It’s difficult to make broad statements about a year like 2023 in Bordeaux. Following on from our vintage overview, we delve further into the year, breaking it down by commune to offer insight on how each subregion fared in this singular vintage     

Bordeaux 2023: a breakdown of the vintage by region, with top picks from Saint-Estephe, Pauillac, Margaux, Saint-Julien, Saint-Emilion and Pomerol 

Bordeaux 2023 – breaking the year down by commune

Bordeaux 2023: the vintage by commune

To Kalon. For any Californian winemaker, those two words represent the Holy Grail. This vineyard in Oakville, Napa, is undeniably the region’s most famous. Perched at the foot of the Mayacamas, west of Highway 29, this site has been recognised for producing fine wine since the 19th century. Literally translating as the “highest beauty” or “highest good” from Greek, today To Kalon is home to some of Napa’s oldest vines and best Cabernet Sauvignon. “This is a Grand Cru – a premier property,” Paul Hobbs tells me, a winemaker who has a long history with the site. As a grad student at UC Davis, Hobbs would swipe the second crop from a vineyard on Walnut Drive – what happened to be BV4, Beaulieu Vineyard’s original block of To Kalon. At Mondavi – the largest holder of the hallowed site – he got to walk the rows more legitimately, and used those holdings to build Opus One – the company’s joint venture with Ch. Mouton Rothschild (although the association with the site has generally been played down). Under his own label, he’s been making wine from the Beckstoffer section of the vineyard since 1999 – and his wines, along with those from Schrader, were some of the early bottlings that put the vineyard firmly on the fine wine map, earning high scores – and lots of attention. Indeed, it was a Paul Hobbs wine that made Tor Kenward believe the vineyard was truly special. André Tchelistcheff had spoken to Kenward about BV4, but it was one of Hobbs’s bottlings that made him realise its potential. He started working with Beckstoffer plots from 2005. 
“It’s not visually impressive; it doesn’t have that ‘wow factor’,” Kenward tells me. But start digging below the surface, and you realise that you’re in the “tenderloin of Napa”, with old creek beds that run through the site. It’s an alluvial fan that runs down from the Mayacamas, sitting almost on a bench – with very little elevation. But the soils here are varied, with deep, well-drained gravels that make it perfect for Cabernet Sauvignon.  Andy Erickson – a winemaker whose resume includes Screaming Eagle, Harlan, Dalla Valle, Mayacamas and many more – first worked with the site in 2012, on a single-barrel charity lot for an auction at his children’s school. When Constellation (owners of Mondavi and co-owners of Opus One) called him to give him the chance to work with it again in 2016, he didn’t hesitate. That year, he made the first wine for the To Kalon Vineyard Company – a project that is a revival of the brand created by H.W. Crabb (known variously as Henry Walker, Hiram Walker or Hamilton Walker Crabb) in 1886, the vineyard’s godfather. “Most people know the recent history of the vineyard, and the acclaim of the wines from the past 15-20 years. But the vineyard was known for producing remarkable wines all the way back in the late 19th century. Clearly there is something there,” Erickson says.  But this vineyard is weighed down with controversy – its borders endlessly debated, with producers vying for use of the To Kalon name.  The history of the To Kalon Vineyard It’s impossible to look at To Kalon today without tracing its origins. H.W. Crabb came west from Ohio during the Gold Rush, spending six months digging in the Sierras before settling in Oakville in 1868, buying 240 acres of land at the corner of Highway 29 and Walnut Drive. He planted a wide range of crops, first making wine in 1872 under the name Hermosa Vineyards (“hermosa” meaning “beautiful” in Spanish). In 1881, he acquired another 119 acres from Eliza Yount (whose name lives on in Yountville). On land to the west of his plots, owned by John Davis, he planted additional vines – buying the fruit off Davis to feed his increasing production. In 1886, he gave his company a new name: “To Kalon Vineyard Company” – and the legend was born. Crabb reportedly said, “The name To-Kalon… means the highest beauty, or the highest good, but I try to make it mean the boss vineyard.”
 To Kalon Vineyard Company rapidly became one of the region’s largest – and most well-respected – wine producers. His wines started winning awards at competitions around the world, and he was the first to start selling wine along the East Coast. He had planted a huge range of grapes – around 400 different varieties, including Malvasia, Riesling, Chasselas, Muscat, Refosco and Cabernet Sauvignon, with the latter in particular thriving. In 1889, he bought 168 acres on the hillside to the south, close to where Harlan is now based, although it was never planted with vines during Crabb’s lifetime. In 1891, Crabb bought Davis’s 135 acres (from which he’d already been buying the fruit). In total, Crabb had more than 359 acres.  But his success wasn’t to last – phylloxera arrived in the late 19th century, and recession along with it. In 1898, Crabb sold the 135 acres he’d bought just eight years earlier – and died one year later in 1899. The vines were ripped out, replaced by cherry trees under David Perry Doak in 1911, who in turn purchased another 500 acres of vines from John Benson, south of the border of the original To Kalon (across Oakville Grade Road), which is now all owned by Constellation (used for Mondavi or Opus One). After Crabb’s death, what remained of the To Kalon Vineyard Company was sold to ES Churchill at auction, taken over by his widow Mary Churchill when he died in 1903. Wines continued to be sold under the label until the arrival of Prohibition in 1920. The winery reopened briefly to sell wine in bulk in the 1930s, but the winery building burnt down in 1939. Four years later, Martin Stelling bought most of the property – 337 acres – and replanted. He sold 90 acres to Beaulieu Vineyard (the block that became known as BV4 – and was the plot used by André Tschelistcheff made Georges de Latour Reserve). In 1944, Stelling bought an additional 1,700 acres – the McGill Ranch, which included the parcels owned by Doak (both Crabb’s 1891 parcel and the 500 acres area south of Oakville Grade Road). He named the entire property Tokalon Vineyards, and in 1945 planted Sauvignon Blanc in I Block – the legendary parcel that is today used for Mondavi’s prized, old-vine To Kalon Fumé Blanc.  Tragedy struck again, however, with Stelling killed in a car crash in 1950. The property was once more divided, sold off in pieces by his widow.   
Rosa Mondavi, along with her sons Robert and Peter, purchased 132 hectares in 1962 for the family winery, Charles Krug. After Robert struck out on his own, he bought 12 acres for himself in 1966 (that remained in the Stelling family) – in the northeast corner of the 1968 Crabb parcel, where the Mondavi winery and visitor centre remains today. He bought a further 230 acres in 1968, and then took the Charles Krug section from the rest of his family in 1978. The first time the To Kalon name appeared on a Mondavi label – and the first time since the demise of the To Kalon Vineyard Company – was on the 1986 Fumé Blanc Reserve. The I Block – the Sauvignon Blanc vines planted by Stelling in 1945 – were singled out for the first time in 1995, for the vines’ 50th anniversary. The first red – Mondavi’s To Kalon Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon – appeared with the 1997 vintage. The To Kalon Vineyard’s terroir As already mentioned, To Kalon is largely an alluvial fan that stretches down from the Mayacamas to Highway 29. It is, however, a large piece of land (the exact area depending on where you draw its borders – see below for more on the controversy around this) – and as such the terroir varies considerably. The soils are richer downslope, closer to the Highway; poorer and better-drained higher up (where many – including Hobbs and Kenward – prefer to be). The gravel composition varies with the subtle slope differences and underground water.  “It’s like any cut of meat – there are better parts than others,” Hobbs says. With over 300 original acres (at least), this is a substantial vineyard (for comparison, Clos Vougeot is 125 acres). “It’s great if you have the name To Kalon, but could be pretty average stuff.” The Beckstoffer section is numbered and lettered: A to F, from road to mountain, with A1 south of A2. For Hobbs, he likes the blocks closer to the mountains, and those that aren’t shaded by the huge walnut trees that line Walnut Drive (to the south). Hobbs noted how much warmer Oakville is than Yountville – something he used to notice when driving in the evening home from Oakville to Yountville. The mountains block the sea breezes, meaning that the cooling effect happens, but more slowly. This is partly what makes it such a special place. Tor Kenward similarly prefers some of the middle blocks in B and C, where there are some of the vineyard’s oldest vines, but with lower vigour, as well as the leaner soils closest to the mountains. As for the MacDonald or Horton block: “You could argue it’s every bit as good as Andy’s piece,” Kenward says. It, along with the Detert block, was planted in the 1940s – and in fact those two blocks are now home to some of the valley’s oldest vines. Even closer to the mountains, the gravel content is even higher, and the fruit is picked up to a month earlier than elsewhere in To Kalon. Although until now most of that fruit has been sold to Constellation, there will be opportunity for others to work with it as that contract comes to an end.   
