Hugh Johnson on English wine: I hope we'll soon find England's 'Chablis'
In his latest Decanter magazine column, Hugh Johnson writes about his efforts to study and support the 'increasingly exciting' English wine scene.
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.
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