, most committed wine professionals won’t even achieve mastery, so how can we expect our restaurant critics to do so as well?

‘It takes a lot of experience to be able to read a wine list and immediately identify what makes it artful or intentional,’ Matt Ross, a wine rep for Jenny & François Selections, told me. ‘And few writers and critics are expert enough to risk having a strong take.’

It’s a hard line to walk and even among snubbed beverage directors, no one is suggesting that culinary programs get less airtime – or that they’re not deserving of all the superlative praise they receive.

It’s just that, somewhere in there, especially when the restaurant in question has funnelled determined care into its beverage programme, a little praise (or even critique!) is welcome. Sure, that might mean taking risks or admitting ignorance. It might mean seeking out food critics with intentional wine backgrounds. It might mean sending writers with wine expertise to draft distinct sections of a restaurant’s review alongside a food critic.

At bottom, reviewers are not everyday diners. They’re pseudo-celebrities with power… and I, for one, don’t find it egregious to posit that they ought to know better than the rest of us when it comes to wine and food.

We’re too late in the game to call a beverage director an ‘unsung hero’ in a formal review. It’s about time someone started singing.

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Our still whites haven’t yet quite produced show models to follow; and reds, often struggling to reach full ripeness, are so far generally considered a bit thin.

The best Essex Pinot Noir, notably from the Danbury ridge, which looks south over the valley of the Crouch river, has everything you can hope for – and costs as much as good red Burgundy.

You don’t save money by staying close to home.

I do feel solidarity, though, with the courageous growers who stake so much on challenging history and the English weather. Over the centuries, it has been our (that is British) taste and thirst that has steered the reputations and fortunes of many, perhaps most, European wines.

Meanwhile, if early reports from producers are to be believed, 2025 may be one of our best vintages.

I even managed to persuade the rather sceptical wine committee of my London club to choose an English fizz. (As an aside, why do we insist on using this banal – indeed inelegant – term, where ‘bubbly’ is friendlier, more euphonious and somehow thoroughly English? Also accurate: a steady stream of little bubbles is what we want; not a frothy head.)

We haven’t – at least I haven’t – reached the stage yet where we can say with confidence, ‘Ah, Hampshire,’ or ‘Unmistakably the North Downs, probably east of Wrotham.’ Blends are the general rule – as in Champagne. There’s a spot of Essex in most, I suspect, and maybe even a smidge of Cornwall.

‘Single vineyard’ is often flourished as a talisman of quality; we’ll see how long it takes here.

Why I often choose to drink English rather than Champagne – or any other of the world’s multifarious sparklers – is partly patriotism, wanting to encourage our promising young industry, but largely because I love its racy freshness.

It’s hard to quench your thirst with Champagne; much easier with a tankard (come on, chaps!) of Wessex.

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In a nation with a longstanding reputation for warmth, generosity and, at times, opulence in its wines, Etna emerges as a distinctive entity, offering a wine style that is more incisive, cooler and more structured.

But is DOC Etna in Sicily genuinely leading the way in the shift towards elegance in Italian fine wines? Or is it merely the most appealing manifestation of a more extensive transformation that is already in progress?

Spread around the flanks of the world’s most active stratovolcano, Etna’s vineyard area spans about 1,300ha, spread across 142 contrade – a fragmented landscape characterised by lava flows, elevations and exposures that exhibit a dynamic evolution, mirroring the restless activity of the volcano itself.

To walk among these vineyards evokes a profound sense of the presence of the volcano: colossal, silent, vibrant. The tension present within the landscape appears to imbue the wines themselves with animating spirit. It’s a collage of micro-terroirs interpreted by a generation of winemakers who understand that restraint is a refined value.

White Carricante and red Nerello Mascalese thrive here, yielding wines of linear structure, vivid acidity and aromatic precision.

Yet terroir alone doesn’t make a movement. What strikes me most is how the younger winemakers here have committed to a style that avoids density in favour of truth.

Whether it’s the precision of Federico Graziani, the cerebral transparency of Graci’s wines, or the restrained beauty of Girolamo Russo – all on the volcano’s north slope – there’s a shared philosophy: let the mountain speak, don’t over-extract, keep it lifted. It’s a rejection of both global trends and local stereotypes.

Some experts compare Etna with Burgundy. There’s some truth to this, but also something more: Etna is building an identity all of its own that’s authentic to its place.

Nevertheless, I am reluctant to designate this as a distinctive characteristic of Etna. Today, the concept of elegance is influenced by many factors: climate, markets, aesthetics, recent trends and identity. You see the same refinement playing out in Chianti Classico, for example, where Sangiovese is being harvested for lower alcohol and a slender character, oak influence is being reduced and the fruit allowed to breathe.

In the north, Valpolicella producers are questioning the dominance of ‘wines of method’ such as Amarone in favour of fresher, delicate expressions of Corvina-based blends; even in Barolo, the obsession with structure is giving way to nuance.

What we’re seeing is less a revolution from below, more an industry-wide recalibration.

Is Etna the leader in this, or simply the most emblematic case? I’d argue it’s both. It leads in the clarity with which it expresses this new Italian elegance – lean, mineral, energetic – but follows in the sense that other regions began to shed their excesses earlier.

The distinguishing characteristic of Etna is the purity of the signal. Here, elegance does not require artificial manipulation; it manifests organically, emanating from the ground.

Pursuing the thought further, what is behind the present exaltation of elegance in Italian wine? Is it a reaction to the super-cuvées of the 1990s and 2000s: wines inflated by oak, extraction and critics’ points? Perhaps climate change is forcing a rethink of ripeness. Or is it indicative of a more profound cultural shift and an emergent consumer demand?

After decades of asserting power on the world stage through its wines, Italy may be learning that its true strength lies in distinctiveness not dominance.

Etna’s role in this is crucial. It gives us a vocabulary of elegance that is southern, volcanic and deeply rooted.

This approach has the potential to transform the discourse surrounding the concept of finesse in Italian wine, challenging conventional notions of its association with specific regions or climates. In that sense, Etna is not just on the edge geographically – it’s on the edge of a new Italian wine identity.

In my glass this month

Firmly rooted in Etna’s sense of place, Maugeri’s sophisticated Contrada Volpare Rosato 2024 is a testament to restrained volcanic elegance. Made from Nerello Mascalese, it offers a fragrant bouquet of wild strawberry and thyme, a touch of toast from judicious use of oak, and a mineral, smoky note. The palate has a lively yet poised quality, with vibrant acidity, mid-palate weight, linear tension and layered structure, with a long citrus-zest finish.

Cristina Mercuri is founder and CEO of Mercuri Wine Club, which provides trade consultancy and WSET education and training at all levels in Italy

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Wine has been aged in many unusual places before: under the sea, in caves and in disused mine shafts. But as far as anyone knows, it has never been matured on the top of a mountain.