The Beckstoffer plots of To Kalon Andy Beckstoffer bought Beaulieu Vineyard’s block, BV4, in 1993. He’d just lost a prized site – Liparita, on Howell Mountain – when the 89 acres of BV4 came up. He’d worked the site for years and leapt at the opportunity to buy it. “It’s a mystery to me why they sold it,” Paul Hobbs told me, although word on the grapevine was that they needed to liquidate funds – indeed, it was around the same time that Mondavi went public for similar reasons. Phylloxera was once more raging through the region thanks to the widely used, non-resistant AXR rootstock.  The BV4 block was in bad shape when Beckstoffer took it over and he had to replant the entire site. Paul Hobbs was one of the first to use fruit from Beckstoffer’s plots, starting to work with him from 1995/96. “Andy didn’t really realise he had a Grand Cru property,” Hobbs says. Hobbs was given free rein to pick his plots, opting for four or five plots on the western side, furthest from Highway 29. The vineyard produced its first fruit in 1997; 1998 was a difficult year; but in 1999 Hobbs was able to produce his first To Kalon bottling (although it couldn’t say so on the label). “I was loathe to tell people how young it was – but the quality was so good,” Hobbs says, still starry eyed thinking about it. “It was only four years old, but producing stunning wines.” Most fruit is sold on its weight, by the ton, but Andy Beckstoffer created a different model – one that is intricately tied to the vineyard’s name and reputation – and arguably has increased its reputation. Producers who use his fruit pay him 175 times the bottle price per ton, with a ceiling at $50,000/ton; tying the value of the fruit to the value of the final wine. “For producers like me in those days, when I didn’t have the land or ability to buy land, Andy was a saviour of sorts,” Hobbs tells me. “Because I had access to one of the top vineyards in all of Napa. I had to pay – but at least I had access.”
  The To Kalon controversy: how big is it? And is it a brand or a place? Mondavi trademarked the name “To Kalon” in 1988, and “To Kalon Vineyard” in 1994. This gave them the right to use the name on any wine from anywhere – even beyond California – and meant that no one else could use the name, even if they had plots in what was considered the original To Kalon vineyard. The first Beckstoffer bottlings only mentioned the name on the back label; but in 2000, Schrader decided to put it on the front label. The now famous lawsuit commenced. “They shouldn’t have been able to trademark it,” Hobbs tells me. “Anyone from the original To Kalon estate should have the right to the trademark as well.” In 2002, Mondavi sued Schrader for using the name on their Beckstoffer bottling. Countersuing ensued, from both Schrader and Beckstoffer (the latter arguing that Mondavi was misleading clients by using the name for wines made with fruit from beyond the vineyard’s original borders). A settlement – the details of which remain a mystery – was made in 2003, but wines made from the Beckstoffer section can now bear the name “Beckstoffer To Kalon”.  Constellation bought Mondavi in 2004, and then Schrader in 2017. Reportedly attempts were made to trademark “To Kalon Wine Company”, “To Kalon Vineyard Company” and “Rooted in To Kalon” – something, unsurprisingly, that Beckstoffer objected to. The legal battle continues today, with a fight over the naming of To Kalon Creek, and The Vineyard House – owned by Jeremy Nickel, which sits on the 1889 hillside section – arguing for the use of the name as well.  The borders of the vineyard are a constant source of debate – and given the history above, you can see why.  Andy Beckstoffer considers the original To Kalon to be only the parcels bought by Crabb in 1868 and 1881. The 1889 parcel was never planted by Crabb, so most aren’t inclined to include it as “original To Kalon”. The Detert and MacDonald plots, however, aren’t acknowledged by Beckstoffer, but were planted – and, albeit more briefly than other plots, owned by Crabb. Then there’s the “Stelling extension”, the southern section added after Crabb’s death under Martin Stelling, that Mondavi considers part of the original vineyard, but some others do not. Given the sums fruit – and wine – bearing the To Kalon name command, it’s unsurprising that its usage is so disputed.  
To Kalon: what does the wine taste like?  So what makes the wine so special? Why do winemakers fight for the fruit, and consumers for the bottles they produce? Despite the sheer variety of the site, Tor Kenward is adamant that there’s a continuity, with a profile that that site gives Cabernet. He describes it as “wall-to-wall carpeting”, a plushness to the mid-palate, a softness, that means the Cabernet isn’t hard-edged. “There’s something about the ground there,” Andy Erickson agrees. For him, To Kalon has a distinct tannin texture – not as rugged as hillside sites, but richer, with a generosity in the wines. “They are dark, aromatic, but very broad and polished,” he says. “I think the vineyard brings forward many of the complexities of Cabernet Sauvignon, but delivers it in a very approachable and elegant package.” “It’s very identifiable,” Paul Hobbs says. “It’s a structural and textural thing mostly. It’s a freshness to this sort of tannin. It has grip, but it has this uplifting character.” He explains it like a skipping stone – you think you’ve got it, then another wave comes, the wine shifting on the palate. For him, one of the most distinctive things is that Cabernet sings alone here – much better than blended with other varietals. “It didn’t need the help of its brothers,” he says. “It’s a wine that’s at peace with itself… It doesn’t shock you, except in its beauty.”
 Who owns what today in To Kalon? Robert Mondavi: From the original 12 acres, Mondavi now owns 328 acres of To Kalon, including the Stelling extension. Has the rights to use the To Kalon name.  Opus One: The 35-acre Q Block was sold to the joint venture by Mondavi in 1981, with K block acquired in 2008. Although under Constellation’s ownership they could likely use the To Kalon name, Opus One doesn’t trade on this. (To Kalon Vineyard Company uses fruit from Constellation’s holdings, both Opus One and Mondavi plots.) UC Davis: a research block that was key in developing phylloxera-resistant rootstock
Beckstoffer: 89 acres, with fruit sold to a range of producers (currently 23), including Paul Hobbs, Tor Kenward and Schrader. Producers can use the name “Beckstoffer To Kalon” on their labels. MacDonald (sometimes referenced as Horton): Graeme and Alex MacDonald are the current generation, owning 21 acres of the 1891 parcel. When their great-grandparents bought the site in 1954 (along with the Detert plot – see below – from Caroline Stelling, Martin Stelling’s widow) it was planted with cherry trees. Advised by Robert Mondavi, the MacDonalds planted vines. From 1966, they sold grapes to Mondavi – holding some back for personal use from 2004, with the first MacDonald commercial release in 2010 (just 92 cases). Although historically 75% of production here has been sold to Mondavi, I’m led to believe that the contract is coming to a close and won’t be renewed. The MacDonalds can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines currently. Detert: Today owned by Tom Garrett, a cousin of the MacDonalds. This 25-acre plot was bought in 1954, along with the MacDonald parcel – divided between the buyers’ children giving the two plots today. There’s more Cabernet Franc in this section. Most of the fruit is sold to Mondavi (with the contract, as for MacDonald, coming to an end soon), and Detert can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines. The Vineyard House: Many dispute whether or not this is original To Kalon; it’s on the hillside area purchased (but not planted) by Crabb in 1891. This plot is owned by Jeremy Justin Nickel, who is the son of the late Far Niente proprietor Gil Nickel. It’s thought to have first been planted with vines in 1980. They can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines, but have taken court action over the issue.  Wineries with To Kalon bottlings  NB Not all of these will bear the To Kalon name on the label Mondavi Winery, Opus One, To Kalon Vineyard Company, MacDonald, Detert, Alpha Omega, Amici, Alejandro Bulgheroni Estate, AXR, Bacio Divino, B Cellars, Boich Family, Bounty Hunter, Cain Concept, Carter cellars, Ch Boswell, Jacquelynn, Kitchak, Cliff Lede, Morlet, Realm Cellars, Tor Kenward, Paul Hobbs, Schrader Cellars Read more Editorial 

