Inspired by a Russian, first made by a Hungarian, who was succeeded by a Frenchman and then a German, the winemaking lineage at Masseto has been decidedly international – until now, that is. Since January 2024, the leading Super Tuscan and Ornellaia’s sibling estate has had its first native at the helm: Marco Balsimelli – born in Arezzo, not far from Siena, took the reins from longtime Production Director Axel Heinz.  Balsimelli comes with his own illustrious pedigree, having long been based in Bordeaux, working at Gruaud Larose and, since 2010, alongside the famous Eric Boissenot as a consultant winemaker to many of the region’s leading estates, but the chance to work at Ornellaia and Masseto – iconic names from his Tuscan homeland – was an opportunity he couldn’t turn down.  It was André Tchelistcheff (the Russian-born Napa winemaker) who first suggested to Lodovico Antinori that a particular hill on the Ornellaia estate would be perfect for Merlot. Tchelistcheff was consulting for Antinori, and recognised the potential of the parcel of blue clay – the same soil that is synonymous with Pétrus. Back then, in the 1980s, Merlot was barely planted in Tuscany and remained an unknown quantity in the region, with only Castello di Ama – based further inland in Chianti Classico – having some vines (today used for its flagship L’Apparita). Nevertheless, the Ornellaia team took a chance and planted most of the seven-hectare swathe of clay in 1984 (additional planting took place in 1995).  The first vintage of Merlot from the site was made in 1987: Masseto was born. The name comes from “masso”, Italian for rock, after the large boulder-like clumps of clay that dot the vineyard’s surface. It didn’t take long for the wine to earn international acclaim, with Wine Spectator giving the 2001 vintage 100 points, and its place was cemented in vinous history.  Although Tchelistcheff consulted until 1989, replaced by Michel Rolland from 1991, Hungarian Tibor Gál was the property’s first winemaker. Gál was succeeded by Thomas Duroux (now of Ch. Palmer), who in 2005 passed the baton to Axel Heinz, the German-born winemaker who preceded Balsimelli. The property has changed hands over the years too, with the Mondavi family taking a share in 1999 before buying it outright from Lodovico Antinori, and selling it onto the Frescobaldi family, who took full ownership of Ornellaia and Masseto from 2005.  Much might have changed, but the terroir hasn’t. “It’s a very special site,” Balsimelli tells me. The all-important clay dominates the topsoil, which is only about a metre deep. When it rains, the clay swells, making it near impossible for the vines’ roots to develop. High sodium levels in the soils only accentuate the problem. “For the roots, it’s a battle every day,” he says. It’s that struggle, he feels, that you can taste in the concentrated, high-acid fruit from the site.  The climate is key too, lying just 10 kilometres from the Tyrrhenian Sea. Fresh marine breezes mean the temperature is around 5°C lower than that in central Tuscany, with a drop of circa 15°C from day to night. Combine this with the light reflected off the sea, and you get a long growing season, preserving aromatics and acidity, yet encouraging phenolic ripeness – wines that combine perfume and power. Surrounded by forest, there is a reason that Masseto is run as an entirely separate project to Ornellaia, with its own unique identity – even if it has always shared a winemaker (and, until 2019, a winery) with its sibling estate.  For Balsimelli, the project has provided a fresh challenge. The shift away from a consultant role – no longer offering advice before moving on to the next project, but sitting with each and every decision – adds a new weight of responsibility. “I spend a lot of time thinking about the technical questions and the consequences,” he tells me. Since most of his work with Boissenot had been based on Bordeaux’s Left Bank, focused on Cabernet-driven blends from larger estates, working with a small property, focused on just one variety and various sub-plots is a different sort of jigsaw puzzle. The approach, for him, is much more Burgundian – all about expressing the purity of the site and its blue clay. “You have to be perfect with only one type of soil and one grape variety,” he explains.  The quest for perfection was started long ago at Masseto and today the vines average between 20 and 30 years in age. They’ve also been moving from cordon-trained to bush vines – first trialled in 2008 and something which they have found helps temper the effects of global warming (coping better in dry conditions and shading the fruit from the heat of the sun). Farmed organically since 2012, there has also been a significant focus on encouraging biodiversity across the site, including using cover crops to reduce soil compaction, increase organic matter and retain humidity in the soils.  Balsimelli’s first vintage was 2024, which won’t be released until 2027. But he’s clearly excited by the site, as well as how he can tweak and improve a wine that is already lauded by critics and consumers. “When you taste old vintages of Masseto, you can feel the legacy, taste the terroir,” he says – and that’s exactly what he wants to do moving forward, channelling the Boissenot philosophy: understanding a piece of land and finding the best solution to express it in the glass. For him, that solution will be all about accentuating the wine’s elegance.  He notes how there was – across the world of wine – a trend towards low yield and high levels of maturity in the early 2000s, but his preferred vintages are those that saw more balance. The 2006, for example, is his favourite at the moment – a year with more rainfall, more vigour, and – he feels – more energy as a result. It’s a vintage that he believes is “the key for the future”.  The site is one that can ripen quickly, and he plans to focus on freshness, maybe picking a little earlier, reducing extraction and lowering temperatures for maceration. The 2022 is the vintage set to be released this September – a wine that Balsimelli notes shows just how good the site is – performing even in tricky conditions such as 2022’s hot growing season. It is, he says, “the magic of Massseto”. Magic it may be, but Balsimelli is set on elevating this special estate even further.   Explore all current listings of Masseto or read more Editorial 

Often considered the Pétrus of Italy, Masseto is a wine like no other. Ahead of the new release, we sat down with Marco Balsimelli – the man at the helm today – to talk about the special site and what lies ahead for the Super Tuscan 

Talking to the Super Tuscan’s new Production Director Marco Balsimelli about Masseto, Ornellaia sibling estate and its unique Merlot wines