The potential effects of the low temperatures and the rarified atmosphere at extreme altitudes on the ageing process of wine intrigued oenologist Danilo Drocco, who set out to look for an answer.

Notes on wines from Valtellina aged on a mount top below

Drocco is the director and winemaker at Nino Negri in the mountainous Valtellina valley. Founded in 1897, Nino Negri is the leading producer here, with an annual production of around 700,000 bottles sourced from 35 hectares of estate vineyards, as well as from 200 small-scale growers.

Valtellina lies in the north of Lombardy, at the foot of the Rhaetian Alps and on the border with Switzerland. Its vineyards stretch for around 50km on the south-facing flank of a valley which runs east to west on either side of the provincial capital of Sandrio.

Tiny plots, supported by a staggering 2,500km of dry stone walls, creep up the valley side to almost 800 metres above sea level with gradients of up to 85%. It’s a spectacular landscape, and a unique viticultural environment.

In Valtellina, Nebbiolo is known locally as Chiavennasca.

In the area’s unique growing conditions, the variety makes lighter wines than in the famous vineyards of the Langhe, with more delicate tannins, firm acidity, and the refined aromas that only the long hours of sunlight, extreme temperature excursions, and the long, slow ripening of mountain wines can produce.

The mountain project

Drocco wanted to test the possibility of further characterising the mountain origins of these wines by adding the extra dimension of ageing at very high altitude.

He chose the two highest accessible sites in the valley; the Cima Bianca, at 3,000 metres above sea level at Bormio, and the Cima La Salin above Livigno. Both are iconic ski destinations, with mountain chalets where the wines could conveniently be cellared.

Drocco selected two wines with special significance for the company, both from the excellent 2016 vintage. The single-vineyard Valtellina Superiore Valgella Vigna Fracia comes from a plot purchased by founder, Nino Negri, in 1897 as part of the original estate.

It is vinified in the most classic of styles: temperature controlled fermentation and pumping over of the cap, with around 15 days of maceration and ageing in traditional Slavonian oak barrels.

The Valtellina Superiore Sfursat Carlo Negri on the other hand, is named after the son of the founder, who was responsible for the modern development of the company. Sfursat represents the long Valtellina tradition of producing full-bodied, long-ageing wines from partially dried grapes, in a style similar to Amarone.

In July 2022, 1,200 magnums of each label were taken from the company cellars in Chiuro to the chalets in Bormio and Livigno, where they stayed until the summer of 2025. As a control, 300 of each were aged for the full period in the Negri cellars.

Drocco was looking for the answers to two questions. Firstly, do the wines aged at high altitude taste and smell significantly different to those from the underground cellars of the winery? And secondly, if there is a difference in the taste profile, what is it?

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The results… so far

I tasted the wines with Drocco last month and the answer to the first question is a resounding yes – the wines taste very different. One is not necessarily superior to the other, but they do appear to show a different state of evolution.

The Vigna Fracia from the cellars in Chiuro was a classic pale Nebbiolo shade with a transparent rim. The nose was mid-intensity but broad and expressive, with dark berries, sweet spices (perhaps aniseed?) some laurel and subtle notes of sweet leather; all very attractive.

The palate was rather dry, perhaps a little austere, long on the finish with a distinctive note of white pepper. A very classic Valtellina.

The Vigna Fracia from 3,000m was a much brighter, darker ruby shade, and on the nose it had a very fresh, precise fruit and floral character. There was less breadth and nuance but more intensity.

The palate had a great attack and a very dynamic progression, with lovely integration of the tannins and a fresh, almost crunchy finish of wild berries. A wine with bags of juice and energy.

The Sfursat from the company cellars had a refined nose with the classic aromas of a partially dried-grape wine: fig and dates, some damp straw, and raisiny fruit.

The palate had a fleshy middle and a warm finish, with dried fruit and dark chocolate – a very typical Sfursat from a great vintage, showing the first signs of maturity but with ample margin for evolution.

Again, the first noticeable difference in the high altitude wine was the intensity of the colour. On the nose, if the cellar version had a pruney character, the mountain version was all fresh plum. The palate had a vibrant entry, enormous volume in the progression, and a finish with tangy acidity, fresh fruit and floral aromatics.

A very powerful, emphatic wine, but one with great balance in which the alcohol (16% abv!) was perfectly integrated. In the case of the Sfursat, the differences between the two samples were even more marked than for the Vigna Fracia.

A final question

The result of the experiment begs a third question. What is the reason for the difference? Is it to do with atmospheric pressure ? At sea level, pressure is calculated as 1.0 atmospheres (atm). At 3,000m above-sea-level it falls to 0.68 atm – a reduction of one-third. 

The amount of oxygen in the air is the same as at sea level, but the reduced pressure means it is less assimilable. Does this slow down oxidation?

The annual temperature range at altitude was 6-12°C. In the cellars in the valley, it was 10-15°C. Could a difference of 3.5°C in the average temperatures over the year explain the difference?

The experiment will now be repeated with different wines, and their evolution monitored by a team from Turin University to try to find answers to these questions.

The project has the potential to open a lot of scientific windows. Whether it will lead to high-altitude ageing on a wider scale remains to be seen but in the meantime, by involving the snowy mountain tops of the Valtellina in the cycle of wine production, Drocco’s intuition has given an added dimension to the meaning of terroir in this beautiful region.

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Think of it this way: amidst a sea of choices, a wine has all but two seconds to convey something essential about its personality, its energy, the rooms in which it ought to be drunk – all by fleeting, exterior means.

And to the untrained eye – or even the well-trained one, perhaps – all the château-de-something insignias on a shelf can start to blur together.

It’s a surface-level judgement by definition, but its roots are less insidious than that.

For producers who can’t rest on the laurels of legacy domain names or premier cru land designations (as well as for buyers without encyclopaedic knowledge of domains and regions), the label is a flawed but necessary mode of storytelling – one that hopefully contains some accurate hint as to what’s in the bottle.

‘The upside is that it invites more people in. It makes wine less intimidating and more collectable,’ says Holly Berrigan, who helms online wine club and marketplace, MYSA.

Of course, at worst, label design is a grasp at gimmicky trends – but at best, it’s an intentional depiction of flavour and terroir, delivered by a different sensory means.

According to Per Lou Amdur of Lou Wine Shop in Los Angeles, any retail venue will carry traditionally labelled ‘heavy hitter, if-you-know-you-know bottles,’ the likes of which will always sell to a certain demographic – but, on the other end of the spectrum, you’ll find ample ‘psychedelic graphics, animals, always animals, cartoon-like labels. Anything that signals, hey, this ain’t yer pappy’s Bordeaux.’

To that end, I’ll be the first to admit, we’ve certainly edged our way into twee territory – curating indistinguishable labels centred around illustrations of small critters and naked women.

In fact, this past summer, Brooklyn wine shop Vanderbilt Ave Wine Merchants distributed a zine titled: How cute animals help us pick wine, outlining the merits and shortcomings of our seeming infatuation with a certain type of label.