The Napa Valley has many incredible vineyards, but To Kalon undoubtedly sits at the top of the tree. As the To Kalon Vineyard Company releases their latest vintage, Sophie Thorpe delves into the story of this iconic site – from its 19th century origins to the fight to use its hallowed name

Explore the history of To Kalon vineyard – and what makes it such an iconic site today. We spoke to Andy Erickson, Paul Hobbs and Tor Kenward to find out more

The tale of Napa’s iconic To Kalon vineyard

The tale of To Kalon

When people say they’ve put their blood, sweat and tears into something, more often than not, it’s a figure of speech. This is not the case for Bimber Distillery founder Dariusz Plazewski, who has put everything into the build of his dream Speyside distillery, Dunphail. The day before we speak, Plazewski was on the roof of one of his new distillery buildings, mucking in and making sure the mammoth project that was a lifetime in the making stays on track.   The Polish-born Plazewski is a third-generation distiller – or more accurately, moonshiner – who emigrated to London 20 years ago. After observing the English craft distilling boom from afar, the trained architect seized the opportunity to put his family’s legacy and knowhow to good use and set about building Bimber, a single malt whisky distillery based in West London. Bimber’s inaugural bottling, The First, sold out within three hours of release in 2019 – and demand has far outstripped supply ever since.    Fast forward three years and Plazewski is mere months away from realising his dream of producing a single malt Scotch whisky. But it hasn’t been easy.   “There are lots of challenges,” he tells me matter-of-factly. When we catch up, after two aborted attempts, the Master Distiller sounds ever-so-slightly weary – and it’s not hard to fathom why. Today, he is speaking from London, where he’s been “sorting out a few things” at Bimber. He’s boarding a flight back to Scotland in a couple of days and then he’s taking a much-needed holiday – where he confesses he will be on email constantly.   Rest is not in his nature. (Plazewski has been pinballing from one project to the next for decades. By the end of 2022, he says he will have “given up” his other business and solely focus on spirits.) Nor is adhering to the status quo.    Since founding Bimber in 2015, the Master Distiller has prided himself on being a bit of a renegade. Where others have embraced modern whisky-making practices, Plazewski has been staunchly traditional in his approach – and it has served him exceedingly well. “Whisky was always my passion and when I found out that there was a craft movement of whisky and gin distilling, I just started researching,” he tells me. “It took me a long time but I wanted to do something different. I wanted to always do something which was a bit old-fashioned.”  Plazewski’s father and grandfather before him (illegally) made wine, spirits and beer in his native Poland – Bimber translates as “moonshine” in Polish – and Plazewski was an eager protégé with a natural talent from a young age. I refrain from asking how young.   “The good thing is that I understand all the production, all the process, all the fermentation, and how to make alcohol,” he tells me. “Not only whisky but how to make any alcohol really. Sense of smell, touch, and all this just naturally comes to me.”   Plazewski says his fate was sealed the moment he travelled to Scotland and fell in love with Speyside single malts. Dunphail was always going to happen – he just didn’t know when. Starting his (legal) distilling career with Bimber was a shrewd decision. English whisky was then a relative unknown, so Plazewski used this scene as his sandbox to prove to himself and others that traditional whisky production should not be consigned to the history books.   Bimber was, and for the time being still is, a small-scale traditional whisky-making operation. Local barley is grown on a single farm in neighbouring Hampshire. It is floor-malted at Britain’s oldest maltster, Warminster Maltings, and hand-mashed. The two copper pot stills are direct-fired (with a flame, as the name suggests, rather than the more modern and efficient method of steam) and fermentation times are twice the industry average at seven days.  These practices are astoundingly rare in today’s modern whisky world. The majority of producers abandoned floor maltings (the method of malting grain by hand on large malting floors) in favour of industrial malting processes and did away with direct-firing stills (in favour of steam) decades ago, deeming them inefficient and costly. While it is possible to find distillers who adopt some of these techniques – notable examples being Laphroaig, Glenfarclas and Bowmore – it is incredibly rare to find a producer who is able or willing to apply all these labour-intensive and budget-zapping practices.   “I will never be a distiller without floor maltings,” he says physically baulking at the idea of producing whisky any other way. “Never. No. For me, it is crucial,” he adds.    With Dunphail, Plazewski is going one step further than Bimber and building his own traditional floor maltings on-site. This will put Dunphail in a highly exclusive group, and the move has received mixed responses from Plazewski’s peers.   “For me it is very important,” Plazewski says. “I know many people said, wow are you crazy because this is hard work, this is lots of involvement, why are you doing it?”  I can’t help asking him the same. To which he says: “Because nobody is doing this anymore and I want to continue this craft, I want people to see how the whisky was made before. I think it is going to be good fun and I think this is going to be a great feature for our distillery.”  In addition to floor maltings, Dunphail’s stills will also be direct-fired – Glenmorangie was the first to install steam-heated stills in 1887 and countless others followed until only a handful of direct-fired producers remained. Plazewski is the first to acknowledge the practice of heating stills in this traditional way is far less efficient and costly but for him it was non-negotiable and vital to produce the highest-quality Speyside whisky possible – fruit-forward, oily and medium-bodied. He is also in the minority sourcing Dunphail’s barley and peat locally. There are undoubtedly easier routes to produce whisky but the mere suggestion is sacrilege to Plazewski.  Steadfast on his goal, Plazewski set about finding the perfect location to produce traditional single malt Scotch whisky. After years of searching, he settled on a location in the heart of Speyside – a typically renegade move as the majority of new distilleries have been built outside this iconic region. He explains: “The location was really difficult and challenging as well to be honest.”  “I love Speyside – it’s my favourite part in Scotland. First of all, it is a great area because it has got microclimate, so it’s not too cold there and it’s not too rainy. And it’s pretty sunny.” Additionally, he says: “Speyside whiskies are my favourite.”  When asked if he feels the weight of this tradition or pressure to produce a stand-out Speyside whisky in one of the most densely populated whisky-making regions in the world, he says not.   “We are tiny. We’re not going to be competing with the big, established brands. Most of the new distilleries are not built in Speyside, they are mostly built in Fife area. And not many are really going the route we are with the floor maltings and old-fashioned techniques we are trying to apply.”  In addition to the many challenges that come with building a distillery to a blueprint that no longer exists, Plazewski has embattled with supply chain issues following Brexit, Covid and now the war in Ukraine. It’s a minor miracle – and a testament to the tenacity of Plazewski – that the Dunphail build is on schedule and production is set to begin, as planned, at the end of the year.   When asked how he feels, Plazewski pauses for a moment, takes a short intake of breath and hurriedly says: “It’s amazing. It’s hard work. I need a break. That’s why I need this holiday because it’s not only physical work, it’s the mental as well – planning everything.”  He pauses again. “It’s been a stressful and challenging time. But we are on schedule, we’ve planned this well.”  After Dunphail is up and running, and Plazewski has trained his dream team to the standard of Bimber, you wonder what’s next. You sense he won’t just stop after realising his Scottish dream, and that there will be a new North Star.    When asked, he responds to the question with a wry smile, indicating this is not the first time it has been posed to him by others, or even himself. “I would say yes, I’m done after this, but people I know and people around me are saying to me, you are never going to stop, you’re going to find something else.  “But I would say I think I’ve done my dream and when this [distillery] is going to be open, I’m thinking to really concentrate and not do anything more. I don’t think I will put too much pressure on myself and my family again.” A seed of doubt creeps in and then he says resolutely: “No, this is it, it’s going to be my dream, it’s going to be super exciting and I’m not going to go for anything else. I’m just going to enjoy the time and share the drams.” We’ll ask him again in five years’ time.   For the time being, at least, Plazewski (and the wider whisky world) is satiated with turning modern whisky-making on its head and bringing fiercely traditional practices back to one of the oldest and most prestigious whisky regions in the world.   Browse all Scotch whisky or read more Editorial

For the past seven years Dariusz Plazewski has led the vanguard of English whisky-making at Bimber. With his first Scotch distillery, Dunphail, months away from production, the indefatigable architect-cum-Master-Distiller tells Holly Motion how he and his distilleries were built to be different   

Bimber has become a whisky-making icon. Now Master Distiller Dariusz Plazewski has set his sights on Scotland with Dunphail. We explore the ethos behind both