The magic of Masseto - Marco Balsimelli

The magic of Masseto

Maylis Marcenat does not fit the stereotype for a Bordeaux producer. Lively, down-to-earth and humble, she’s as unstuffy as they come. She is the fourth generation of her family to run Clos de Sarpe – a small Grand Cru Classé Saint-Emilion estate that has long gone under the radar.  The history of Clos de Sarpe  The Clos de Sarpe name first appeared in 1897, given by a Monsieur A. Ducarpe to his property on the Sarpe plateau. Baron Henri du Foussat de Bogeron bought the vineyard in 1905, merging it with the vines of nearby Badette to create Ch. Haut-Sarpe. Jean Beyney bought Clos de Sarpe in 1923 and revived the original name. His son, Yvan Beyney, took over in 1952, who in turn passed the property to his son Jean-Guy Beyney in 1986. Jean-Guy still owns the estate today but retired in 2021, handing it over to Marcenat, who is his niece. (Jean-Guy has a son, Charles, who gives his name to the property’s second wine and will inherit Clos de Sarpe eventually but isn’t interested in running it day to day.)  The style of the Clos de Sarpe wines through the ages  The style and winemaking have evolved over time – with each generation putting their own stamp on the wines. In the early days, the wine was all whole-bunch fermented, with long macerations (40 to 50 days) and spent several years in concrete tank before bottling. Indeed, under Yvan, this continued. He only sold wine to those who could store the wine properly, and as such some wines spent extended periods of time in tank – the 1966 was in concrete for 10 years, for example. Yvan looked for purity of fruit, picking comparatively late (he was always proud to say he picked at the same time as Figeac, Marcenat says) and didn’t ever use oak. The wines were hard in their youth, needing time to soften, yet having great stability from their long élevage.  Under Marcenat’s uncle, who arrived in 1986, things started to change – with the late 1990s a pivotal moment. Jean-Guy favours powerful wines and reduced the amount of time the wines spent in tank, introducing de-stemming (gradually, from 1997, at first all done by hand) and oak barrels – with the élevage shifting from all concrete to 100% new oak between 1997 and 1999. He hired Michel Rolland to consult from 1998, and reduced yields – cropping a maximum 25hl/ha.  In 2005, Jean-Guy introduced a mechanical destemmer and densimetric sorting  – both of which contributed to a significant shift in quality, and everything has been destemmed since 2010, to encourage a rounder tannin profile in youth. In 2012, the property was granted Grand Cru Classé status – recognising their efforts. Marcenat joined the team officially in 2014, bringing her own vision, pushing for further change from 2016 and finally taking full control in 2021.  Clos de Sarpe today  The Clos de Sarpe vineyards cover 3.68 hectares, all in one block on the Sarpe plateau and south/southeast facing, just a kilometre from the village of Saint-Emilion itself and close to both TrotteVieille and Troplong Mondot, as well as Sansonnet and Haut-Sarpe.  The topsoil is thin here – with just 20cm in places – and lies over limestone bedrock, which contributes to the very high acidity of the wines (normally with a low pH of 3.2-3.4). Over half of the vineyard is between 60 and 80 years old, with the oldest Cabernet Franc now over 100 years in age, planted by Marcenat’s great-great-uncle in 1923.   The vine age combines with the limestone bedrock to help this site weather hot, dry conditions – a particular boon as the climate shifts. The limestone acts like a sponge, holding water, and the roots reach deep into the bedrock, accessing these reserves. Yields are naturally low given the age of the vines, and recent vintages have seen some tiny yields but Marcenat aims for around 35hl/ha in a good year (more than under her uncle and the Rolland influence).  To preserve the age of the vineyard, Marcenat is gradually starting to replant the site. As part of this project, she has added a little more Cabernet Franc, as well as a tiny portion of Petit Verdot. Previously 85% Merlot and 15% Cabernet Franc, today the vineyard comprises 78% Merlot, 20% Cabernet Franc and 2% Petit Verdot.   The family has always worked organically, with no pesticides or herbicides ever used, but the vineyard has been officially certified since the 2020 vintage – something that is of particular importance to Marcenat. For her, the work is all done in the vineyard rather than the winery and the philosophy very Burgundian, with everything kept as simple as possible.  The team is tiny and Marcenat does almost everything herself, supported by Frank Bartolomucci. Today the fruit is all picked by hand, chilled overnight, destemmed and then density-sorted. Each parcel is vinified separately, with most fermented in the concrete tanks that have been used since the 1950s, however the oldest Cabernet Franc is fermented in a 600-litre new oak barrel. She only uses indigenous yeast so fermentations are slow, at least 10 days generally. Maceration times are long, with the wine normally spending around 40, and up to 50 days on the skins, depending on the vintage, but with very gentle extraction. Malolactic fermentation can be challenging with the low pH, so she routinely has to inoculate to force this through (malolactic is essential for wine stability, particularly for wine intended for long ageing).  The portion of new oak has been toned down, with Marcenat ageing the wine for a year in around 70% new oak, with the rest in second-fill barrels (and occasionally some concrete if required). It is then blended together and aged in concrete for around six months prior to bottling without filtration. The oak is all 228-litre Burgundian barrels (versus Bordeaux’s traditional 225 litres), largely Tronçais oak from the cooper Taransaud. Marcenat feels Burgundian barrels pair better with the wine, liking the thicker staves and longer seasoning (30 months versus the 24 that is the norm for Bordeaux).  The Clos de Sarpe wines today  Clos de Sarpe makes two wines: the eponymous Grand Vin and a second wine, Charles de Sarpe, which was introduced in 1997, named after Charles Beyney – Jean-Guy’s son and Marcenat’s cousin. Up to and including the 2015 vintage, the second wine was a saignée of the Grand Vin, used to increase the concentration of the Grand Vin. Since then, it has only been made in certain vintages when there is enough fruit to make a second wine – such as 2019 and 2023.  While most producers will talk about the freshness in their wines coming from the Cabernet Franc, for Marcenat it is the Merlot that brings the acidity, while the Cabernet Franc provides the wine’s structure.  