‘We could have picked wines with Comic Sans or Papyrus font on the labels and had the same basic discussion, but I think we all have a soft spot for furry creatures and feathered friends,’ it reads, before going on to underscore the conundrum of wines whose labels feel divorced from their contents – as well as the problematic uniformity even amongst ‘avant-garde’ labels.

‘Labels DO matter. Especially in retail,’ says Eben Lillie of Manhattan’s Chambers Street Wines. ‘People will literally say, this wine looks like it’s good, based solely on the label. It’s evoking something for them.’ That said, it works in the other direction, too: A remarkable wine with a label reminiscent of an insurance lawyer’s business card can certainly be overlooked.

Of course, drinking in a bar or a restaurant takes a different tenor – whereby you’re sampling wines and making selections based on pure taste, or by way of helpful discourse with a sommelier or a server. But even now, it’s become increasingly popular for wine bars to display bottles as something of a ‘visual wine list’ – which is to say, there’s no escaping the label lure.

The problem is that winemakers are artists and craftspeople – not graphic designers.

‘Growers are, first and foremost, farmers, spending most of their time with their plants and tractors, whereas wine retailers are merchants, spending most of their time with bottles and customers,’ says Amdur. ‘Personally, I wish I could spend more time with the plants, dirt, and tractors, but that’s not my fate.’

On the one hand, it’s absurd to expect producers to find the time to keep up with trends in mass-market visual appeal. On the other hand, no matter how principled, vignerons want their wine to sell – and presentation is an essential ingredient. Incredible winemaking does not always equate to immunity from the tenets of salesmanship.

Ultimately, the art of the thing demands some sense of intention and specificity – some commitment to honouring the wine itself.

Think: the clean, stylised text and colour scheme on Sylvain Pataille bottles, or the feathered wing on a bottle of Château de Béru Chablis. ‘Curating for an online marketplace, label curation is pretty much required,’ says Berrigan. ‘But for me, it’s not about prettiness. It’s about coherence. Does the label feel aligned with what I know or expect about the producer or region?’

Think of it like a blurb on the back of a book: Your best guess at what the thing will contain and whether or not it will suit you without cracking it open.

As I see it, there’s no obvious, pragmatic solution here. Suggesting a wine is so well-made it need not concern itself with label-culture is less pure than it is detached – but the curation of a well-wrought logo need not require female nudity or small foxes, either… nor should it supersede a devotion to the quality of the wine, itself.

Admittedly, I’m no more immune to superficiality than anyone else. Surely, I’ve missed brilliant articles for terrible headlines, or immaculate meals for gaudy restaurant facades – and in spite of a career spent writing about wine, the same goes for bottles. I imagine this is true of nearly anyone who’s ever stopped into a wine shop en route to a dinner party.

In the end, our best hope for winemakers and their teams is a little more singularity and candour. And for us, as drinkers: a bit more discernment and scepticism. A bit more readiness to be surprised.

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Varietal thinking is treacherous… but it seems to be conceptually necessary for us. How else can we keep the worrisome chaos of the wine world at bay?

Once we start tasting, those familiar friends begin to swap clothes and identities, those landmarks turn up in the wrong places and those gateways open on strange, unexpected vistas. We taste, we drink, we relish. And then we ignore what we’ve just experienced. We go running back to our myths of varietal primacy and segregation – just so that we can keep our heads well organised.

All of this kept tickling me a little earlier this year during the Chenin Blanc International Celebration, held in early July in Angers and Tours, France. There was data aplenty. Fair enough: Chenin Blanc has a genetic definition, so its presence in the world’s winelands can be measured. South Africa has just over half of the world’s plantings (16,200ha in 2023) and France a little more than one third (10,700ha in 2023); the US, Argentina and Australia share the rest.

It’s South Africa’s most planted variety; in France, by contrast, it’s the 14th most planted, the fifth most planted white and the third most important variety in the Loire.

But here’s what matters. Any variety is a suite of possibilities, and those possibilities only take form and come into being when vines are planted in a particular site. It’s the site that will steer your wine experience – in coordination with the craftswoman or -man who shepherds vines through seasons and oversees the radical metamorphosis from grape juice to wine. Those efforts are vital. No efforts; no interest. As the talk and the tastings we shared made abundantly clear, the set of possibilities grouped under ‘Chenin’ can dazzle.

Almost the first word spoken about Chenin, by Anjou grower Patrick Baudouin, was ‘versatility’. ‘Plasticity’ soon followed (from the academics in attendance). South African vine-guardian Rosa Kruger (who cherishes the idea that old vines begin, after 35 years or so, to lose their clonal status and ‘change and reflect the landscape’) calls it ‘the chameleon variety’. Everyone stressed the community of possibilities that Chenin offers. For South African grower Chris Alheit, it’s ‘the very honest grape: it’s going to tell the truth about where it comes from’.

It has been in the Loire for the longest, so it’s no surprise that differences are most marked there. In Anjou it’s deep, sumptuous; in Savennières driving, masterful; in Saumur intense, bright and chiselled; in Chinon (and, soon, Bourgueil) firm, dry, upright; in Vouvray tender and intricate; in Jasnières slender, fragile, quenching.

Then… there’s time. Take it at different points of the season and it will give you a drench of differences, from bitter-hard and raw though springleaf, pear and apple via verbena, hawthorn and meadowsweet to a flush of yellow fruits and finally luscious autumnal extravagance. There’s a slower cellar clock, too. Ten, 20, 50 years pass and the wine deepens in hue and flavoury tone yet retains its sure-footed balance. No Chenin, just Chenins.

South Africa is still working its way towards all this. The scale and bone-structure of Chenin’s Cape expressions are very different from those of the Loire: larger and more chewy, broader in the beam, mingling honey, pollen, stone and softly tropical fruit notes.

What’s so encouraging, though, is that growers there are listening, waiting, asking questions, beginning sincere conversations with their sites, as you can now see from the gratifying range of balances in the wines, and their ever-quieter and ever-subtler weave of analogies.

No more statements or postures; farewell varietal confinement.

Few wines grown in the southern hemisphere have the same ease and spread of articulation, the same sense of unfussy belonging, as these do.

Unvarietal varieties, translators of origin, mothers of difference: of all this we need more.

In my glass this month

Hard to choose just one wine from all those I tasted, but here it is: thunderous and improbable, like an Anjou summer storm. Aromatically prodigious: a hayloft full to bursting, an orchard, a beehive. Rich, thick, vinous, mouthfilling, extravagant, burnished, glycerous and full… though not sweet; fissured, indeed, with acidity. This Pantagruel (a little Gargantua) is Patrick Baudouin’s Clos des Bruandières 2020 from Anjou: wonderful now, wonderful in a decade. Or two.

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I envy my dog. On our woodland walk each morning her nose is low to the ground, all the better for drawing in scents. As the leaves change colour it’s a picturesque landscape, but there’s a better way to get to know this place than simply looking.

