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.
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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
(Image credit: Credit Unknown)
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.
Andrew Jefford has written for Decanter magazine since 1988. His monthly magazine column is widely followed, and he also writes occasional features and profiles both for the magazine and for Decanter.com. He has won many awards for his work, including eight Louis Roederer Awards and eight Glenfiddich Awards. He was Regional Chair for Regional France and Languedoc-Rossillon at the inaugural Decanter World Wine Awards in 2004, and has judged in every edition of the competition since, becoming a Co-Chair in 2018. After a year as a senior research fellow at Adelaide University between 2009 and 2010, Jefford moved with his family to the Languedoc, close to Pic St-Loup. He also acts as academic advisor to The Wine Scholar Guild.
Roederer awards2016: International Wine Columnist of the Year