Tasting Clos de Sarpe back to the 1960s, the site’s freshness shines through consistently, as well as a distinctive earthy minerality. The purity of a wine like the 1966 is extraordinary – and it’s holding up beautifully today. You can still see traces of the immense structure the 1975 and 1988 must have had in their youth – providing a gentle grip today alongside their savoury intensity. While the wines were significantly more powerful in style in the late 1990s and 2000s, that power feels balanced today, the 100% new oak integrated and unobtrusive – and the 2001 a particular standout. The 2010 and 2015 vintages of Charles de Sarpe are beautiful wines, with a softer feel and elegance – juice that would be worthy of many Grands Vins.   These wines might once have been known for their power and punch, but Marcenat has tweaked the style, leaning into the natural freshness of the site. She looks for silky tannins and a purity that makes the wines more approachable in youth. It is, she will tell you, very simply the wine she likes and wants to make. Tasting the wines en primeur since she took over suggests that only good things lie ahead here. With each vintage, Marcenat’s imprint on the wines feels clearer and quality belies the growing season’s conditions, testament to both her talent and the terroir.  A note on the Clos de Sarpe labels  As you can see in the line-up for this tasting (below), the labels have changed over the years. The oldest wines made under Yvan Beyney bear a very traditional label, which changed in 1986 to have a blue border when Jean-Guy (Marcenat’s uncle) took over. When the style of wine shifted in the 1990s, Jean-Guy changed the label again (from the 1998 vintage) to one with a gold foil border. The current label was introduced in 2012 when the property achieved Grand Cru Classé status.   The vertical tasting: Clos de Sarpe 1966-2015  2015 Charles de Sarpe: Maylis Marcenat recalls the 2015 harvest vividly – as it took place around the same time that she gave birth to her twin daughters. It was the last vintage in which the second wine was produced as a saignée of the Grand Vin, echoing its proportions of 85% Merlot and 15% Cabernet Franc, and effectively a less powerful version, aged in 50% new oak and 50% one-year-old oak. The wine is still lithe and vibrant, offering bright red berries on the nose. The palate displays more savoury tones, with macerated red plum and a fine chalky coating of tannins, cut by bright acidity that drives through to a mouthwatering finish. This is in a beautiful spot now.   2015 Clos de Sarpe: The typical blend of 85% Merlot and 15% Cabernet Franc (as with every vintage shown in this vertical), the 2015 Clos de Sarpe was aged in 100% new oak. As you might guess from the élevage and the power of the vintage, this is not a shy and retiring wine – yet Clos de Sarpe’s trademark acidity drives through its core and balances the wine’s intensity. It still feels youthful, packed with dark cherry fruit on the compact nose, that gradually offers sweeter, scented tones with time in the glass. There’s a solidity to the palate – with a mass of rich, concentrated fruit, yet there’s a juiciness here to that makes it mouthwatering, with a sweet plumpness. It’s round and full, with a firm grip of tannin on the finish. Decant to enjoy now, with plenty of air, but this will unfurl over the next decade and beyond.  2010 Charles de Sarpe: The 2010 vintage was the first in which the fruit was all destemmed at Clos de Sarpe. Tasting the second wine with winemaker Maylis Marcenat, she can’t help but wonder why her uncle didn’t put such gorgeous juice into the Grand Vin. It’s a supple, beautiful example of mature Saint-Emilion now – the nose subtle, shifting between sweet fruit, lifted florals and black truffle complexity. The palate is long and balanced, beautifully resolved, seamless and soft, still with mouthwatering freshness and an earthy mineral edge to the long finish. Lovely.  2001 Clos de Sarpe: This was a standout in our vertical – and a wine that holds a special place for Marcenat. As she told us, “For me, it’s better than 2000 – with more freshness, more balance, more everything.” The 100% new oak is integrated, with the nose now showing plenty of tertiary complexity: iron, sousbois and a subtle leafiness mingles with the still fresh, soft strawberry fruit. There’s a transparency here, yet still plenty of concentration – the palate still lithe with soft, plummy red fruit and high juicy acidity that supports the fruit and fills the long finish, complemented by an earthy note. Superb.  1998 Clos de Sarpe: This was one of the first vintages to be aged in oak, seeing 80% new wood for its élevage. It was a great vintage for the Right Bank – as is clear from this wine. The 1998 Clos de Sarpe is beautifully mature, with savoury, leathery aromas and darker bramble fruit versus the more red-fruited 2001 shown alongside. The palate has a savoury iron seam, the tannins still offering a satisfying chewy grip to frame the juicy hedgerow fruit. This blossomed in the glass, revealing further complexity and vibrancy. Long, balanced and very impressive.  1988 Clos de Sarpe: The 1988 vintage offered few challenges and is a fairly classic year. It comes from the era when Clos de Sarpe was all whole-bunch fermented and saw no oak (aged only in concrete) – as with the two vintages below. There was a slight mustiness to this wine at first, but gradually the wine revealed its true character, with sweet, dried fruit and intense, savoury notes – an umami richness reminiscent of marmite. There is still surprising structure and power here, although the wine isn’t quite as concentrated as the 1998, for example. The acidity keeps things fresh, with the scent of truffle and undergrowth lingering on the finish.  1975 Clos de Sarpe: This was recorked in 2020. The 1975 vintage produced some particularly tannic wines – and you can still feel the structure of the year here, with a phenolic grip that frames the palate. The nose is intensely savoury, appealing to lovers of old-school Bordeaux with barnyard and horse leather, gradually revealing a herbal lift – something almost menthol-like. Although this is firmly tertiary in profile, there’s still vibrancy to the palate, with soft waves of fruit and an iron-edged finish.  1966 Clos de Sarpe: Some older vintages of Clos de Sarpe spent extended periods of time in tank before bottling – as is the case with this 1966, which stayed in concrete for almost 10 years. It was recorked in 2019 and is an amazing wine that is singing today. The nose still offers surprising fruit purity – soft, cooked plum and deeper bramble fruit, as well as savoury sousbois and – with time in the glass – liquorice and an almost marmite intensity. It’s ripe and vibrant, with amazing freshness on the palate, the tannins are seamlessly integrated with the sweet fruit. Long, supple and balanced, a beautiful wine to drink now.     Explore all current listings of Clos de Sarpe or read more about Bordeaux 