I follow the lead of my furry friend and sniff the air.

It’s akin to meditation. I empty my mind and concentrate on every noseful as I walk, breathing deeply, purposefully. Now I recognise the individual scent of each path, copse and clearing.

Smell is the most overlooked of our five senses but it can help ground and steady us. Natural aromas are best, whether fresh – or bottled.

Seasonal rhythms

The changing seasons of the forest mirror the long life of a bottle of wine. In spring, the first aromas to awaken are grass, green leaves and wild garlic. Like a newly bottled Sauvignon Blanc, it’s a time for purity and freshness.

The first fruits of summer bring to mind a two-year-old Cabernet Franc. In June, wild strawberries peek from under their leaves. Then the luminous redcurrants, like strings of spherical beads, popping with tart acidity and green tannins. Shortly after come fragrant raspberries.

Like an eight-year-old Mourvèdre, a horde of blackberries marks the end of summer, deep, dark and soft, staining your fingers like a wine glass at a tasting.

As the fruits begin to fade, the scents of autumn arrive, bringing to mind a glorious decades-old Grenache. The ground is wet again with scents of earth and leaf mulch; conker shells sweet with benevolent decay.

Acorns crack underfoot and polished brown chestnuts sit within green thickets of spines. The mushrooms release their spores.

As the cold of winter comes, the smells of the forest die back. Like an introverted Pinot Noir that refuses to play ball, there’s nothing in the stark air but a memory of wood smoke.

Until the sun warms the dormant ground and spring comes round again.

Daily rhythms

At the end of each day I choose a bottle of wine to open. After a day at a desk spent mostly online it’s time to touch grass. Or smell it, at least.

Sitting at the wooden dinner table, swirling my glass brings me back to earth, back to the here and now. I pause and spend time with the bottle and it gives up its secrets.

It takes more than just a glance; smell is the slowest sense. You need to be patient to release the aromas and welcome them in, to tease them apart in order to read the wine, to discover exactly what it has to say.

After a day’s work we can appreciate the fruits of our labour.

Whether you’re walking in a forest, or sitting with a bottle of wine, the necessarily gentle act of smelling, of breathing deeply, not only brings pleasure but it can help centre us, bringing us back to the moment – whether in company, or alone.

My dog seems to take all this for granted. Sometimes it’s us humans that need to remember to smell the roses.

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This past summer, as the US edged toward authoritarian populism, I travelled to a French semi-autonomous wine region with the thought that a five-decades-past story of resistance might offer solace.

Corsica’s jagged mountain peaks erupt from the sea and its steep hillsides teem with aromatic scrub. The region’s best wines are highly redolent of this maquis: eucalyptus, fennel, fig, juniper, laurel, mint, lavender, myrtle, rosemary, sage, strawflower, thyme.

The Corsican people are famously intrepid, once known for their vendettas – bloody family feuds – and their mastery of the craft of knifemaking. From these people, this land and ancient Roman, Greek and Etruscan roots arose distinctly regional wines.

These wines came under threat during the 1960s and ’70s, when some 17,000 French rapatriés – French colonists fleeing a newly liberated Algeria – arrived on the island and secured government land grants that enabled industrial-scale viticulture, quadrupling vineyard acreage while tarnishing Corsica’s reputation.

In August 1975, a group of Corsican growers and activists, armed with hunting rifles, seized a rapatrié-owned cellar in Aléria. The standoff spurred support for the riacquistu, a Corsican movement to reclaim heritage through language, song… and viticulture.

‘I still remember seeing my father take his rifle to help friends entrenched in a winery during the 1975 clashes,’ recalls Yves Leccia, a wine grower in Poggio d’Oletta who has led the revival of Corsican winemaking and vine varieties. ‘This fight has now been won, but we must continue our efforts to ensure that the lesser-known Corsican grape varieties are also integrated into the appellations.’

Currently, the only traditional Corsican grapes that can bear an AP designation are Vermentinu, Nielluciu and Sciaccarellu. Leccia is one of many vignerons who feel honour-bound to vinify unrecognised endemic varieties such as Minustellu, Biancu Gentile, Codivarta, Riminese and Genovese.

‘I didn’t know that PDOs [protected designations of origin] could rewrite 3,000 years of history,’ scoffs Jean-Charles Abbatucci, a wine grower who – in continuing the work of his father – is credited with saving many of Corsica’s autochthonous grapes, many of which are not officially recognised. ‘The paradox is that the greatest Corsican wines are often classified as Vin de France or Vin de Table.’

At Domaine de Marquiliani in Haute-Corse – not far from where the armed standoff took place – Anne Amalric and her daughter Pauline are working with researchers on a test vineyard and vine library to ensure that Corsica’s heirloom varieties thrive.

Traditional practices accompany the traditional grape varieties. Amalric drapes wool from a neighbour’s sheep over her vines and olive trees to protect against humidity. Abbatucci sprays his vines with seawater in lieu of copper or sulphur. Clos Culombu – like Domaine Comte Abbatucci a biodynamic estate – hosts an event that revolves around the revival of La Tribbiera, the ancient practice of threshing wheat with oxen.

‘I practice what I call “historical agriculture”. Indigenous grape varieties are witnesses to the dawn of time, perfectly adapted to our region, climate and soils,’ Abbatucci tells me. ‘These grape varieties tell a story – that of Corsica and its identity… Producing this wine is a way of preserving memory, but also of building a future. It is an act of resistance against standardisation.’

In the past, I often laughed off the idea of government overreach at home. At the same time, I admired vignerons abroad who championed their traditional methods and grape varieties in the face of oppressive bureaucratic rule. Today, I’m seeing these growers in a new light. If their wine-growing is an act of resistance, I want to join the revolution.

In my glass this month

Domaine Comte Abbatucci, Général de la Révolution 2023 (£69.90 Millésima), a field blend of ancient white varieties with honeyed richness. Clos Culombu, Storia di Signore 2023, scented with wild flowers and tasting of almonds, grapefruit and sea breeze. Domaine de Marquiliani, Le Gris de Pauline 2024, a delicate rosé; fresh and briney – a pink wine I want to drink year round. And Yves Leccia, O Bà! 2020, a spicy blend of old-vine Minustellu, Niellucciu and Grenache – serve chilled and drink with pride.

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As I mentioned in writing about wine’s consumption crisis in January this year, the World Health Organisation considers there is ‘no safe level’ of alcohol ingestion, and that a cancer risk is initiated with every sip of Mouton 1982 or Dom Pérignon 2008. This is now the medical consensus – though there are doctors, like Laura Catena in Argentina, who contest it (see In Defence of Wine).

Worse still, the cherished idea that moderate red-wine drinking has ‘positive health associations’ is now called into question. Red wine may not stave off next year’s heart attack. St Paul, it seems, dispensed flawed advice to Timothy when he advised him to ‘Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake and thine often infirmities.’

