Will Berliner says he didn’t drink wine until he was in his 50s. There might have been the odd bottle of Thunderbird in his teens – he’s a New Yorker by birth – but that was all. ‘All I knew was that white wine was for girls and red wine was for guys. I never drank it.’ So it’s remarkable that now, in his 70s (he looks a decade younger), he’s producing a wine that has been lauded since its first vintage in 2010. Cloudburst, from Margaret River in Western Australia, has been described as ‘otherworldly and memorable’ by Matthew Jukes; ‘fearless and uncompromising’ (Huon Hooke); and ‘a gorgeous wine’ (Jane Anson). It joined the mighty John Riddoch and The Armagh as the first Australian wines on the Bordeaux Place. ‘Will works in ways that are completely different to the mainstream. He’s doing amazing things and his wines are excellent,’ Andrew Caillard MW, author of The Australian Ark, told me. In minimalist, etched glass (screwcaps on both red and white), Cloudburst wines sell for between £130 and £200 per bottle. It’s one of the most expensive Margaret River wines but given that it’s vanishingly rare – Berliner makes about 250 cases of Chardonnay, 200 of Cabernet Sauvignon and 50 of Malbec (it can be much lower – there was less than half that in 2022) – that’s pretty good value. We meet downstairs at Hedonism in London’s Berkeley Square. ‘There he is!’ Berliner says, as if it’s me who’s the celebrity. He’s compact, fit-looking and energetic; from the moment we sit down, he barely draws breath in his urge tell the story of what he calls ‘the most improbable project ever.’ A restless entrepreneur who grew up in New York and moved to New England, Berliner has run a Patagonia-style sustainable clothing business, a Whole Foods-style grocery and a futon business. He’s made schlocky feature films (‘they weren’t super successful’). He built a company, sold it, built another and so on. In 2003, he and his wife Alison Jobson (who is Australian) bought 100ha at Wilyabrup in Margaret River because they loved it and wanted to retire there. The estate was virgin land (though Wilyabrup is full of illustrious estates: Pierro, Moss Wood, Cullen, Vasse Felix) and he says he had no intention of making wine; he might plant a row or two to sell the grapes. Then he caught the bug. A friend – ‘a big New York restaurateur’ – taught him to taste and he got ‘turned on’ to Bordeaux (‘only the Left Bank’). He put himself through a night-school degree in viticulture and enology at UC Davis, and, in 2005, planted a pocket-handkerchief sized plot, one-fifth of a hectare of Cabernet Sauvignon. He was mentored at first by Stuart Watson and his father David, founder of Woodlands Wines in Wilyabrup. ‘I’m ever grateful to him. He’s brilliant and open-minded,’ Berliner says, before adding (with characteristic modesty), ‘but it took someone with my disposition and background to take it to this level.’He now makes the wines himself, from a slightly bigger vineyard – 1.25ha of Cabernet Sauvignon, Chardonnay and 10% Malbec, from which he makes hobbyist amounts of single-vineyard bottlings.When he pours the Chardonnay, I’m expecting something pretty good but somehow not so delicate (it’s not an adjective I’d use for the stocky New Yorker sitting opposite me). There is nothing showy about Cloudburst. The Cabernet is perfumed and delicately tannin-ed, the Chardonnay restrained. They are complex, structured and elegant, the fine work of someone striving for that holy grail of sense-of-place. It took someone with my disposition and background to take it to this level You meet winemakers like this on every continent and each has their own way of articulating this elusive ambition. For Berliner, it’s a Gaia-like concept of oneness with the earth. ‘My life energy has always been about being in nature,’ he says. Cloudburst, he recently told a magazine, ‘is driven by very different considerations than those of my neighbours. It is cultivated differently from any other vineyard in the world.’ Over the years, he’s said a few things that might be thought foolhardy for a fast-talking American in Australia. When I put this to him, he looks for a moment like a 14-year-old unfairly accused of pinching his dad’s cigarettes. ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to,’ he says. How about the idea you’re working to a different rhythm to everyone else? This gets us into a discussion of tall-poppy syndrome, the peculiarly Aussie mechanism by which anyone who puts on airs gets quickly cut down to size. ‘I have been tall-poppied,’ he admits. Some people in Margaret River were threatened by him, he goes on. ‘It’s a normal human characteristic for people to react in a certain way. I understand that, and part of me is very forgiving. But others realise there is great value in having an estate that’s absolutely pure and so small that it demonstrates something. And what we demonstrate is instructive for those who are willing to take a moment and listen.’ And Berliner’s neighbours seem to have got over his tall-poppyness. ‘Will nurtures the wine with his unique personality and it eventuates in Cloudburst as a unique expression of Margaret River,’ Virginia Willcox, head winemaker at Vasse Felix, told me by email. Were his neighbours annoyed by some of his comments? ‘I would hope that all growers have some different considerations to their neighbours. Will is unusually connected to his property and does things his way based on what he feels his plants require.’ The most critical I’ve heard is an off-the-record comment that ‘he’s not a team player.’His farming methods – own-rooted, dry-grown vines, no tilling, wild-yeast ferment in open barrels, no racking or stirring – are not that unusual for a modern artisan wine, but he was ahead of the game when he planted. No-dig mulching, for example, wasn’t that much in vogue in 2005. ‘I did nothing to the soil before I planted. I put down good quality cover crops but basically all I did was poke holes in the ground and stick [in the root]. And sometimes that worked, sometimes you’d have a root that made it on top of a rock and dried up. So there’s a differential from gnarly vines to very skinny vines.’ I care about making a little bit of something extraordinary Many gifted winemakers find it difficult to explain what they are trying to do. Some take recourse in mystical hocus-pocus, others skewer their audience with opaque science. Anyone who ever listened to the late Serge Hochar of Château Musar explaining his white wines will know what I mean.I imagine he got into wine in the same way he got into all his other ventures: learn the subject and do it better than anyone else. But if it had been just that, he’d be farming a lot more than 1.25ha now. He insists he’s not in it for the money, and I believe him. ‘This little bit takes all of me. I don’t give a shit about scaling. I care about making a little bit of something extraordinary. And the thing that has distinguished us, for our customers, is that they get a piece of something that tastes extraordinary.’And so he reaches for a bottle and pours me a glass that is – yes – extraordinary. Explore our full selection of available Cloudburst wines