Few people have heard of Ch. Clos de Sarpe – and even fewer have followed its evolution in recent years. We sat down with Maylis Marcenat – the fourth generation of her family to run the 3.7-hectare estate – to taste through a vertical and explore the site’s identity through the ages 

Exploring the evolution of this tiny Saint-Emilion estate through a six-decade vertical tasting of the wines with winemaker Maylis Marcenat 

Tasting through six decades of Ch. Clos de Sarpe 

Six decades of Clos de Sarpe 

Bordeaux is incredibly varied – with hugely different styles of wine produced across its appellations. Here, we run through everything you really need to know about each of the main subregions – and the best estates in each  

Explore Bordeaux, subregions, their wines and top estates – in Saint-Estephe, Pauillac, Saint-Julien, Margaux, Graves, Pessac-Leognan, Pomerol, Saint-Emilion 

Your guide to Bordeaux’s subregions, wines and top producers

Your guide to Bordeaux’s subregions   

Making Champagne is different. More than any other wine, it’s a long-term game. The region’s cellar masters don’t see the fruits of their labour for years, even decades, depending on the wine; their work closer to that of a master distiller rather than most winemakers.  “It humbles you – you are not the superstar. The superstar is definitely the Champagne,” Elise Losfelt – who took over as Cellar Master at Champagne Charles Heidsieck earlier this year – tells me. She has just done her first blends for the prestigious House, with wines selected by her predecessor, Cyril Brun – and those blends won’t be tasted by the rest of the world for as long as eight years, when it comes to the vintage wine.   With three young children (aged three, four and six), Losfelt’s home life is very much about the here and now, but the world of Champagne gives her the chance to slow down; “Putting myself in a timeline – not just in today,” she explains. Losfelt has big shoes to fill, following in the footsteps of Brun, who arrived at Charles Heidsieck in 2015 and helped steer the House into a new, more prosperous era, including the re-introduction of the property’s Champagne Charlie cuvée. He has since caused a stir in the world of sparkling wine by being the first Champenois ex-pat to move to Italy, taking on a new role at Ferrari (one of the top names in Trento DOC).  Similarly to Brun (who came from Veuve Clicquot), Losfelt arrives from one of the Moët Hennessy properties, Moët & Chandon. Also like Brun, wine runs in her blood – she’s the seventh generation to make wine, with her mother at the helm of the family estate, Ch. de l’Engarran in the Languedoc.   Losfelt spent over a decade at Moët & Chandon, a business which became “a place that feels like family”; but when the phone rang and it was a job offer from Charles Heidsieck… “I had to grab it,” she tells me. Not only has she always loved the Charles Heidsieck Champagnes, but it was over a glass of 1995 Blanc des Millénaires that she and her husband first connected, back in 2014.  For the majority of her time at Moët & Chandon she was the Head of Vinfication, preparing the wines for the cellar master, responsible for much of the winemaking – almost everything but the final blend. It was the scientific side of winemaking that had attracted her originally, but the lure of this unexplored artistic side of the job, combined with her emotional tie to the wines, made the opportunity impossible to resist. It was, as she told me, time to leave her “first family” to take on a new challenge.   For her, Charles Heidsieck stands apart from others for its endless complexity. “It’s a Champagne that doesn’t offer you just one facet, doesn’t offer you just one aroma, or just one characteristic of aromas… it’s everything together,” she explains. While the brief for something like Moët Impérial is to craft a consistent and fresh, vibrant wine, her brief at Charles Heidsieck is for “profoundness”. Even at the non-vintage level, she is looking for wine that would meet many Houses’ vintage standards; the aim is to consistently exceed quality expectations.  Talking about trends in the region today, I enquired whether there were any plans for Charles Heidsieck to follow in the footsteps of Louis Roederer, Krug or Jacquesson – creating numbered non-vintage releases, highlighting the base vintage and variation between years, rather than the consistency historically seen as desirable. There are no plans for imminent changes, but the House has – since the 1990s, under Chef de Cave Daniel Thibaut – had the “mis en cave” date, the year in which the bottle was laid down in the cellar for secondary fermentation to get underway. As for adding tirage or disgorgement dates: “This is a question for me in five years,” Losfelt says, with an unrushed shrug.  For this new Chef de Cave, it is only the beginning – with much to learn, test and try before any changes are made. Losfelt’s job is a little like the now-famous Patek Philippe advert, she tells me; she’s just keeping the seat warm for the next generation, inheriting the work of her predecessors and creating the tools for those that will follow her. As she tells me, “Every step of the way, one choice makes a difference.”  As we await the first releases bearing her fingerprint, there’s no doubt she’ll be working tirelessly to preserve and further Charles Heidsieck’s legacy. “Until it’s tasted, and it's good, I will not rest,” she says, a clear sense of responsibility for the weight on her shoulders. We, like Losfelt, will just have to wait and see.   Explore all current Charles Heidsieck listings, or read more about Champagne