What should we do? Panic? Give up? Sell the cellar and sign the pledge?

Please don’t. Just recognise that three sciences are in play here: health science, statistical science and psychological science. They all matter.

Health science suggests that alcohol damages human tissue. Our digestive systems convert ethanol into acetaldehyde, and acetaldehyde will, according to Professor Tim Stockwell of the Canadian Institute for Substance Use Research, ‘literally burn human tissue that it comes into contact with. The body then has to repair itself. If you repeat that over and over again, drink, burn, repair, drink, burn, repair, that will become a failure to replicate… and that’s when tumours can occur.’ Hence the stern advice (though note that acetaldehyde is also found in coffee, vegetables and fruit).

Next, though, embrace statistical science. Sir David Spiegelhalter, Emeritus Professor of Statistics at Cambridge University, is a specialist in medical statistics, and he points out that moderate drinking is ‘very low-risk’. Claiming, he says, that there is no ‘safe’ level ‘does not seem an argument for abstention. There is no safe level for driving, but the government [does] not recommend that people avoid driving. Come to think of it, there is no safe level of living, but nobody would recommend abstention.’ Anxiety about moderate alcohol consumption, he tweets, is a ‘pointless obsession’.

Surprisingly, Professor Stockwell goes further: he says the low risk is a ‘tiny risk’. His demolition of the apparent health benefits of moderate drinking springs from a statistical insight he calls ‘the abstainer bias problem’. Those who drink moderately have better health outcomes than abstainers, not because they are drinking a little red wine every day, but because they are healthier people. Moderate alcohol consumption, Decanter readers should note, ‘is not a cause of good health; it’s a sign of good health’. The older you get, the truer this is. Only the singularly fit and robust, he says, are still moderate drinkers at 80.

‘Nothing in excess’: one of the three famous maxims inscribed on the entrance to the Temple of Apollo in Delphi at least 2,500 years ago. Make it your drinking watchword.

According to the pre-Christian anthologist Strobaeus, though, there were a further 147 inscribed maxims on the temple – and one of them was ‘Flee a pledge’. Psychological science must take a nuanced view of alcohol because of its addictive nature and because the harms involved in immoderate consumption are so conspicuous and costly, but I’ve yet to see any government health agency argue that there is zero psychological benefit to moderate consumption. Pleasure, merriment, social interaction, the intellectual stimulus of sensory analysis and the pursuit of a hobby: practised in moderation, these benefit wellbeing and create happiness. Aesthetic joy, too: good wine is the most complex, beautiful foodstuff we put in our mouths. Is it worth forgoing all that for a ‘tiny risk’?

In my glass this month

Perhaps the wines we need now are those best sipped, not guzzled. Here’s one. Poggio Antico, I Poggi Brunello di Montalcino 2019 (£82.50 in bond Farr Vintners) is a single-plot wine from the highest-sited estate within this Tuscan DOCG. The vines are rooted 550m up, facing west. The result? A wine of almost shocking intensity, drama and concentration. The acidity is high, despite the wine’s ripeness; the tannins ripple with laurel, fenugreek, camphor. It challenges; it rewards. Sip by little sip.

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If I could tell you just one thing about wine harvest, I’d tell you this: It’s the antidote to ennui. It’s the salve for jadedness, and a recipe for the restoration of faith – not just in wine.

There’s no better way to explain les vendanges than adult summer camp – though with copious drinking, and even more manual labour.

For the uninitiated, it’s the month-long period during which any winemaker’s grapes are ready. There’s a sense of urgency: the fruit must be picked and processed before it’s overripe. Volunteers flock, arriving at various domains in droves to sleep in dorms, spare bedrooms and tents and wake up before the sun to pick, press and stomp grapes.

Should you choose to submit to this brand of blissful masochism, you will work 12-hour days. You will make friends quickly, deeply, hungrily, while you work.

You will drink beautiful things, bleed from your fingers, and wake up with earwigs crawling on your clothes.

Where things come from has always been an elusive, watery question for me.

Growing up in New York, per the narrow parameters of my city kid education, it seemed that produce came from grocery stores, flowers from florists, and water from plastic bottles. Of course, I knew these things had their far-off sources, but they seemed distant and irrelevant in the grand scheme of my metropolitan life.

Wine harvest, however, is a masterclass in origin stories – this wildly voyeuristic glimpse into the root of things. It’s a messy, endless lesson in what goes into a bottle.

Of course, I’d always known intellectually that wine was made from grapes – this is not niche information. But harvest allowed me to carry the truth of that fact in a deeper and more intuitive part of my brain. It gave dimension to my grasp on wine as a narrative arc.

I worked my first harvest in 2022 in Chablis, where the grapes grew so close to the ground, we had to pick on our knees. I learned to de-stem with my hands and measure sugar densities.

I made friends I still see yearly.

My second harvest took place in Alsace, where the grapes lived at a comfortable standing height. My French grew smoother, and I learned how to clean a press.

My third harvest transpired in Burgenland, Austria, where we picked through the middle of the night by the shaky beams of headlamps, so as to avoid the glaring heat. And the fourth, just this past August, took place in Roussillon, where a late summer heat wave broke in favour of ceaseless rain.

If you were to ask me why I continue to subject myself to weeks of 5am wake-up calls and heels stained red from stomping Carignan in barrels I’d tell you that it’s like some proverbial reset button. Yes, it’s antithetical to the laptop-tethered work of a writer, and a welcome break from New York, but more so, I go because it reminds me why I wanted to work in wine in the first place.

Stripped of restaurant politics, mark-ups, allocation-bids and scores, it’s just the thing itself.

The industry is fatiguing, no matter your angle of approach. There’s the gatekeeping and the snobbery. The lofty, inaccessible prices. The righteous sommeliers, the showboat-y auctions, the patrons poised to judge you for ordering the second-cheapest bottle. At a certain point, wine becomes a consumer good, not an art form. And as a writer covering the topic, it can start to feel like reporting on NFTs or cryptocurrency – lofty, intellectualised fodder buoyed by money.

At harvest, however, it’s not subject matter. It’s wine.

‘My first harvest actually changed my life, to be completely honest,’ says Audrey Aubertin, who works as a server and sommelier at Montreal wine bar, Gia. ‘That was in 2022 – and afterwards, I quit my corporate job to work in wine full-time. Every year now, I still look forward to harvest. You meet people you’d never meet otherwise, and you get close to them in a way you wouldn’t in other contexts. It sounds silly, but it kind of reminds me of what it feels like to be alive. You smell and touch and feel and interact… and isn’t that what living is?’

It’s not untrue – this deprioritising of email, of social media, of interaction with the outside world. It feels anachronistic – this harkens back to a moment before smartphones and remote jobs. It teaches presence.

‘When I got back from harvest this year, I made a PowerPoint to show my team what I’d been doing,’ says Hannah Harrington, a sommelier at New York’s Smithereens. ‘Everyone was so excited and inquisitive, it felt so energising to bring my harvest experience back into my work.’