How the brains behind Bimber built Dunphail  

Dariusz Plazewski: grand designs

I am too disorganised to call myself a collector, but I often find myself thinking about the multiple meanings of collecting. I have a room full of books left unread from one year to the next, whose mute reproach I feel every time I am in their presence. I have half a dozen radios, from Marco Zanuso and Richard Sapper’s folding Brionvega TS502 to a Danish-made Beolit 707 from Bang & Olufsen, with its slide rule tuning device. I have a manual typewriter.  Most of us accumulate such random clutter. These were never possessions that were primarily about being useful – the Brionvega and the Beolit have long since been supplanted by a bluetooth speaker and a smartphone. They represent my membership of the design tribe.  The books carry other layers of meaning. My five years at university are on one shelf. The traces of the eight years I have spent writing a just-completed biography of Boris Iofan – Josef Stalin’s preferred architect – are spelled out in the titles of the books on another shelf. The typewriter was inherited from my father and it serves to remind me of childhood. The closest that I come to having a collection that a serious collector might acknowledge is in my chairs: a Rover chair that Ron Arad salvaged from a car, a Gio Ponti Superlegera, an Eames Lounger, a Harry Bertoia, George Sowden’s Palace chair from the 1983 Memphis collection and a deconstructed armchair designed by Rei Kawakubo. On a larger or smaller scale, humans develop complex relationships with their possessions that can go from the professionalism of full-blown collecting, to the casual significance of a row of junk shop finds on a mantlepiece. They can tell us a lot about ourselves. Marina Warner’s guide to the house in Hampstead, now run as a museum, in which Sigmund Freud spent the last year of his life, offers an arresting insight into the significance that collecting had for him. She describes the ranks of ancient bronze, ceramic and marble figures parading across the desk that Freud brought with him to London from Vienna where he no longer felt safe due to Nazi occupation in 1938. Certainly, they are beautiful, and mostly they are precious. Thanks to their association with Freud, even the few that have been established as 20th-century forgeries will have become valuable. Some are almost 4,000 years old and reflect the religious and political practices of the distant past. Others, such as Freud’s art deco cigar case, come less freighted with history. But as Warner says, “they were also tools of thought, the kitchen utensils of his imagination”.   The batterie de cuisine of psychoanalysis included Egyptian coffin masks from the Roman period, Chinese jade and gold brooches, Roman glass, a 2,500-year-old sphinx, sarcophagus lids, Babylonian cylinder seals and Egyptian heart scarabs, as well as a 19th-century neck rest from New Guinea, modern metal porcupines, and Balinese figures. The pieces in pride of place on his desk, placed in apparently random order, were his special favourites, a tiny fraction of his collection that had become permanent fixtures. From time to time, Freud made space for a few new acquisitions to get a look in. “A collection to which there are no new additions is really dead,” he told his biographer Ernest Jones. After a short interval, most of the new things would be moved into the glass-fronted cabinets positioned around his study, where they were placed in more organised groups than those standing on his desk. Greek sculptures went on a shelf together. A cluster of representations of the Egyptian god Horus were grouped on another.  In Freud’s lifetime, the collection was continually changing. Before his move to London, he toured Vienna’s antiquities dealers almost every week on the look-out for new finds. He was ready to exchange pieces for items he could not afford to buy, and was generous in gifting pieces to friends and pupils he thought would appreciate them. Freud also had no qualms about buying items that came on the market in questionable circumstances, in particular, from the unofficial excavations (sometime after 1906) at a Roman fort in Hungary.   Despite the important part it played in his life, Freud wrote very little about collecting. The nearest that he came to spelling out what drove his interest in fragments of ancient sculpture, was when he compared his own exploration of the unconscious minds of his patients to an archaeological excavation of an ancient city. “The psychoanalyst, like the archaeologist, must uncover layer after layer of the patient’s psyche before coming to the deepest, most valuable treasures.”  Freud was known to share his dining table with choice specimens to act as companions during a meal. “I must always have an object to love”, he confessed to his colleague and rival Carl Jung. When he was writing his book The Interpretation of Dreams in 1895, Freud spent the summer at Schloss Bellevue outside Vienna. He took a selection of what he called “my old grubby gods who take part in the works as paperweights for the manuscripts” with him.  Before Freud left Austria for England in 1938, his desk, his consulting room, and his study at Berggasse 19 were photographed by Edmund Engelman. Engelman’s 150 images helped Freud’s architect son Ernst to transpose the desk and its contents from a dark back room in a Viennese apartment to a sunlit Hampstead villa.  Like most collectors, Freud could never limit himself to a single field. Ronald Lauder the former MoMA chairman, for example, is known for the collection of Viennese modernism that forms the basis for his own museum, the Neue Galerie in New York. He also collects (in depth) in 15 other fields with little apparent connection between them. Lauder is fascinated by the work of the Japanese designer Shiro Kuramata. He has a collection of arms and armour going back to The Crusades, and another of World War Two memorabilia. He owns some of Egon Schiele’s finest works, as well as various 18th-century French artworks. Fellow collector Rolf Fehlbaum (head of Vitra) has one of the largest collections of modern chairs in the world, and gave Frank Gehry his first European commission to design a gallery for it, but he is equally fascinated by toy robots manufactured in Japan since 1937. He calls them tiny kinetic sculptures. Where possible, he acquires their original packaging too. Perhaps the best way to understand the psychology of collecting is to see it as a spectrum. At one end, it is about order and control. In a messy and uncontrollable universe, a collection offers at least a semblance of certainty. A collection of this kind is based on provenance, completeness and authenticity. An over-restored vintage Bugatti is less desirable to a collector than one in original condition.  Every previous owner, every detail of its making forms part of its record. A red Olivetti typewriter designed by Ettore Sottsass that once belonged to David Bowie was sold at Sotheby’s for US$65,000. You can buy one (that hasn’t been owned by Bowie) for US$750, which is still a lot of money for a piece of obsolete technology. Some collectors attempt to make patterns from the things that they acquire or, like jigsaw puzzlers, set out to complete a picture by locating every piece of a set. Some try to document the evolution of a species whether the subject of their interest is biscuit tins or the eggs of a particular type of bird. Some forms of collecting require the active engagement of the collector. Wildflowers need to be picked and dried quickly before they are pressed into a book. Butterfly collectors used macabre methods such as poison jars, or squeezing the thorax, to dispatch their prey without causing so much distress that they risk damaging delicate wings. At the other end of the spectrum, the accumulation of stuff by people who die alone in homes overwhelmed by stacks of ancient newspapers and tins of cat food, is a kind of sickness. It’s a condition that can overwhelm even the most celebrated of artists. In the last 17 years of his life, Andy Warhol filled a succession of cardboard boxes with a seemingly random accumulation of objects: taxi receipts, a vinyl Ramones single signed by Joey Ramone, a piece of an ancient, mummified foot, pastel-coloured corsets and a selection of metal dentures. Every time he had a full box, it was sealed and shipped off to storage in a warehouse in New Jersey. A typical box has 400 objects in it, some have as many as 1,200. Items in them include a piece of Caroline Kennedy’s wedding cake – Warhol seems to have been a regular guest at Kennedy weddings. He showed up 20 minutes after the wedding ceremony for Maria Shriver and Arnold Schwarzenegger had started, in the company of Grace Jones. He was in black leather, and wearing two wigs; she had on a huge green fur hat.   Warhol’s boxes are a collection of the uncollectable and the uncontrollable, which, thanks to the resources of the Andy Warhol Foundation, has been tamed after six years of work by a dedicated group of archivists and cataloguers. The Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh has aestheticised the cardboard boxes. They sit on back-lit shelves in the museum to suggest that this is not a random collection of trash that Warhol never looked at, but, in the view of the museum, is in fact a time-based art piece, comprising at least 500,000 objects that took 30 years to complete. It presents a considerably less impressive sight than British Regency period architect Sir John Soane’s museum. The architect of the Bank of England put as much effort into adapting his Lincoln’s Inn Fields house (and subsequently the two adjoining houses) to display his Hogarth paintings, a sarcophagus and his architectural models, as he did to accumulating the collection itself. The Nobel prize-winning Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s novel, The Museum of Innocence is an eloquent exploration of the hoarding end of the collecting spectrum. What initially appears to be an account of a doomed love affair, quickly reveals itself as an exploration of the meaning of collecting. The story’s main protagonist Kemal starts acquiring things when his relationship with his lover Füsun is going well. When she drops an earring, he finds it and puts it to one side. As Füsun falls out of love with him, Kemal begins an increasingly desperate accumulation of objects that record their relationship. He picks up each of the cigarettes that she smokes. When she has stopped seeing him altogether, Kemal starts hanging around at her parents’ house and stealing pieces of cutlery that she might have used.  What makes Pamuk’s book particularly remarkable is that he acquired a house in Istanbul’s Beyoğlu district that had belonged to a Greek merchant in the Ottoman era, and transformed it into a physical Museum of Innocence. It is, of course, very far from innocent; everything inside it is a lovingly created fiction. The first thing that you see once you get inside, is a wall covered with 4,213 cigarette ends, each of them carefully annotated in Pamuk’s neat handwriting, with imaginary details of the time and place they were smoked. The rest of the house is full of equally carefully fabricated objects from cosmetics to movie posters that reflect Pamuk’s vision of the modernising Turkey of the 1970s. “I think getting attached to objects happens in traumatic times and love is a trauma,” Pamuk once said. “Perhaps when they are in trouble, people hoard things.”  When Pamuk gave me a tour of his museum, he told me about meeting Warhol’s archivist, and expressed his reservations about the significance of the boxes in Pittsburgh. “Hoarding objects reaches the level of collecting only when there is a story that unites them,” he said. But that is a novelist criticising another, less narrative art form. While Freud’s desk in Hampstead was always useable, if overcrowded, the desk in fashion designer Paul Smith’s office in Covent Garden is completely overwhelmed with a snowdrift of collected objects that sweeps over an office chair, down onto the floor, and back up to the shelves that line every wall. There are stacks of books and magazines, cameras and mountains of vintage cycling jerseys. There is an i-Mac computer, a gift from Jony Ive that Smith has never used. Computers aren’t Smith’s thing. In any case, it’s too late now, short of purging half the contents of the room: there is no way to get near it. There are toy tin cars, collections of bottles from Moroccan markets, a pink bicycle and a lot of rabbits. “I once said in an interview that seeing a rabbit brings me luck, and they haven’t stopped pouring in ever since,” explains Smith. Collecting began, as did so many things in Smith’s career, with his early enthusiasm for cycling. Growing up in Nottingham in the 1950s, there was a newsagent which occasionally had a copy of L’Equipe, which would portray the heroes of the Tour de France in their yellow jerseys in colour on the cover, but in sepia inside. He bought the magazine, fascinated by the images, even if he couldn’t read it. “I can remember once saying, ‘I really like Jacques Anquetil’ to my father, which baffled him, since none of our family had ever been abroad. I saved my pocket money so that I could upgrade the gears on my bike from Simplex to Campagnolo. The box it came in was as important to me as the gear itself.”  What attracted Smith to the Campagnolo box, along with stamps and matchboxes which he has in large numbers – not just in his office but at his Nottingham HQ where he has an archivist trying to make sense of it all – is the way that designers can say so much in such a tiny space. He showed me a Japanese book of matches produced for a Tokyo nightclub in the 1970s. “It so clearly says it’s ‘contemporary’. You can hear the jazz already.”  Despite the huge assortment of assembled objects, Smith is reluctant to describe himself as a collector. “I just have a large quantity of the same things,” he says, matter of factly. “In my head, a collector is someone who selects an item or a subject. They collect them because they know a lot about them. Maybe I have a little knowledge about cycling jerseys.  In the early 1980s, on my first trips to Japan and India, I just got a bit carried away. I bought lots of Japanese furniture. In India, for some reason, I bought 15 wardrobes, and a piece of furniture that doubled as a staircase with drawers.” Smith had them all sent home on the Trans-Siberian Express.  He suggests that his is a collection that has found him. “Things collect me,” he says. “For some reason I started to be sent things, and they still keep coming.” There is an individual who regularly sends Smith artefacts that come unwrapped but covered in postage stamps. Others send him letters, toys, books and even ancient packets of razor blades. One visitor took careful photographs of his office, and later sent him a precisely detailed model of his office, complete with its chaotic contents. Smith’s London home, where he lives with his wife Pauline, is much calmer. “The house is hers. I do have one room for my stuff, but it’s mostly at the office that I get to look at things.” In 1996, patron of the arts and barrister Jill Ritblat gave the V&A Museum the largest single donation of clothes in its history, more than 1,000 items. There are ski outfits in postmodern pastel shades from the 1980s, and challenging Japanese experiments from Yohji Yamamoto and Issey Miyake, as well as couture from Dior and Saint Laurent. There is work by Alexander McQueen, Biba, Mary Quant, and Christian Lacroix, Emanuel Ungaro and Victor Edelstein, and an evening outfit produced by a dressmaker based on an idea of Ritblat’s own design.  The early days of British fashion from the 1960s are represented by Foale and Tuffin, and Zandra Rhodes, and from the 1980s by Margaret Howell and Katharine Hamnett. There is tailoring from Tommy Nutter and work by Giorgio Armani. It is by no means a complete account of contemporary fashion, but it is certainly extensive, and like the personal wardrobe that it is, combines some very special pieces made for family occasions, with more everyday wear. The connecting thread of Ritblat’s collection is Ritblat herself. These were all pieces that she had bought to wear. They were not chosen like stamps, or old masters, or celadon vases to make a self-conscious collection, but were the result of a continuing sequence of choices over time. Taken together they are a reflection of her life as an English woman of a certain background, at a particular time in the country’s history. “I never saw it as a collection, it was more like my diary, though I have never had time to write a diary. Each piece brings back memories of when I wore it,” says Ritblat. She made her first donation to the V&A at the end of 1996, but kept back the things that she wanted to be able to go on using, and they formed the core of a donation to the Design Museum of another 400 items in 2013. Ritblat is ambivalent about fashion. As a child she was somewhat self-conscious about being dressed by her mother, who had studied fashion herself. She was relieved to be able to assume the camouflage of the complex uniform rituals of an English public school for girls in the 1950s. “I loved my school uniform at Roedean; we were expected to change our clothes four times a day, as chic as anything. Scratchy afternoon dresses, regulation school loafers, very nice blazers and pleated skirts.” As a student barrister, she found herself adopting the formal uniform of the legal profession, but then as a married woman began to build a wardrobe that reflected the life that she was leading. Later, when she was making her own choices, she was early to discover Miuccia Prada. “What you pick out is based on whether it suits you and on the zeitgeist,” she explains. Smith, Heseltine and Ritblat represent three very different approaches to collecting. For Smith, the unruly mountain of things in his office, is, like the collection on Sigmund Freud’s desk, part of the tools of his imagination, a source of imagery and ideas for his work as a designer. It’s also a means of establishing his personality. Heseltine’s garden is an investment of time, resources and creativity in the remaking of a place that speaks to the future using living organisms that will outlive us all. Ritblat’s clothes are a record of the full life of an individual. All of these collections provide insights into unique people, their lives and times. In their different ways all three reflect on the nature of collecting, and its ability to be a creative activity in itself. In a world in which technology threatens to abolish the material world altogether, objects have not lost their allure. Their physical condition marks the passing of time in ways that pixels and code cannot do. Collecting is the means all of us have to create histories of our times, and even more, of ourselves. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two. 