Earlier this year, Champagne Charles Heidsieck announced that Elise Losfelt would be replacing Cyril Brun as Chef de Cave. We sat down with her to talk about her journey and why patience is most certainly a virtue when it comes to crafting fine Champagne

We spoke to Elise Losfelt, the newly crowned Chef de Cave for Champagne Charles Heidsieck, about why patience is a virtue when it comes to making Champagne

Talking to Charles Heidsieck’s Elise Losfelt

A waiting game: Champagne Charles Heidsieck

Last year, the great and the good gathered at the ancestral home of the legendary Gordon family (of William Grant & Sons). A hearty dram was poured for the world’s foremost drinks authorities and they were asked to name the liquid within. So far, so normal in the Scotch whisky world. What happened next is quite unusual. Not one of the experts – with decades of experience and dozens of book credits to their name – could so much as hazard a guess.   The answer to the seemingly simple but dastardly question dumfounded them all. The as-yet-unidentified liquid was a single grain Scotch whisky that had slumbered in a lone Sherry butt for 53 years. Now almost jet-black in colour, the single grain had taken on incredible, rich notes of dried fruits, roasted coffee, and muscovado toffee – and it was indistinguishable from a greatly aged single malt.   The Cask Trials, which is the name given to this highly unusual liquid that left some of the finest palates awestruck and not-so-secretly hoping for a bottle in their gift bag, is just one of the panoply of independently bottled House of Hazelwood releases from the Gordon family’s private Scotch whisky archives.   Somewhat surprisingly, you won’t find a single malt among them. These rare whiskies, which have been amassed over the past 100 years by the owners of Glenfiddich and The Balvenie, were released to the public for the first time in 2022 in two, painfully scarce, collections. The Charles Gordon Collection (all priced above £3,000 per bottle and aged for at least 40 years), and the Legacy Collection (priced between £950 and £2,000 a bottle) are all well-aged blended Scotch, blended grain and blended malt whiskies that have been matured in the most novel ways.   “Bringing old, expensive and unusual blended whiskies to the market is slightly counterintuitive,” House of Hazelwood Director Jonathan Gibson – who was instrumental in creating the range – candidly tells me. “It's not overly common within the industry.”  It’s also not overly common within the industry to bottle liquids of this age and provenance with playful names such as "Blended at Birth", "Sunshine on Speyside" and "The Old Confectioner’s", in understated packaging at these price points.  The liquids are undeniably scarce (once they’re gone, there really is no more) and old (few are under 40 years of age, and the oldest tops 50 years), but they are undeniably unusual and at odds with the highly successful formulaic approach others have followed of encasing precious liquids in highly ornate, priceless vessels that weigh more than a small child.    “They're not concept releases,” Gibson explains. “Everything is driven by the whisky. The packaging is quite straightforward. It's a nice bottle and it's classically engraved but we haven’t collaborated with the hottest designer. The idea is really just to give the whisky room, provide a platform, without overshadowing it,” he adds.   “Over the past 10-15 years – and it's no bad thing at all – you can see a lot more old age-statement single malts coming onto the market,” Gibson says, “And typically they're very straightforward in terms of their naming. It's distillery name, plus age statement equals a certain financial value.  “The naming of these releases is slightly playful, but actually if you look at them one by one, they're very straightforward. It's not quite a Ronseal, ‘it does exactly what it says on the tin’ approach, but it's not too far away from that. If you said ‘Blended at Birth’, it could be seen as quite playful but it's also quite descriptive and the same for ‘The First Drop’ and ‘Sunshine on Speyside’,” he explains.   It's clear Gibson, who has been involved in the project since the start, has genuine affection for the whiskies and the stories each one has to tell. He and the team are custodians of historical artefacts that the Gordon family have not parted with for the best part of a century.  “The First Drop”, for example, is named as such because it is the first liquid to run from the stills at the Gordon family’s Girvan grain distillery on Christmas day in 1964. This is the first and last time it can be purchased. “There's a real emotional tie from the family to these whiskies,” Gibson explains. “For the current family members, it's their dad who laid down these whiskies and he's not around anymore.  “I think it's actually quite difficult for the family to let some of these whiskies go, even though there's a begrudging acceptance that they can't drink such quantities and it was time they cut the cord and let these whiskies go out into the world.”  “There's a general principle that we're following where the whisky is ready to go when it's ready,” Gibson explains, “so we're not chasing down a 60-year-old age statement just so that we can put a big 60 on the bottle.”   It has been a pleasant surprise for all those involved to witness the reception the House of Hazelwood whiskies have received from an occasionally prickly and vocal audience.    “Sunshine on Speyside had an amazing response and it's one of the least expensive whiskies within our range,” Gibson says delightedly.   “It was selected because of its character and its flavour, and named because it has this amazing mango/ pineapple popsicle fruit character that transports you to sunshine and the Caribbean. It's one of those ones where everyone instantly agreed that it had to go into the first collection.   “I thought that everyone would be drawn to the oldest whisky at tastings but actually, this whisky captured the imagination of a lot of the writers and the trade.”   It’s hard to emphasise quite how unusual these whiskies are, as most releases – old or new – are described in hyperbolic terms.   “Blended at Birth”, which was released as part of the first collection, is a blend of malt and grain whisky that was married and matured as new-make spirit. Today, it is against the Scotch Whisky Regulations’ technical file to produce a whisky in this way, as you now have to age the malt and grain whisky components for a minimum of three years separately before blending them, so any liquids of this ilk on the market are painfully scarce.   “Unusual” and “esoteric” aren’t always necessarily loaded with positive connotations – you might take a sip of said liquid, politely smile and then return to something slightly less unusual and more palatable – but these whiskies have incredible balance and depth of flavour, in part because they are blends and not single malt whiskies.    “These old grains in particular are just unbelievable in terms of the flavour,” Gibson says with unfettered joy. “At a younger age, grain whisky is quite neutral in character but once you're past 30 years, if it's aged well, grain whisky has a luscious, delicious quality which adds so much to the final profile of the Scotch.    “The variation in style is enormous,” he continues. “I thought I understood old grain whisky but on exploring the inventory further you see these amazing grains that you didn't really know you could get.”   These whiskies wouldn’t have existed if it wasn’t for the foresight of the Gordon family  – and two brothers, in particular, who changed the company’s stars during the mid-20th century. The young Charles and Sandy Gordon brought much-needed vim and vigour to what could be a bit of a staid industry in the late 1950s. The pair famously refused to kowtow to demands from their grain whisky supplier – instead pulling the contract and setting up their own grain distillery, Girvan, in the 1960s. Charles – or Charlie as he was known – even forwent the comfort of his own home and instead lived in a caravan on-site during the build, riding a bicycle to stealthily check on the workers’ progress. His unconventional methods clearly paid off as the sizeable distillery (which still stands today) was built in a record nine-month period.  During their tenure, the duo also interrogated every aspect of whisky-making from distillation to maturation, resulting in the bold decision to employ an on-site coppersmith and cooper – which are still in situ at many of the William Grant distilleries today – to give the family more control. They were a formidable pair and the business arguably wouldn’t have survived some of the challenging periods in Scotch whisky’s history had it not been for their fortitude.     “There's something about family ownership that means you have a bit more luxury to maybe indulge some of your creative whims,” Gibson says with a wry smile. “This independence enabled them to explore ideas that might have been hard for others to justify to their board of shareholders.”  When other producers would have been forced to make very difficult decisions in order to survive those darker years, the larger, independent William Grant would have been slightly more insulated. Out of curiosity alone, they would have been able to hold on to barrels of maturing liquid and see how they developed over time.  These are the barrels that the House of Hazelwood team – and by extension us – now have access to. Each one has an incredible story – and an even better depth of flavour. With eight releases each year as a minimum – and the suggestion of some partnership releases to come as well – there is an audience, who count the great and the good among their numbers, desperate to venture into this unexplored and curious realm of blended Scotch whisky.  Explore all current listings of House of Hazelwood, browse all whisky or read more Editorial 