As she explains it, harvest feels like a great equaliser. While you work, there’s no hierarchy: No one’s above washing buckets and bins, or crawling around in dirt, clipping fruit. ‘In the wine world, people always wanna be the best, or know the most. But at harvest, everything feels like this big collective effort. I mean, your literal blood, sweat and tears go into this project, and it feels amazing,’ she says. ‘Being there, I could practically feel my cortisol levels dropping.’

It should come as no surprise that the phenomenon is healing. It’s a return to natural rhythms – you rise with the sun, and fall into deep, uncomplicated post-labour sleep early in the night. You spend time outside, and you feel wholly inside your own body. You have candid, wrenching mid-work conversations.

‘I grew up in an intellectual and education-forward household. I did well at school. I went to university and I got a job in the government. But working a harvest challenged my ingrained notions of success – it taught me a new way to conceptualise intellect and hard work, and intuition,’ says Caitlin McInnis, a writer and researcher with whom I shared a bedroom while harvesting in Alsace. ‘To me, harvest is a remedy for disconnection. It’s a portal to direct, daily contact with the rhythms of nature. It’s a delicious, humbling thing that strips you of all your pretences.’

Simply put, it takes wine from a commodity to a living, breathing thing – more poetry than ‘product’. And when all’s said and done, you can taste that nuance in the bottle – the vine rapport, the early mornings, the late nights, the human hands.

What is that if not the cure for apathy?

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The relationship between wine and culture is discussed in two ways.

First, uncontroversially, wine is said to be part of culture – associated with social, religious and institutional practices. Second, wine offers insight, it’s argued, into the culture in which it was produced. It represents it and, metaphorically, transports you to the time, the place and the society from which it originates. Let’s examine this latter claim.

What, in German culture, is represented by dry Riesling? Do sweet Riesling, sparkling Sekt and red Spätburgunder represent the same part of German culture? In French culture, what changed in the 1980s to cause the shift from red to white Sancerre? How is Spanish culture represented through the wines of Rioja, which were significantly influenced by expat winemakers from Bordeaux in the 18th century? When the Douro’s Niepoort estate says that its Encruzado is made like German Riesling, whose culture does it represent? And, finally, whose cultures do the wines of South Africa, New Zealand, Australia, Chile or Argentina represent? And so, as Vega Sicilia’s Furmint representation of Hungarian culture at its Tokaj-Oremus estate seems fuzzy at best, I doubt answers to such questions are readily available or even possible to formulate.

So how about the more general question of what wine represents? Is wine a message that extends beyond its agricultural site?

In the social sciences, ‘sense of place’ is defined as social experiences and identities of place. To say that wine is representative of this seems dangerously close to the idea that it represents a culture. To put it more directly, I have no idea how a premier cru Fourchaume wine represents a ‘sense of Chablis’, especially bearing in mind that Rosemary George MW, the authority on Chablis, was once unable to identify ‘Fourchaume-ness’, despite having blind tasted 27 examples. To be honest, I don’t even know what a sense of Chablis might be. So, to argue for some uniform sense of place, the same for everybody, represented by dramatically different wines (just compare producers Clotilde Davenne and Louis Michel), seems quite unwise.

Perhaps, then, wine is representative of the winemaker’s intent, assuming, of course, that this intent is in unison with the paymaster’s. Indeed, at least some winemakers say their wine starts in their heads. ‘I am the terroir,’ I heard once from an Argentinian winemaker. And I find it convincing.

Yet vintages vary and tastes and fashions change, so I wonder how clear the message can be. Does it not become vague as, to use Chablis again, you witness desperate producers giving up on their organic ideals because banks don’t tolerate mildew very well? Surely, the heartbreaking sight of grand cru Les Clos in July 2024, with most of the grapes blighted by mildew, makes the representations of the sense of place or even the winemaker’s intent somewhat blurred.

But does it actually matter? Are discussions of wine-as-message relevant to the average wine drinker? To put it differently, is there someone to receive the message? Judging by my drinking experience and research, no, there isn’t. The message sent by the winemaker is likely to fall on deaf ears as most of us, regular wine amateurs, drink wine simply because it’s delicious. Hardly anyone listens, I’m afraid.

Wines from Chablis, Rioja, Mosel and Tokaj aren’t wonderful because they represent something – culture or otherwise. They are wonderful because they’re intrinsically delicious, breathtaking even. And so, instead of worrying what wine represents and says (it’s still to speak to me, I’m sorry to report), let us enjoy it while we still can.

Time and again, we hear that wine needs a positive message. I doubt such a message will come from representations of culture or a sense of place. Rather, I think it will come from the wonder of experiencing wine, from the sheer joy that it brings.

In my glass this month

I first discovered Péter Setét’s Míves Borház, Istenhegy-Meggyes Dry Furmint, Tokaj, Hungary 2013 (bottle 2,739) in the wine shop Powinno, in Wroclaw, and I was sceptical. Amazingly, it continues to be the best dry Furmint I’ve ever tasted, breathtakingly complex and offering an experience rarely found for under €20. I suppose the elusive winemaker, with his labels designed by the Polish importer and a handwritten bottle number on the back label, all add to the wonder.

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Hopes of a warm and luxurious Indian summer have not exactly evaporated so much as been doused in a pluvial flurry of stormy weather.

It’s always a shame when summer comes to a rather abrupt end. There’s nothing quite like the languid slouch into a golden autumn.

That last chance to drink cold beers in the sun, maybe flash the tan in short sleeves in those ebbing long evenings of dwindling light before blanching once more, swaddled beneath wooly jumpers, coats and scarves.

Instead we have stormy squalls, a French government on the brink of collapse and – my current paranoid conspiracy – the suspicion that my favourite bakery has reduced the size of its baguettes while I was away.

Troubling.

Paris sera toujours Paris

But Paris is sloughing off its August torpor. The bars are opening again and there remains a brief window to use the terrasses éphémères before they’re packed away for the winter – and I have a newborn to deal with.

Paris life is street life. You’ve all seen the classic Parisian bistro terrace with their chairs and tables, sometimes neatly serried, other times all higgle-piggle and pell-mell.

Throw in an awning and an outdoor heater and, come rain or shine, there’ll be Parisians there at all hours. After all, it’s where you can smoke.

It’s rather nicer in the sun though and the forecast still promises the odd ray of sunshine this month – temperatures in the mid-to-high 20s.

Ideal.

Light and shade

However – while Paris may be the city of light, it’s not always that easy finding a sunny spot in which to enjoy a glass or three.

I was warned of this soon after arriving by a French friend who had previously lived in London himself.

‘I feel like I’m always walking in the shade,’ he announced, with a somewhat haunted look in his eyes.

It’s not quite that bad – it was March at the time, when the weak sun rises low in the sky and mostly bathes the rooftop flats – the old chambres de bonnes – with its insipid glow.