In order to explore the mindset of the collector, Deyan Sudjic shines a light on the collected objects of Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol, and speaks to three British collectors to better understand what it is that makes collecting such a vital part of the human experience.

Exploring the mindset of the collector and why the act is a vital part of the human experience, with a focus on Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol

FONDATA: Exploring the art of collecting 

 I Collect, Therefore I Am

The headline for the latest Brunello vintage is that it was a challenging year. But don’t write it off. The vintage was an opportunity for the most sensitive and gifted vignerons to prove their mettle, producing a number of excellent wines that should not be missed. It is never easy for producers, or wine merchants for that matter, to promote the vintage following a classic. The 2016 vintage was a touchstone year for the region with a vast array of spectacular wines produced throughout the rich and varied appellation. The 2016 Riservas (also released this year) remind us again just how good the vintage was, and how it allowed both the character of the different terroirs and the style of each vigneron to strut their stuff. In comparison, 2017 was a lot less straightforward and Mother Nature threw a lot more curve balls. The beginning of the season saw some erratic temperature changes and the threat of frost on some early-budding vines.  There was drama in the town when Pietro Buffi (of Baricci) decided to lay damp hay bales around the perimeter of his vineyard; by setting fire to them, he created a smoke screen limiting the impact of the frost. The local fire brigade were called and there was much confusion, but no flames. It proved incredibly successful for him, at least. Unlike most producers, whose yields were drastically cut by the frost, Baricci lost just 10% of his normal crop. Yields for most producers are very low, not only due to the spring frost, but also the irregular weather at flowering, and the long drought and heatwave that marked the summer. For Matthew Fioretti at Cerbaiona, the elevation and exposure of his northeast-facing vineyards helped temper the hot conditions.  Even so, he admits that the 2017 Brunello was made almost entirely with his oldest vines, whose deep roots had better access to the limited water resources available. The clay-rich soils at Canalicchio di Sopra to the north eased the lack of rainfall, but no vigneron was immune to the vines shutting down at the height of summer. The concern was whether the grapes could reach full phenolic maturity by harvest. The cellars at Poggio di Sotto All the vignerons were in agreement that the arrival of rain in early September was a godsend. The rain brought the vines back to life and then it was a waiting game as the grapes pushed through to full phenolic maturity. Francesco Ripaccioli (Canalicchio di Sopra) is a strong believer that the last 20 days prior to harvest are the most crucial in determining the success or failure of a vintage.  In 2017, these last 20 days were, in his view, those of “a great vintage”, with mild temperatures during the day and substantial drops in temperature during the night, preserving acidity and aromatic complexity of the grapes. Favourable days were interrupted with a bit of rain, that was immediately dried up by the wind. Many producers we spoke to agreed – the final weeks in September brought plenty of character to the final wines. Thick skins and a nicely toasted fruit profile were, for many, positive attributes. The 2017 growing season remains fresh in the memory of Montalcino’s growers partly because the 2021 vintage was almost a carbon copy. Both vintages saw widespread frost followed by a hot and dry summer. In 2017, the drought meant that the berries were very small with high skin-to-pulp ratios, meaning lots of tannin.  The poorer examples are therefore quite dry as opposed to heavy. It is only where the grapes were resuscitated enough by rain to push through full phenolic maturity that producers could make balanced wines. For Fioretti, there were two options: either pick early and retain a bigger crop before more of the grapes’ juice evaporated, or hold out and see if the grapes took on more complexity left on the vine. He chose the latter starting on 19th September and finishing on 24th. Fioretti notes that while the fruit hadn’t reached full phenolic maturity, he was very satisfied with their ripeness in tank. With such huge variation in altitude across Poggio di Sotto’s different vineyards, the team spread their harvest over nearly a month, picking the warmer sites as early as 29th August and ending on 27th September. Although 2017 was one of the hottest and driest years ever, at Poggio di Sotto the wines have maintained excellent richness of fruit and acidity, due to rigorous selection and an elongated harvest. Based in the cooler northern district of Montalcino, Canalicchio di Sopra, another real success in 2017, picked even later, starting 25th September and finishing 6th October. It was the southern sections of Montalcino, however, that suffered the worst from the drought. The north received 300mm of rain between March and November, while the south saw just 160mm. Sangiovese is so sensitive to drought and the conditions were so drastic that parts of the south were even allowed to irrigate. The Montosoli vineyards at Canalicchio di Sopra Despite the challenges, a handful of top producers produced outstanding wine in 2017. The best examples have fully ripe tannins, a lovely crunch to the fruit and vibrant acidity. While not as fleshy as the 2016 Riservas tasted alongside, the top examples are not at all mean or lacking in concentration. Whereas in poorer examples the fruit aromas can be a little candied and sometimes a little meaty (suggesting possible issues with fermentation), others have a pleasing roasted fruit character, rather than raisined ripeness. At worst, the tannins can feel a little abrupt and hard-edged. Top producers, such as Casanova di Neri, Canalicchio di Sopra, Poggio di Sotto and Talenti have made great wines in the toughest of vintages, and their 2017s are no exception – they really are special. Wines selected wisely will give great short to mid-term drinking pleasure and should not be missed.