Few Scotch whisky releases have incited as much fervour and intrigue as the House of Hazelwood’s independent bottlings from the Grant family’s private cask library. We caught up with Jonathan Gibson to discover why this emporium of curiosities is so tantalisingly unusual

Exploring the success of the independent bottlings from the Gordon family’s extraordinary private collection

The story behind the House of Hazelwood

House of Hazelwood: selling the family jewels

If my wife and I are lolling around on the sofa, sharing a bottle of wine and listening to jazz, I’ll sometimes ask, in tones combining the genial authority of a quizmaster with the tacit menace of a Stasi interrogator, “Who do you think is playing bass?” Or piano. Or drums. If she doesn’t know, I respond with appalled astonishment because it’s so obvious (you only need to hear a couple of notes) that it’s Charlie Haden. Or McCoy Tyner or Max Roach or whoever. When I was studying jazz in the 1980s (by studying I mean getting as stoned as possible with my friends) we’d play records for each other without revealing the identities of the musicians and, in this way, I built up an instinctive database of who sounded like whom. Of course, that’s not all I was doing, back then. I was also swilling gallons of beer and respectable quantities of wine, both of which I consumed with just as much pleasure as I listened to music. The difference is that with wine, I never paid any attention to what I was drinking, where what I was drinking had come from, or what grapes might have gone into it. Still don’t, actually. So, while my wife sometimes doesn’t know who she’s listening to, I rarely know what I’m drinking. Now, if my enjoyment of jazz is enhanced by knowing who I’m hearing, when an album was recorded, how a given version of a tune compares with other versions by different musicians and so on, does it follow that my enjoyment of wine is correspondingly diminished by ignorance and indifference as to its provenance and ingredients? Am I sitting around liking what I like while unable to tell whether what I’m liking is a bottle of Kenny G or vintage Sonny Rollins? To answer this question and address the larger issue, a bit of history is helpful (isn’t it always?). I grew up in a non-drinking household. We knew that other people drank wine with dinner but this was seen as an exotic, middle-class custom, as removed from our own potential experience as the tribal rites featured in National Geographic. No one we knew drank wine except the homemade kind – blackberry, pear, potato etc – that my parents made, stored in the cupboard under the stairs and offered to thirsty relatives who came to visit. Bearing no relation to wine as usually conceived, this beverage was more akin to a potent species of cider. Ah cider! As was the case for all boys of my generation, cider proved such an effective conduit to getting blind drunk that I’ve not been able to face even a sniff of the stuff since a horribly enjoyable first encounter. Same with Cinzano Bianco, but I’ve never turned my back on beer. As part of the general drift into all matters alcoholic, I drank a bit of Liebfraumilch (yum) but didn’t encounter anything like the notion of a ‘good’ wine until I was at Oxford. (The fact that I had to wait till then is a good indicator of the class status of wine in the UK back in the 1970s.) One day a fellow-student at my college offered to sell some bottles of what he pimped as “excellent red wine.” Three of us forked out for six between us. It was great. Sort of peppery tasting. We glugged the lot in one evening and I was violently sick, from my friend’s window, into the lane outside (a reversal of Charles Ryder’s first encounter, in Brideshead Revisited, with Sebastian Flyte who pukes into his room), but I was on my winey way. Most boozing took place in the pub (beer) but, as I gradually got used to drinking wine at dinners and at art openings, an unreliable and poorly projected map of wine awareness began to take shape.  In my early 30s, there was a Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon for which I developed a particular fondness. At three quid a bottle it seemed more appropriate, even then, to cut it down to three syllables: Bulg-Cab-Sauv. Then came the news that the contents of any bottle could be improved by being allowed to breathe. Sometime later, living in Paris, I got wind of a crude truth that you could tell a better wine by how far you could stick your finger in its bottom, in the whatever-it’s-called at the base of the bottle. The further the better was the rule of thumb, so to speak, though why this should be the case I never discovered. These were excellent, easy-to-implement tips but the bigger picture remained blurry. I knew there were regions, different kinds of grape, but I was never sure which was which (Burgundy always sounded like a type of brandy) and I knew enough to know that it wasn’t enough to know that you liked a Merlot, say; you also needed to know what was going on within that species of grape or region, that certain brands and years were better than others. Although a drawing of a château on the label could be a good sign, it was not an infallible one, especially when some high-quality wines began to feature labels that shared an aesthetic with edible marijuana products or t-shirt design. And over all this uncertainty hung a larger cloud of astonishment – a symptom of the world’s fathomless ability to defy logic – generated by the ‘fact’ (I still have trouble accepting it as such) that white wine is not necessarily made from white grapes, nor red from red. Even when we factor in the odd big Tuscan moment in Italy, or Pinot epiphany in New Zealand, my understanding has not advanced significantly in the last 20 years. I know what I like but, as with many things – learning German, for example – I feel I’ve left it too late. Any attempts I make are the equivalent of looking up the occasional word in an online Deutsch-English dictionary. One can often spend one’s way to an enhanced experience, but my natural skinflintery means I prefer my father-in-law’s model, whereby he had knowledged his way to improved enjoyment. He not only serves fantastic wine, without exception, on every occasion; he always serves wine that costs a fraction of how it tastes.  I like this approach but, to borrow the term from London’s taxi drivers, I’ve never done the knowledge. I’m like the new generation of Uber drivers who rely so passively on their phones’ navigation apps that, after years behind the wheel, they still have almost no idea where they’re going. My phone comes in handy too. If I drink a fantastic wine at a friend’s house, I’ll take a picture of the label and, if it’s in stock at a local store, will buy a case. It’s nice being able to repeat a pleasing experience but it’s rarely as nice as I remember it and often not nice in the way that I remembered it. Or, if it’s nice at first, it almost always seems less nice, months later, when I’m down to the last couple of bottles. There are as many moving parts in the world of wine appreciation as there are in and around the mouth.  We have moved, by a combination of association and anatomy, to the potential source of the difficulty, to language. Having failed to acquire home-grown expertise, I am at the mercy of advice from the people who work in wine stores. Overall, I would estimate that this has resulted in a 50% success rate at twice the necessary expenditure. Is this because of shortcomings in their expertise and counsel, or is it due to linguistic failure, to inadequate translations of their knowledge into my preferences? We are told there’s no accounting for taste, which is not true, but it seems there are multiple problems with recounting one’s tastes or satisfying other people’s desires. Compared with sex where you can easily get by with half a dozen verbs and nouns, saying either what you want from a wine – or what it will do for someone else – demands a linguistic dexterity that is almost Joycean. We have all sat entranced as a waiter’s attempts to do justice to the merits of a given wine begin to sound like a libationary remix of Chomsky’s “Colourless green ideas sleep furiously.” But even while allowing for scepticism, incomprehension and constant proximity to parody, I continue to wonder about the extent to which my experience of wine would be enhanced by becoming more articulate in la langue du raisin. ‘Smooth’ is generally considered a good quality (as opposed to ‘rough’) but Kenny G, a purveyor of ‘smooth jazz’, is tacitly at odds with ‘complexity’. I can sort of appreciate complexity in a wine, without any understanding of how that complexity is constituted but – a defining character flaw – am more often conscious of a lack of complexity.  The strange thing is that while wine appreciation is not like a foal’s ability to get up and running straight away, it does find its feet over time. Even if uninformed, un-cultivated and left to fend for itself without any supporting help, it seems one’s tastes in wine not only change; they improve of their own accord. This might be considered a welcome, accidentally ameliorative side-effect of getting older. Or would be were it not for the fact – one I have no trouble accepting – that this improvement manifests itself negatively, as a steadily increasing capacity for dissatisfaction. To put it simply, what might have seemed an excellent wine a few years earlier becomes merely tolerable because of a lack of what may or may not be complexity. The tolerable becomes unacceptable, and the unacceptable becomes vile. My tongue has become more responsive to taste while remaining tied; my discernment is entirely inarticulate. The product, above all else, of laziness, this manifests itself in several unattractive ways. Do women on a date prefer men who take control of the wine menu? (Could this be the civilised residue of what was once a more widespread assumption and acceptance of male domination?) My own dating history leads me to suspect that they might, though the belief that the evening gets off to a bad start – with my saying, “I don’t know anything about wine, you choose” – is more palatable than conceding that it might have more to do with the way it ends (with my saying, “Let’s split the check”) or, come to think of it, with the middle passage (constantly refilling my own glass while droning on, without interruption, about the musical complexity of Ornette Coleman). It’s not just laziness and tightness, there’s also the question of sophistication and refinement. I can eat with chopsticks – I really can! – but have never been able to master the knack of swirling wine round the glass and forensically nosing it. You can do it, I’m sure, but I always feel like I’m engaged in such a blatant affectation that the first flicker of an erotic bond starts to form between my date and the waiter because they can tell that I’m parroting the action without any idea of what I’m attempting to discover, that it’s obvious to anyone watching that my head is entirely filled with a single idea: keep the cost down. In this regard, price, I am pleased to report that limited progress has been made. In my mid-20s, in London, I was sometimes invited to the house of the writer Lisa Appignanesi who was at the centre of London’s intellectual and cultural life. Well-mannered enough not to arrive empty-handed, I’d stop off at the off-licence near her house and pick up the cheapest bottle of discounted plonk on offer. Lisa always accepted this shabby gift graciously (she did everything graciously), while making sure that it never darkened the table. It now seems one of the rudest things one can do, to show up at someone’s house with a crap bottle of wine, though where crapness begins or ends is anyone’s guess. A shitty bottle of wine is always over-priced, is always money wasted. At the opposite end of the scale, my limited experience of drinking very expensive wine has confirmed what I had always expected: that it’s wasted on me. I ooh and ah, naturally and gratefully, but even though I enjoy these $200 bottles I am thinking: well, it’s not 170 bucks better than a 30 dollar bottle. Perhaps from a certain point – $100 upwards? – you have to pay twice that for a tiny percentage improvement in experience. That makes sense. If this were not the case, then a $1,000 bottle would surely bear so little relation to wine that it wouldn’t be wine at all. We now have sufficient linguistic tools available to describe my ideal relationship with wine. When I think of wine, it’s never as a drink or a taste experience but always as part of an occasion, part of a narrative. What I love is going to a dinner at a restaurant with a non-clamorous acoustic (wood and carpet, not metal and concrete) and a limited menu (I hate choosing food), knowing that someone else will take care of ordering the wine which will flow without let or hindrance. The problem at my father-in-law’s is that although the wine is always excellent, there’s never an infinite amount of it. And what I want from wine, above all, is more. That’s the key word in all this. I love talk and the progression of conversation as the wine makes itself felt: the glow of friends’ eyes, the flow of chat. Red wine, reflections of the room and of candlelight in the glasses full of wine. Everything is held together by the wine, even though that wine is less important than the people, the subject, the jokes and laughter. The wonderful remarks become more wonderful as the evening unfolds, until nothing anybody says really makes any sense at all. In the morning I will not remember the details of the wine or the food. What I will remember is the warm glow, the happiness of it all.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine. Photography by Marcus Nilsso.

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine.