Yet he had a point. London’s wider streets, its mix of high and low-rise housing and wealth of open green spaces creates lovely, light-filled areas in which to wallow at your leisure.

Meanwhile, Paris’s distinctive architecture creates shifting pools of light along the branching medley of narrow streets at different times of the day and year.

Those rows of Haussmann or Belle Époque-era apartment buildings might be picturesque but they also conspire to cast shadows in just the spot you’d like to be at any one moment.

The only seeming solution is to table-hop from sunny seat to sunny seat like you’re the US Marine Corps in the Pacific.

However, despite moans from the French that their work hours lead to them all staying in the office until 7pm or 8pm every evening, if you knock off sharpish at 6pm on a sunny weekday there’s nary an empty seat to be found.

Funny that.

Night and day

I’m not the only one stumped for how to find a regular seat at the golden hour. At least one other was so stuck that they made an app.

‘Jveuxdusoleil’ was originally developed as a photography aid for those looking to capture light rather than drink it in (or in it).

What’s great about it is that it shows, in real time, which areas are in the shade and which in the sun.

It doesn’t show where the bars are (cough-cough, hint-hint developers) but with a little local knowledge and on-the-fly orienteering I’ve no doubt it can be put to good use.

Thus armed, I will find my seat in what few, dwindling autumn glades I can find, safe in the knowledge, of course, that the nights are closing in and that you don’t have to worry about such things beneath a starlit sky, which is when Paris really shines.

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Parlez-vous pinard?

An occasional primer on French wine slang and idioms

La petite soeur – ‘The little sister’ is an expression used when you ask someone if they’d like a second glass/bottle of something. ‘Tu veux/on prend la p’tite soeur?’

Blouge – A ‘blanc-rouge’ or white-red (maybe a red-white). Blends of red and white grapes are reasonably common but 3% of Viognier isn’t going to change the colour of Syrah very much. ‘Blouge’ is a growing category where a red and white variety (or varieties) are left to macerate together for a period and the result is not a light red or a dark rosé, it’s…well…blouge, that carries more of the characteristics of each variety into the final wine.

What I’ve been drinking recently

Domaine Danjou-Banessy, Supernova, Vin de France

A skin contact wine made from Muscat d’Alexandria on the schistous soils of Roussillon. A gorgeous hazy straw-gold, the nose bursting with ripe peach and apricot, white flowers and whiff of bergamot. Lovely ripe, creamy flavours, dripping with ripe lemon, pith, lemon meringue, fleur d’orange and hint of lightly-salted fudge. Drank this twice on a beach at sunset on holiday and it blew my mind. Interstellar.

Domaine de la Petite Soeur, Plasma, Vin de France

A blouge from Anjou in the Loire made from Cabernet Sauvignon and Sauvignon Blanc left to macerate gently for 10 days. An electric raspberry red in colour with aromas of wild strawberries with a twist of white pepper, pink grapefruit and passion fruit, and almost a hint of a little green pepper. Lip-smacking stuff served chilled on warm days.

Domaine des Trouillères, Zone Vignes, Côtes d’Auvergne

An Auvergnat Pinot Noir from the volcano soils of the Puy de Corent and de Marmant. Fresh and tangy red berry fruit with a strong smoky, savoury, ferrous character that is characteristic of certain reds with a strong volcanic imprint. Brooding and smouldering – but fresh!

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In the realm of tasting notes, the word ‘sweet’ tends to be spoken with a certain vitriol. It’s an insult of the highest order – as if sweetness has wronged drinkers personally, poisoned their families, foreclosed their homes.

We’re looking for your absolute driest white, you’ll hear in many a wine shop. I’ll drink anything as long as it’s not sweet. Please, god, make it dry as the desert. Anything but sweet, I beg of you.

Then again, much like with the anti-Chardonnay movement, the oddly aggressive aversion seems to be mired in an allergy to the word more than a firm distaste for residual sugar (RS) itself.

Surely there are valid reasons for the widespread loathing of ‘sweet’ notes in wine. Perhaps you were burned by some screw-top bottle of grocery store wine loaded up with RS to mask general inadequacy. Maybe it was the Riesling you pounded in college before puking in the back of a taxi, or the saccharine Prosecco poured inexplicably at all too many weddings.

All the same, the sweetness-revulsion generalisation seems as if it’s largely been internalised by folks who were spurned by a particular tragic bottle – the likes of whom now conflate said poison apple with the whole spectrum of sweet or off-dry wines.

‘Right now, we have a sparkling rosé with the tiniest bit of residual sugar on the by-the-glass list,’ says Joseph Signa, a server at Brooklyn wine bar, Anais. ‘Often, people will come in and say they want something dry, and I’ll taste them through a handful of things they don’t want. Then, I’ll pour them a glass of these bubbles, and they’ll love it.’

Of course, as he explains it, he’d never describe the wine as sweet. Instead, he’d say it’s full of ripe red fruits. That it’s bright and juicy. And quelle surprise, guests are delighted. It’s not the touch of sugar they dislike; it’s the moniker… the broad categorisation of sweet wine.

It’s worth keeping in mind: sweet is hardly a tasting note.

Signa’s method is not dishonest… it’s just that ‘ripe red fruits’ more accurately describes the palate on the Cabernet Franc in question.

Think about it: What kind of writer would I be if ‘sweet’ were the only adjective I had on hand for the wild salad of fruit, mineral and floral-forward notes present in a glass of wine? Or for that matter, anything at all?

Now, when I posted on the World Wide Web soliciting ‘sweet wine’ opinions, I was met with a host of recommendations for this Tissot Macvin, or that off-dry Riesling – largely from a battery of wine professionals, all of whom had a number of sweet wines to recommend that they, themselves, enjoy drinking after dinner, on ice in the afternoon, with red meats, with stinky cheeses. On the other hand, I was also met with a litany of responses à la: ‘I haven’t had sweet wine since the Moscato at my batmitzvah.’ Or even, in an economy of language: ‘Ew’.

The thing is: We’re! Missing! Out! And I’d bet money on the fact that we’re crouching on the brink of a proper sweet wine renaissance… not merely as a dessert accompaniment (or replacement). In fact, the tastemakers (so to speak) have already… spoken.

Take Château d’Yquem, for example – a rather legendary estate known for its sweet white wines from Sauternes in the Bordeaux region of France. While oft-classified as a dessert wine, Beyoncé and Jay-Z reportedly went nuts over the stuff served alongside cream sauce and fresh truffle ravioli at a wedding last year.

At the same time, we’re watching steak and Madeira pairings – a fortified wine produced on the Portuguese island of Madeira – gain traction online and in restaurants fairly ubiquitously. And while not a new phenomenon by any stretch (the two have been served together since time immemorial), the coupling is making a distinct comeback now that it seems opinions are slowly warming to the oh-so-petrifying prospect of sweet wines.