As the latest wines from Montalcino are released, we delve into the 2017 vintage. Talking to and tasting with leading producers at the annual Benvenuto Brunello event last November, here’s everything you need to know about a tricky year for the region’s growers

Why you shouldn’t dismiss the challenging Brunello di Montalcino 2017 vintage – and which wines are worth seeking out: Poggio di Sotto, Montosoli and more

2017 Brunello vintage report

Brunello 2017: vintage report

We caught up with the dynamic winemaker about how to define the undefinable – and why it’s determined to lead the appellation into a new era Saint-Emilion has always been difficult to define. Unlike other top terroirs of Bordeaux – Margaux with its silky tannins and aromatic flair, Pauillac with its graphite minerality and structure, and Pomerol’s opulent, rich palate – the profile of Saint-Emilion has never been so easy to identify. Beyond that, the wines can be frustratingly inconsistent in quality too, making it Bordeaux’s most idiosyncratic appellation. Beyond the variation in quality and flavour profile, a political splintering of the appellation in the last few months, resulting in three of the four Premier Grand Cru Classé A wineries (Cheval Blanc, Ausone and Angélus) withdrawing from the classification has brought further turmoil to this seemingly troubled appellation. “Perhaps,” Ch. Cheval Blanc’s Technical Director Pierre-Olivier Clouet begins, “the many idiosyncrasies of Saint-Emilion are easier to understand, when you realise it is the largest appellation in France, consisting of over 800 growers on nearly 6,000 hectares of vineyards.” Put in context, the second largest commune in France, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, is almost half that area at 3,300 hectares. Given its large area, Saint-Emilion doesn’t have the same homogeneity of soil as Bordeaux’s other appellations and it is this, Clouet believes, that goes some way in accounting for the region’s variety. While many of the top estates are situated on the limestone plateau, on the outskirts of the historic town itself, the appellation’s borders stretch way beyond this most prevalent feature and cannot be accurately defined by limestone alone. This is no more evident than with Cheval Blanc – arguably the most atypical estate in Saint-Emilion. “If the DNA of Saint-Emilion is Merlot grown on limestone, it is bizarre that Cheval Blanc is in the appellation at all,” Clouet chuckles. “We grow Cabernet Franc on clay!” Cheval Blanc sits at the appellation’s limits, four kilometres away from the limestone plateau, bordering Pomerol. But Cheval Blanc is not such an easy fit with Pomerol either. “We should have a monopole appellation,” jokes Clouet. His point is serious, however, Cheval Blanc straddles both the Right Bank’s top terroirs, yet is not typical of either. It certainly makes Cheval Blanc more difficult to explain, admits Clouet, compared to the other great estates of Bordeaux that can be defined by their parity of variety and terroir. “Pétrus is Merlot on clay soils. Lafleur is Cabernet Franc on gravel. Ausone is Cabernet Franc on limestone. Latour is Cabernet Sauvignon on clay. But Cheval Blanc is impossible to know like that, because of its range of soils,” Clouet explains. For Clouet, this multi-faceted personality gives Cheval Blanc great flexibility and is a key reason for the estate’s success and consistency. “We think we are very lucky because we can play on the two parts of the Right Bank,” he says. “Every time it’s a vintage for Merlot, we blend for Merlot. When climatic conditions are better for clay, we play with clay, so we can play with the identity of the vintage.” Cheval Blanc has 53 plots on 10 different soil types – clay, sand, gravel in varying proportions – and grows Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot. For Clouet, the DNA of Cheval Blanc is its diversity. “We are an orchestra, not a soloist. We need all our musicians to play the music.” Perhaps then, Cheval Blanc’s wide-ranging terroir makes it a fitting mascot for the heterogeneous nature of the Saint-Emilion appellation. Despite Cheval Blanc’s recent withdrawal from the classification system, Clouet is keen to emphasise that the Saint-Emilion appellation is important, and something they should continue to defend and invest time and money in. The wines of Saint-Emilion are all linked by the place – and this is much more important than variety or blend, which he feels other regions have wrongly placed emphasis on. “Each bottle of wine should tell the story of that place,” says Clouet. However varied Cheval Blanc’s terroir may be, it’s undeniable that the wine captures a distinct sense of this place. Indeed, beyond a small increase in its holdings in 2012 encapsulating a neighbouring vineyard, it is one of the few châteaux in Bordeaux whose perimeters have barely changed in 150 years. For Clouet, however, the appellation is about more than terroir, there is a “dynamic spirit” at the heart of Saint-Emilion. While not so easy to define, Clouet believes it is an appellation that has greater flexibility than others. It is often cited as the most Burgundian of the Bordeaux communes, due to the high number of small estates and the sheer number of vignerons, something which makes it a “dynamic place” in Clouet’s eyes. “It never stops thinking how to change,” he says. This, he believes, provides some great advantages. “Smaller estates have the capacity to move quickly. This is arguably the most vigneron-led place in Bordeaux.” Such dynamism in the past has certainly seen Saint-Emilion leading trends in the region, both good and bad – depending on your point of view. The garagiste movement in the early 2000s, for examples, is a fashion that continues to divide the region. But Clouet believes Saint-Emilion is an appellation ahead of its Bordeaux counterparts, leading in sustainability and the trend towards freshness and delicacy, and terroir-driven wines. That said, there’s no “recipe”, he says. “Each and every château has to find its own balance.” But, he warns: “We need to be careful and not go too far one way or the other. A new recipe is to pick too early, another is to use too little oak.” He quotes Coco Chanel, “fashion changes, style endures” – each producer should find their own identity, their own style and stay true to it. It’s essential to be opened minded, he says – but to never copy others, follow a recipe or chase trends. The current move in Saint-Emilion to plant more Cabernet Franc is a perfect example, for Clouet, where fashion is being followed foolishly. “Cabernet Franc today is probably the most trendy variety in the world. I don’t know any winemaker who doesn’t talk to us about Cabernet Franc. It seems to be the solution to global warming, but I think it is completely the opposite,” he says. For Clouet, Cabernet Franc has no capacity to adapt: in the right soil it produces top wine, but in average soil the results are terrible. The hot 2020 vintage, for Clouet, proves his point – with producers favouring Merlot over Cabernet Franc, even when the latter dominates their vineyards, pointing to Lafleur and Ausone, as well as Cheval Blanc. The warm, dry conditions didn’t favour the modish variety – and an overreliance on Cabernet Franc planted in the wrong place could prove disastrous in the face of climate change. For the already atypical estate, Cheval Blanc is looking instead at further diversifying. While Cabernet Franc is key to its identity, the estate has shifted from once having Merlot on gravel and Cabernet Franc on clay to have “everything, everywhere”. “We want to multiply the diversity,” Clouet explains. Diversification is at the heart of everything Cheval Blanc stands for today, laid out in their recently published manifesto – a clear statement of intent that unless Bordeaux moves away from monocultural farming, its future is at risk. “In the last 10 years agriculture was a problem,” says Clouet, “but I think agriculture could be the solution.” He gives carbon dioxide as an example: while there’s too much in the atmosphere, trees, vines and cover crops can be used to capture it. Clouet believes the manifesto is not just a piece of paper or marketing pamphlet, but a roadmap to show how a more sustainable approach is possible. “The biggest problem in the 20th century for agriculture was not just pesticides but monoculture.” While Cheval Blanc will continue to only earn money with their wines, admits Clouet, other crops and livestock will be used to provide “resilience, a capacity to decrease disease and problems in the vineyard”. Clouet goes on to explain how 50 years ago, trees were removed from vineyards to make it easier for tractors, but prior to this vines, trees and other plants co-existed. “Organic production is not enough today,” says Clouet, who does not want to simply return to the past. “We want to take the best of modernity.” Cheval Blanc is not organic because it believes that copper, permitted and widely used in organic viticulture to fight mildew, is more harmful than a synthetic alternative. “It’s common sense,” says Clouet. “When you use organic methods to tackle mildew you have to spray every week – it is nonsense. We try to think sensibly. The solution will be through science and research. We shouldn’t go just with philosophy. We need to be agronomic and practical to find a solution.” If the spirit of Saint-Emilion is about dynamic change, then it is fitting that the appellation’s most recognised estate is leading the charge to revolutionise the region’s approach to viticulture and safeguard its future. For Cheval Blanc, agriculture is at a crossroads. “Viticulture is at the mercy of climate change and the drastic reduction in biodiversity,” states Cheval Blanc in its manifesto. Over the last few years Cheval Blanc has been transforming its vineyards into permacultures – interplanting trees, plants, other fruits and vegetables, as well as introducing animal grazing, flower farming and beekeeping to the vineyard in an attempt to ensure soil fertility, promote diversity and capture carbon. Reading about the latest political spat over the current Grand Cru Classé system, the endless court cases and corruption charges, you would be forgiven for thinking that the spirit of Saint-Emilion is imploding. But it is the spirit of Saint-Emilion, according to Clouet, that unites this somewhat idiosyncratic appellation. Beyond the classification chaos lies a heterogenous band of vignerons, united by their diversity and dynamic approach. With the release of its manifesto, could Cheval Blanc unite the troubled appellation, with growers working together towards a fully sustainable, future-proof Bordeaux? Cheval Blanc certainly hopes so.