FONDATA: The Mirth of More

The Mirth of More

Bordeaux is arguably the world’s most famous wine region – known for producing some of the finest wines in existence, with a long history stretching back to the Roman era. But the region is broadly divided in two – the Left and Right Bank. (Terms that you may also hear in reference to Paris, and – less frequently – Chablis.)  The region is defined by its waterways – a forked tongue that snakes southeast from the Atlantic. The Gironde estuary is fed by the Dordogne and Garonne rivers, with the Gironde flowing into the Atlantic. The south-eastern side of the Gironde and Garonne is the Left Bank, while the north-western side of the Gironde and Dordogne is the Right Bank. The section of land that sits between the fork of the Garonne and Dordogne is the intuitively named Entre-Deux-Mers (literally translating as “between two seas”), and is mostly home to more everyday, entry-level wine – although quality has certainly improved here with both climate change and technical advancements (such as Ch. Marjosse).  The Left and Right Banks, however, are where you’ll find Bordeaux’s most illustrious names. While both regions craft exceptional wines, they are extremely different in terms of terroir, the grapes grown, the estates themselves and how the wines are classified.  The Left Bank The Left Bank is the aristocratic and historic home of fine wine in Bordeaux, famous for the 1855 classification of the Médoc, a ranking of the top estates of the region which still stands today, including the fabled First Growths – Ch. Latour, Ch. Lafite Rothschild, Ch. Mouton Rothschild, Ch. Margaux and Ch. Haut-Brion.  It was Bordeaux’s ties to England that saw it rise to prominence – after Eleanor of Aquitaine married Henry Plantagenet in 1152. With Bordeaux under English rule, favourable tax rates saw the industry thrive. But the Médoc was, at that point in time, a marshland not worthy of wine-growing – with the best wines coming from Graves estates like Ch. Haut-Brion (where vines have been grown since at least the early 15th century).  It was only in the mid-17th century that the Dutch drained the marshy Médoc, creating the well-drained gravel soils that are now a haven for Cabernet Sauvignon. It was after this that most of the region’s grandest properties were established.  The aforementioned 1855 classification cemented the Médoc’s place in history, with the wines of Sauternes and Barsac categorised at the same time. The wines of the Graves were classified in 1959, while the Left Bank is also home to the Cru Bourgeois and Cru Artisan classifications.  The Left Bank encompasses, from north to south: the Médoc (which includes the prestigious communes of Saint-Estèphe, Pauillac, Saint-Julien, Margaux, as well as Listrac and Moulis), the Haut-Médoc, Pessac-Léognan and Graves, as well as Barsac and Sauternes. Although the area of course encompasses dry whites and sweets, stylistically “Left Bank” is used mainly in reference to the reds, which represent the vast majority of production.   The soils on this side of the Gironde are dominated by gravel, with the best sites sitting on deep gravels over clay subsoils. The vineyards are more spread out here, with patches of woodland and other agricultural land between the pockets of fine terroir, making distances and journey-times between estates longer. The gentle, barely undulating landscape masks significant differences in the soils, which determine the success of a site, with the mounds divided by streams known locally as “jalles”. Deeper gravel has historically been a significant advantage in the region’s maritime climate, avoiding water-logging and retaining heat that helps to ripen the grapes. Proximity to the Gironde and its moderating influence can also help shield vines from frosts, an increasing threat in the springtime.  Estates can be quite large on the Left Bank – for example, Ch. Cos d’Estournel comprises 100 hectares – allowing for higher production levels, which means the wines tend to be more widely available and can be found more easily on the secondary market, even at the highest quality level. The properties also tend to have picture-perfect châteaux, immaculate architectural displays of the wealth of the region.  Cabernet Sauvignon leads the way in terms of plantings, thriving in those warm gravel soils (and complemented by parcels of Merlot, Cabernet Franc and Petit Verdot, with some limited Malbec and Carménère). The variety produces small berries with thick skins, creating tannic, age-worthy reds.  The wine style varies between commune and estate, but generally speaking the wines of the Left Bank are dominated by graphite, cassis and blackcurrant leaf, full-bodied yet with a more linear structure that Cabernet Sauvignon provides. Historically the wines were austere in youth and needed time in the cellar, but wines today are made to be more approachable so that they have longer drinking windows. With age, the best wines develop beautiful complexity with notes of leather, cedar, tobacco and more.  The Right Bank The most famous wines of the Right Bank come from Saint-Emilion and Pomerol, however it is also home to: the Côtes de Blaye, Côtes de Bourg, Fronsac, Canon-Fronsac, Lalande-de-Pomerol, Côtes de Castillon, Côtes de Francs and the Saint-Emilion satellites – Lussac-Saint-Emilion, Montagne-Saint-Emilion, Saint-Georges-Saint-Emilion and Puisseguin-Saint-Emilion.  Although wine has long been made on the Right Bank, the wines – other than those of Ch. Cheval Blanc – were not known widely until relatively recently. The region’s modern history is tied to one man – the influential critic Robert Parker. He was one of the first to highlight the quality being produced at smaller Right Bank estates in the 1980s and 1990s, and put the wines on the international stage. His penchant for rich, ripe, concentrated styles prompted a wave of producers who did extensive green-harvesting, working with tiny yields, picking late, extracting heavily and ageing in new French oak, a style favoured by the far-reaching and famous consultant Michel Rolland.  Pomerol became home to the “garagistes”, after Jean-Luc Thunevin crafted his first vintage of Valandraud in his garage in 1991. These modern producers, who didn’t come with the land and smart châteaux found on the Left Bank, captured the imagination of consumers, and rapidly became highly sought-after.  Fashions have changed for the most part, and the wines produced today across the Right Bank are significantly more restrained – reflecting the general move toward freshness and aromatic finesse.   Of course, one reason that the wines of the Right Bank were less well-known was the smaller size of estates and therefore smaller volumes being produced – especially in Pomerol. Pétrus, for example, consists of 11.5 hectares, while Ch. Lafleur is a mere 4.5. In Saint-Emilion, Ch. Cheval Blanc and Angélus both have 39 hectares – a more generous vineyard area, but still relatively small in comparison to those in the Médoc. This means that the wines from the top estates are often strictly allocated and can be very hard to secure, with significantly less available on the secondary market.  The area feels very different to the Left Bank, with a more rolling landscape with more nooks and crannies, meaning you often can’t see what lies over the hill. The soils here are also significantly different, dominated by clay and limestone, with some sand and gravel. These soils stay cooler and retain more water, something that can be very helpful in hot, dry seasons (as in 2022). The finest wines come from the limestone plateau at the heart of Saint-Emilion and Pomerol plateau, with its pockets of rare blue clay. Limestone has an additional benefit of retaining freshness and acidity in the wines, with wines from limestone-dominant soils often having low pH.  Plantings are dominated by Merlot and Cabernet Franc (sometimes known locally as Bouchet), rather than Cabernet Sauvignon (which can struggle in the damp soils, although producers are planting a little more of the variety in response to climate change). Many wines from Pomerol are 100% Merlot (with estates such as Vieux Château Certan notable exceptions), while in Saint-Emilion the blends tend to include more Cabernet Franc. Merlot produces larger, thinner-skinned berries, and therefore Right Bank wines are generally softer, plusher, with a rounder texture, softer tannins, often floral with a redder fruit profile (cherry, plum), and can sometimes be exotic in perfume.   Unlike on the Left Bank, most of the wines are not classified formally, however Saint-Emilion introduced its own classification in the 1950s – one that has become a source of controversy.  Beyond Saint-Emilion and Pomerol, the other appellations can produce some fantastic wines, and – given the difficulty with buying additional land within these two illustrious areas – many of the Right Bank’s leading names have estates here (such as Ch. Lafleur’s Grand Village or Perrières, and LEglise-Clinet’s Montlandrie or Les Cruzelles). These can be a great source of value.  It’s worth noting that vintages are sometimes described as “Left Bank” or “Right Bank” years, and it is true that conditions can sometimes favour one side over the other, however the picture is often more complicated and results can vary according to individual estate, as well as commune.  Read more about Bordeaux or browse all Bordeaux listings 