It’s worth mentioning that Madeira is a fortified wine – meaning that brandy (or other neutral spirits) is added during the fermenting process – but nonetheless, the flavour profile falls within the bounds of what is, indeed, known as a sweet wine. And when enjoyed with steak, the nutty, umami profile cuts through the char immaculately, and the low, caramelised flavours meld brilliantly with red meat.

In short, the pairing works, and if we could just get over the whole sweet classification, there’d be so much to explore. And the wine need not be Château d’Yquem to carry the point.

‘A well-made sweet wine will have more than just sugar. Most of them actually have quite a high amount of acidity or freshness behind that sugar, which makes them balanced, and oh so sumptuous,’ says Ramon Manglano, head sommelier at trending uptown Manhattan French restaurant, Chez Fifi, where he says he particularly likes to pour a sweet wine – 1997 Doisy-Daene – with the chef’s poulet rôti, a chicken dish topped with with cubes of seared foie gras.

‘I was trying to think of something to gild the lily a little… without pulling away from the savouryness of the chicken and morels,’ he explains of the pairing. ‘Older Sauternes style wines get these beautiful mushroomy, saffron, gingery aromas – while the rich honey and sweet fruit tones tend to mellow out – all of which makes sense for the dish, especially with the flavour of the foie gras.’

Tell me that doesn’t sound delicious, I dare you. And what’s more, it makes sense: While we’ve long proselytised the absolute delight of the salty-sweet coupling in food, for whatever reason, we’ve neglected to assume such a combo could play out so gracefully in a wine pairing, too.

The point is, ‘sweet’ as a signifier is rudely diminishing to wines with such expansive and complex profiles, the likes of which are designed to converse brilliantly with so many savoury foods (or, frankly, nothing at all).

‘Sweet doesn’t actually feel like its own tasting note,’ adds Signa. ‘You’ll get the whole fruit leather thing, the rich toasted nut thing, the dried currant thing. It’s so good with dessert because great sweet wines have such excellent acidity. They actually cut through the sweetness.’

While harvesting grapes in Alsace in 2023 – les vendanges, so it’s called en Français – the cellar manager with whom I worked, a 25-year-old boy with a bun and an immaculate palate, scoffed at my juvenile insistence that I was not a dessert wine person.

In response to his monologue in favour of a good fortified or off-dry wine to pair with the typical French after-dinner cheese course, I’d whined that I’d still prefer to drink something without residual sugar.

‘You’re going to taste these together, and you’re going to like it,’ he told me one evening in clipped French, handing me a small, delicate glass of fortified Riesling with a crumbled wedge of blue cheese.

Fully prepared to reaffirm my stance, I obeyed… and let me tell you: However needlessly, radically stubborn I may be, I had no ground left to stand on. Both flavours were large, loud, and self-assured, but neither entirely overpowered the other. The acidity in the wine cut through the richness of the cheese so cleanly. The nutty apricot-honey undertones interlaced seamlessly with the savoury funk. It all made sense; it worked. So, naturally, I admitted defeat and asked for a second glass.

‘The truth is, everyone wants to drink something that makes them happy,’ says Signa. ‘And sugar makes people happy.’

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Pamela Vandyke Price had been replaced as The Times’ wine writer by Jane MacQuitty in the early 1980s. The transition was contested; the merits of a youthful approach to wine writing were impugned by the elder party; and the controversy spilled, like an overfull glass of Côtes du Rhône, onto the pages of this magazine. I wrote in support of youth – and Jane, now a doyenne herself.

Taste rare and exceptional wines at the Cellar Collection at Decanter Fine Wine Encounter London. Limited tickets available – book now

The wine world has never seen change to match the last half-century. The 1975 timing of founders Colin Parnell and his abrasive and often inebriated editor Tony Lord (who noisily defended South Africa’s apartheid regime to me on our first meeting) looked spectacularly poor. Bordeaux prices had collapsed, and the region was mired in multiple scandals; Herman Cruse IV, scion of one of the region’s most distinguished négociant families, had committed suicide by jumping into the Gironde the year before. European agriculture was in thrall to the ‘convenience’ of herbicides and pesticides: French vineyards, when I first visited them, were uniformly brown and bare. The quality of the Burgundies I bought was wretched, possibly inauthentic. The UK lay outside what was then known as the EEC; the label of my first Châteauneuf (I collected labels) said ‘Grand Vin de Bourgogne’ under the appellation name.

The wine-producing nations of Central and Eastern Europe were mired in Soviet Bloc productivism (the drive to maximise production); Georgia itself was buried inside the Soviet Union. Dictatorship in Portugal had only just ended, as had the rule of Greece’s military junta; Spain was still a dictatorship. Miguel Torres had yet to go to Chile (whose own military dictatorship had just begun). The first modern vines had only just been planted in Marlborough; Oregon and Washington were in their infancy; Australia was sending Kanga Rouge to the UK. Chinese wine? Forget it: the Cultural Revolution was just coming to an end, under the control of the Gang of Four; Mao was still alive.

And then… everything began to change. From the 50-year perspective, Parnell and Lord’s timing was – luckily – perfect: the wine world was about to blossom like a cherry tree. Now we can eat the cherries: magnificent wines, far finer than anything I tasted back in the 1970s, from multiple sources. All of us can name dozens of favourites. Not every development is welcome – the 21st-century rebranding of fine wines as luxury goods, with prices laughably beyond the means of most, is regrettable. Though perhaps inevitable.

What happened? Three things. Political change was the most significant: democratisation (notably the collapse of the Soviet Union and the ending of military dictatorships and apartheid), economic reforms and globalisation have enabled the endeavour and commercial freedom that wine creation needs in order to flourish; essential agricultural changes accompanied this. The rise of a consuming wine culture on a global scale was the second, aided by wine media (Decanter has played a modest part). And the third? It’s a phrase first employed by US scientist Wallace Broecker in a paper in 1975: global warming. Most wine-growers have enjoyed life in the Goldilocks zone so far: wine has been a beneficiary of multiple ripe vintages in regions where these were formerly a rarity, while places once too cool for fine wine (like England, Ontario, Central Otago, the Adelaide Hills, Gualltallary) are so no longer.

The next 50 years? That’s up to us. We can elect populists, erect trade barriers and wreck free trade. We can attempt to freeze the social fabric of our societies. We can take refuge in the comfortable stupidity that ignores climate change, and spurn the massive transition efforts that are now essential. And we can watch the extraordinary wine-world advances of the last half-century endangered, perhaps destroyed. Or not.

In my glass this month

What’s 50 years to a producer celebrating its 250th anniversary this year? That’s the case for Lanzarote’s El Grifo – but I doubt that it’s ever produced a fresher and more delicious white wine than its 2023 Lías Malvasía Volcánica, with its blossom-and-apple scents and its tinglingly fresh, almost spritzy palate: more apple, more fresh flowers, then a slow slide towards salty breadth as the wine sits on your tongue. Unforgettable – and that’s before you’ve seen photos of the extraordinary black vineyards where the grapes grow.

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