Saint-Emilion is arguably Bordeaux’s most idiosyncratic appellation. But, as Cheval Blanc’s Pierre-Olivier Clouet tells us, it’s the region’s heterogeneity that makes it so exciting.

Defining Saint-Emilion and the way forward for the appellation. Cheval Blanc’s Clouet tells us, it’s the region’s heterogeneity that makes it so exciting.

Strength in diversity: the winemaking at Cheval Blanc

Strength in diversity: Cheval Blanc

The name Andrew Rankin might not mean much to the average whisky drinker. But mention him to the whisky world – the one that exists behind the public glare, and is largely reliant on lasting relationships and mutual respect – and there’ll be little doubt who you’re referring to.   Throughout his career, Rankin has worked for two of the biggest names in the industry: Chivas Brothers and Morrison Bowmore. When we speak, on an overcast Monday in early November, he tells me it’s 47 years to the day that he joined the ranks as a trainee blender at Chivas.  It’s hard to imagine a wet-behind-the-ears Rankin embarking on his “old-fashioned proper blending training”. He remembers those days fondly, tasting hundreds of different distillates – including malts and grains from Scotland and the US – from the vast library, and getting stuck in with every aspect of the production process from distillation to the vatting and cask dumping. It wasn’t long before the young Rankin found his passion: casks.   “There was a lot of not-very-good wood filled in the industry way back in the 1970s and ’80s,” he tells me. “Even in those early days, I pushed to get some better quality wood in the system.”   Rankin learned from the old guard at Chivas who’d spent their life in the industry. In the early 1990s, he moved to Morrison Bowmore in a General Manager role, concentrating on blending, inventory management and, most importantly, cask trading. He spent 22 “lovely years” at the company until his position became untenable when Suntory (“in their infinite wisdom”, Rankin says wryly) decided to buy Morrison Bowmore’s owners Beam in 2014.   Rankin says the whole dynamic changed overnight and the decision to move global management of all spirits – including whisky – under American management in Chicago was the final straw for him, Chief Executive Mike Keiller and Finance Director Douglas Crawford, who all walked that same year. Rankin says he “doesn’t want to get into it all” but does say part of his motivation to leave was the fact he didn’t want to work for an American-managed company that late in his career – having already experienced a similar takeover with Chivas and Seagram many years earlier.   Rankin is a loquacious Scotsman. When you land on the right subject, he can talk endlessly with such knowledge and humour that it’s easy to lose track of time. In fact, when a small team from FINE+RARE visited his new distillery project, Ardross, in August, we did just that. One thing he doesn’t talk about, without great coaxing, is his immense success. This includes but is in no way limited to his work on Bowmore Black, the Trilogy releases, and the 50-year-old. He is a humble man, and has quite intentionally stepped back from the limelight, while some of his counterparts have been drawn to it.   Since setting up his own company in 2014, Rankin has not stopped working. Undoubtedly his biggest project has been Ardross, a new distillery in the Scottish Highlands. Rankin was given the mandate (and a healthy budget of £30m) to find a home for the new distillery by Ardross Single Cask Society founder Barth Brosseau. He found the dilapidated 50-acre site, which was formerly a farm, with its own seven-acre loch and moved heaven and earth to turn it into the stunning distillery we see today.   Rankin says the project has, and continues to be, “much much bigger” than he originally anticipated, and what started out as a little tree constantly grows branches all over the place. But, he says, it has been his biggest achievement to date.   The latest unwieldy branch is a second, small-batch distillery that is being built on the Ardross site, destined to become the Creative Suite – exclusively for Single Cask Society Members’ use. Once completed, it will be capable of producing 250 casks a year of almost any style of whisky that a Society Member could desire. When it is up and running, likely by the end of next year, Society members will be able to call Rankin or visit him at the distillery to discuss their requirements. He will advise them on certain elements and Sandy Jamieson – Ardross’s Distillery Manager with near-50 years’ experience, and hands-down one of the most hospitable people you will meet – will get involved in the “nittier grittier side of the distillation”.  “Society members have the flexibility of different malt styles, of different grain stills, of different blend styles, and the multi-cask options that we’ll have available,” Rankin says. “But always without getting to the gimmicky stage,” he adds gravely.   This is a word that comes up a lot in our conversations – “gimmicky”. Rankin is, by his own admission, a traditionalist and has baulked at the changes in the whisky industry over the past 47 years.    “In my mind, a gimmicky type thing that lets you say we were the first in the world to do x only lasts a day and then it’s old news,” he says. “So everything we do falls within traditional methods – but pushing the boundaries a wee bit in terms of the styles of whisky.”  After spending a number of hours with Rankin, you can tell he’s not the type to mince his words – his standards are exacting, and he’s been around the block enough times to know when he’s being sold a pony. For these reasons, and many more, he’s unafraid to tell Brosseau – who he on occasion butts heads with – and Society members what he thinks.      It’s this straight-talking, mixed with an unwavering sense of tradition, that has stood him in such good stead throughout his career. Relationships formed over the past four decades have been vital to getting Ardross off the ground and saved his bacon – and the whisky producers he’s worked for – countless times.   “I always made it my policy to not sit on the end of the phone negotiating prices or volumes never having met the person that’s at the other end,” he tells me. “I’ve made it a policy that we’d go and visit all the major suppliers. We’d have dinner with them. We’d get to know them.”  When Rankin first started visiting Kentucky – a place he has a real fondness for and has undoubtedly influenced elements of the Ardross build – the state was just coming back from a real depression. He got to know a lot of people in the cooperages and distilleries, and many of these relationships last to this day. You sense it is this longevity and being around throughout hardship that has fortified these ties. The same is likely true of Japan. Enviably, Rankin has a relationship with one of the oldest independent cooperages in Japan, from whom he sources a steady amount of the mystical Mizunara cask – something many producers would give their right arm for. As quite a coup, Ardross filled some of its first runs of new-make spirit into Mizunara in 2020.   Rankin is too humble to go into detail but he does say these relationships have proven useful over the years. “If barley is in short supply, which it was not that many years ago,” he says, “because of our relationship, we would always get priority. If casks were in short supply, we’d always get the priority.”   Sadly, this way of working is something Rankin sees diminishing in most industries. “Everything is done via Zoom and telephone and internet now,” he bemoans. “Having listened to some of COP26, the environmentalists will say that’s a good thing, you’re not using air travel, but there has got to be a balance.”  Another change Rankin “isn’t keen on” is “the quest to get something different all the time”. “All the limited releases,” he says downcast. “The best limited release now is the standard edition because [producers] push everything else and don’t push the standard edition,” he only half jokes.  “Make no mistake, Barth and I have had a lot of serious heated discussions on various things like all the different wines and tequila [finishes]. It’s not traditional,” he says impassioned. “Why would we want to put a perfectly good product into a cask that’s had tequila maturing for six months?”   He pauses for what seems like an eternity, and I’m unsure if he wants an answer, before he, mercifully, continues: “I ask the question and I’ll get the response that it’s what the modern market wants. To which I respond: ‘says who?’”  Throughout his career, Rankin says he’s always stuck to the more traditional casks, like Sherry and Port. But he’s quick to say that the market is a minefield, and you need to proceed with caution as producers are often offloading casks for a reason.   “Even Port is one that would be low down of my list of things to use,” he says. “Because historically, Port producers don’t generate a lot of casks. They only generate them when they are clearing a warehouse out. The casks will be sold to people in the whisky industry when there is absolutely no maturation left in them at all, so you’re achieving nothing by finishing in those types of casks.”   Rankin says the only chance you have of producing a decent whisky, or at the very least not ruining the good one you’ve got, is to deal with certain individuals who will give you a cask that’s not spent.   He tells me some horror stories from the Glasgow facility where he warehouses and oversees cask operations. “We see some of the casks come in, and we’ve gotta send it back. They’ll say the Sherry casks are new. They’re not. They are probably the oldest casks that have been lying in that bodega. I have to say to the client, ‘Trust me, you’ll lose half your whisky because it’s not good wood, it’s very porous-looking, the smell inside them is slightly sour and you can’t get rid of that. But, it’s your gamble’.” Unsurprisingly, they heed his advice and make another call pretty sharpish.   He adds: “You’ve just got to know what you’re looking for and be careful. Because you can ruin a perfectly good whisky.”   It’s rare to meet somebody with such candour in or out of the whisky industry. Hand on heart, I can’t think of a person I’d rather entrust to guide me when deciding what to do with my whisky.   Learn more about Ardross or read more Editorial 