Bordeaux is a fascinating and complex region. It is often divided in two – the Left and Right Bank. Here, we break down the differences between the two Banks – from terroir and grape varieties to the size of the estates and style of the wines

Talking about Bordeaux’s Left and Right Bank: exploring the differences between the regions, wines and estates on either side of the Gironde

Wines of Bordeaux’s Left Bank versus Right Bank

Bordeaux: the Left Bank versus the Right Bank

Maya Dalla Valle (right) pictured with her mother, world-renowned vintner Naoko Dalla Valle. Photography by: Jimmy Hayes. Observing from the outside, one might assume that it was always my destiny to join the family business. However, to my younger self, spending my life and career in the same vineyards and cellars that I grew up in was not even a consideration. Having parents that both left their respective home countries to build a life in a new one gave me the impression that I needed to go out and explore the world, rather than remain in my Napa Valley bubble. So, I did just that; I left after high school to pursue a career in International Relations at the University of Washington in Seattle, with the idea that this course would lead me to new and faraway places. But something unexpected occurred after moving away to University; I began to long for that life in the vineyards. I began to realise the strong emotional connection that ties me to our land. It was then that I began to understand exactly how special this estate is and what it means to me. So, I returned. Not to Dalla Valle, but to a family friend’s winery in St. Helena that kindly offered me the opportunity to try my hand at working harvest. Well, I fell in love with winemaking that fall of 2009 and decided that this was the career for me. Getting your hands dirty, the transformation of grapes into wine, all the nuances and techniques that you can implement and then taste the results – even cleaning the bins and sanitising the tanks brought me joy. I proudly proclaimed this to my mother, who gently reminded me that while this was wonderful news, if I wanted to be the winemaker at Dalla Valle, I would need the proper training, education and experience. This was not surprising or unexpected. Thanks to the strong foundations that my parents had instilled in me, I knew that if I wanted something, I needed to earn it – through perseverance and hard work. I took those words to heart and embarked on a journey that probably not even my mother could have imagined: a Master’s degree in viticulture and enology at Cornell University, stints at Ornellaia e Masseto, Bodega Rolland, Petrus, Château Latour – and a second degree at Bordeaux Sciences Agro in vineyard and winery management for good measure. By the time I was nearing the end of my time at Château Canon La Gaffelière as a cellar hand, my mother suggested to me that now would probably be a suitable time to return, on account of approaching the point of being ‘overqualified’ to work at Dalla Valle.  I returned at the beginning of 2017, and spent the following years observing, working alongside our winemaker and viticulturists, and connecting what I had learned in my time abroad – contemplating what might be applicable and notable for implementation at Dalla Valle. I learned the intricacies of each block, each varietal, and the variable soil types within our own small 20 acre vineyard. I brought in different consultants that I had met on my travels, who each brought their own expertise and wisdoms to impart. All the while, I was thinking deeply about how to carry on the vision of my parents while also creating my own legacy. At the end of 2020, after persisting through the challenges of a pandemic and multiple wildfires, unbeknownst to me my long-held ambition had become a reality. After a long day of winery work, my mother asked me if I felt ready to transition to the position of winemaker. An 11-year journey towards this goal was at an end, and a new challenge lay ahead. I was elated and, frankly, a bit stunned. Of course, I wholeheartedly accepted my mother’s offer. It was in that moment that I knew that my focus would shift, from observing and learning to action and planning. Slowly, since moving back to Napa Valley in 2017, I had been planting the seeds of some of my ideas for the vineyard and the winery. In a family business, you have to ease and massage a new idea into everyone’s heads rather than pound it in. This was a strategy that I developed after observing many styles of management. After one year, I introduced the use of amphora into our ageing program. I had admired tasting other producers’ wines out of amphora and loved the mineral purity it imparted to the wine with the absence of oak. This was the first time at the estate that we utilised an ageing vessel that was not a barrel. After two years, I was able to get everyone on board to begin farming our vineyard biodynamically. Working at Château Latour was my first foray into biodynamic farming, and I was instantly intrigued by the methods and the deeper connection to the land it provided. I was also lucky to be able to spend a weekend in Cahors at a seminar hosted by the Bourguignon family, who are one of the key proponents for biodynamic farming in France. Last year, we began to work with a company called BIOcépage who are assisting us in cultivating our own native yeasts so we can begin to work with our own materials and bring pure terroir expression to the wines. This year, having taken the winemaking reins, I feel a renewed sense of excitement about the possibilities of what is to come in 2021. One of the few positive sides of Covid-19 has been staying at home and really participating in the growing season and all the movements that come with it. Winter is normally a time I spend travelling to promote our wines, but this year I was in the vineyard, pruning with the team. I can see the efforts and payoffs from working with Uvasapiens, a consulting group from Italy that has taught us the idea of pruning to respect the sap flow – which promotes the longevity of the vine. I have actually put into practice the principles that I have observed and learned but never had time to execute. I have been able to spend more time in the cellar with our cellarmaster tasting wines, closely following the evolution and having deep discussions about the nuances of each barrel cooper we work with. Overall, I have never felt more deeply connected to our vineyards. I feel the responsibility to do everything in my power to preserve the health of the soil, health of the vines, and the health of the surrounding environment. Having witnessed my mother in distress having to replant the vineyards during the early 2000s, I now bear the weight of preventing history from repeating itself. But I can see more clearly than ever, how all the tools and methods I have already introduced into the estate will be important for our future.  In many ways, I am a student again. Not of a prestigious institution or domaine, but of nature and our land. Once again, I am humbled by nature’s power to create and destroy, and by an increasing knowledge of how to work in harmony with her. After a tumultuous fall of wildfires and extreme weather, we are now facing the return of a potential drought period. Having had just a third of the normal amount of rainfall, we are preparing ourselves to be stewards of the vineyard and take care of the vines through an unknown spring, summer and fall. After admiring the lush cover crop of legumes, vetch, peas, oats and triticale, we decided (in anticipation of an incoming rain) to mow this vegetation to allow the earth to capture the nitrogen developed by the plants and reduce the competition for water needed for the vines. We have observed the rich layer of greens accumulating into the ground, and hope that the vines will gain maximum benefit from the nutrients it provides.  I have been reading up on the sciences of plants and the intelligence that we often overlook; how adaptable they are in nature, and what lessons we can learn from them. Indigenous people have such a deep connection to and understanding of nature and they have a lot of wisdom to impart. Maintaining a deep respect for the land you farm is an important lesson we can learn from them. Their beliefs tie in strongly with the principles of biodynamics, so I have seen a lot of ideologies come together and everything has started to make a lot of sense. I see my responsibility going forward transcend beyond winemaker and evolve into that of farmer and steward of our land. It was a role my mother always held closely, and it is now that I begin to fully understand the passion and meaning as I settle into my calling. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Maya Dalla Valle was recently appointed winemaker at her family’s hugely respected Napa Valley vineyard. As she collaborates with her team, tending Dalla Valle’s 20 acres of vines in readiness to produce her first vintage, she reflects on her 11-year journey to reach her destiny.

Maya Dalla Valle was appointed winemaker at her family’s hugely respected Napa Valley vineyard.  She reflects on her 11-year journey to reach her destiny.

FONDATA: Letter from California

Letter from California

CHARLIE HOLLAND

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