After working as Master Blender for some of the biggest names in the industry, Andrew Rankin knows a thing or two about good whisky – and good casks. He tells Holly Motion why strong relationships and traditional values are far more important to him than being a whisky personality

The ex-Bowmore Master Blender Andrew Rankin talks about working for some of the biggest names in the whisky industry and tells us why relationships are key.

Ex-Bowmore Master Blender Andrew Rankin on casks

The great Scotsman

The 2020 vintage is exceptional. Not only was it the earliest harvest on record, but the entire growing season – from start to finish – took place almost a month earlier than is typical. This meant véraison (the all-important ripening period of the grapes, when they change colour) took place in July and August as opposed to August and September.  This is significant because the angle of the sun is different, higher and therefore stronger, and the daytime hours longer, marking a fundamental shift in the annual lifecycle of the vine. It resulted in a contracted growing season and for many, lay the foundations of future vintages in a warming climate. For practically all producers, it was the earliest harvest ever. For many producers, all the grapes were in by the end of August. For the historic Bouchard estate, who have detailed records stretching back to 1731, 2020 was the earliest harvest in 300 years. Fortunately, this shift forward in the growing season didn’t seem to negatively impact quality – in fact, for many, it proved to be hugely beneficial. The Chardonnay, in particular, was largely unaffected by the shift both in terms of quantity and quality.  Pinot Noir suffered more with the drought, resulting in a drop in yield – quite drastically in some cases – but the quality, like the growing season, was exceptional, and for all the right reasons – the grapes reached full maturity, retaining lots of acidity, while also remaining very Burgundian in style. An early, hot spring kicked off the season, with the vines budding around a month earlier than normal (circa 14th April). Bouchard’s Frédéric Weber emphasised just how early and rare this is. The risk with an early season is frost: fortunately, unlike in 2021, the temperature didn’t drop too much, and there was little damage between budding and flowering. The warm weather continued and a mini heatwave in May affected some. At Domaine des Lambrays, Jacques Devauges blamed the heat for the coulure (poor fruit set, resulting in not all the flowers forming into grapes), which led to a significant drop in yields. Hudelot-Noëllat’s yields were also impacted by coulure and millerandage (resulting in fewer berries per bunch).  Pierre Duroché suffered similar issues in Gevrey-Chambertin, but for him this was not unusual. “My vines are so old, not every flower results in grapes but I am happy with this as it means there is no grape compaction on the bunches – keeping fruit intact,” he explained. With little frost or hail, the growing season is marked only by the lack of significant rain. Most of the Côte d’Or saw little to no rainfall during a warm but not excessively hot summer season. The dry conditions meant mildew and oidium were kept at bay, and there was very little disease pressure.  For many, the drought and heat saw the vines shut down for a period of time. Some believe this self-preservation effort is why the acidity levels remain high and the alcohol levels moderate, as the vines pressed pause on ripening, avoiding excessive sugar formation in the berries. Most of the wines are a full percentage less in alcohol compared to 2019, with reds averaging 13.5% and whites 13.2% at Bouchard, and acidity levels in the whites as high as the much-praised 2014s. For those whose vines could cope with the drought (and this varied drastically from vineyard to vineyard, rootstock to rootstock), the growing season was easy to manage – particularly when compared to the horror show of 2021, from which vignerons are still recovering. The drought in 2020, however, is significant for the yields of Pinot Noir. On the poorest soils – typically the most exposed Grand Cru sites, with minimal topsoil and therefore poor water retaining properties – the vines suffered excessive hydric stress.  On the Grands Crus of Clos Saint-Denis and Clos de la Roche, Domaine Georges Lignier’s Benoît Stehly watched helplessly as the leaves dropped off the vine mid-August, allowing the sunshine to burn his grapes. His production was almost halved on these exposed sites. (In fact, he produced more wine in 2021 than 2020.) Lignier seems to have suffered more than most producers we visited, although, on average, Pinot Noir yields were down by up to 40%. The northern wind in August was another significant factor, dehydrating the grapes, producing high levels of fruit and acid concentration, as well as thicker skins. The whites generally coped much better with the drought. Chardonnay clearly adapted to a drier season more easily, with yields for many at full capacity and the quality outstanding. For Guillaume Boillot at Henri Boillot, “C’est le top.” He describes the finished wines as “hyper-dynamic and balanced”. It was Boillot’s earliest harvest since 2003, beginning on 19th August, with all the grapes picked in nine days. They were not the only domaine to point out the similarities to 2014 when it comes to the freshness in the whites. While most picked the white wines in the third week of August, picking dates of the Pinot seemed to vary greatly and not only depending on location. The drought saw particular sites cope much better than others within the same appellation. More generally though, the Côte de Beaune Pinots were picked in August, whereas in the Côte de Nuits, vignerons either opted to pick before the rain in late August, or after.  Maxime Cheurlin at Domaine Georges Noëllat waited until the rains arrived on 28th August and picked as late as September 8th. Lamarche, Hudelot-Noëllat and Gros Frère & Soeur also waited. For Cheurlin, the rain helped completely change the phenolic character of the Pinot Noir – resulting in the finest wines he has ever made.  Like Cheurlin, Nicole Lamarche, in these drier vintages, has come to see the rain as her friend. With moderate alcohol levels from all but a few producers, it certainly wasn’t racing sugar levels that forced an early harvest for the Pinot. The 2020 vintage could mark the start of a more permanent shift in Burgundy’s growing season. If that’s the case, the results, for now, are encouraging. As Jacques Devauges of Domaine des Lambrays said at the end of our tasting: “If 2020 is the future of Burgundy, where do I sign?” Browse all available Burgundy

No two growing seasons are alike – but the 2020 vintage in Burgundy was particularly unusual (and also remarkably easy for its vignerons). We delve into the conditions that shaped the year’s wines

Exploring what made the 2020 Burgundy wine vintage so unique

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