In this 2025 article for Club Oenologique, Will Berliner talks to Adam Lechmere about arriving in Margaret River with no intention of making wine, producing some of its most expensive cuvées, being ahead of the game and getting ‘tall-poppied’ by the locals.

Will Berliner talks to Adam Lechmere in Club Oenologique’s 2025 article about his Margaret River journey and producing some of its most expensive wines.

The most improbable project ever:Will Berliner on Cloudburst

‘The most improbable project ever’: Will Berliner on Cloudburst

After years of holding out, Brunello di Montalcino may finally be inching towards a greater focus on sub-zoning. The innovative Forma project spearheaded by Italian MWs Gabriele Gorelli and Andrea Lonardi – primarily intended to add greater objectivity to the Consorzio’s vintage rating system – has been instrumental, necessitating the assembly of reams of site-based data that have (inevitably) laid bare the great variability within the denomination. With the ever-shifting climate, the site factor apparently top of mind across the denomination is altitude. Montalcino has always traded on a wine that pushes Sangiovese to generous levels of ripeness without – crucially – losing its balance and an unpredictable climate is hardly conducive to such a sensitive balancing act. Pier Giuseppe d’Alessandro of Poggio Antico, where vineyards rise up to 612m above sea level (asl), says ‘altitude does not mean low temperatures but lower temperatures,’ explaining that during August, the vineyards may be 4-5ºC lower than Montalcino’s lowest sites. The critical factor, he says, is the duration of temperature spikes, which tends to be shorter at altitude, helping avoid vine stress. Read more: The Brunello di Montalcino Report 2024 However, there are several dynamics at play: fog in the valleys tends to make nights warmer but mornings cooler, reducing diurnal variation, whereas sites above the fogline warm more quickly in the morning but cool rapidly at night, preserving critical acidity. This slows ripening overall and extends the harvest, sometimes to a dramatic degree – Luciano Ciolfi of Sanlorenzo notes that in the difficult 2024 vintage they had to wait until mid-October. However, Giancarlo Tommasi and Emilio Falsini, director of Tommasi Family Estates and enologist of the group’s Montalcino property Casisano say their breezy, high-altitude sites facilitate more uniform ripening and thus more aromatic complexity. Finally, Riccardo Campinoti of Le Ragnaie, known for its high-altitude single site wines, likes that altitude can help reduce vigour and naturally limit yields. Yet another factor in Brunello di Montalcino is geology. Acidity-preserving stony calcareous soils dominate at higher altitudes, while richer alluvial soils are common lower down, giving altitude pedological as well as climatic significance. In years where the main problem is not intense heat but abundant rainfall, like 2024, the slopes and well-drained stony soils of higher sites can save the vintage. Montalcino collectively affirmed the importance of altitude in 2015 when it first allowed vineyards above 600m asl into the appellation (whether the region might also have set lower limits on altitude remains an open question). Gianni Pignattai of Pietroso, whose vineyards are mostly between 400 and 500m asl, notes that ripening at these heights was frequently challenging even 10-15 years ago but that they are now his least challenging vineyards to manage, as their lower humidity and greater ventilation allow him to use fewer pesticides. One thing made clear by the handy 3D map produced for the Forma project is that most of the wine world’s (including the Italian wine world’s) mental image of Montalcino as a roughly cone-shaped protuberance sloping uninterrupted to the flat plain below might need updating. The northern slope of Brunello di Montalcino is indeed more uniform, with only small bumps like Montosoli breaking up its descent. However, the southern stretch is much more topographically varied, with high-altitude sites running all the way south-southwest from Montalcino town to Sant’Angelo in Colle (once unfairly lumped in with the much lower-lying Sant’Angelo Scalo) and south-southeast nearly to the town of Castelnuovo dell’Abate, both about 7km away as the crow flies. Blends that incorporate at least some high-altitude elements are a snappy riposte to many low-energy bottlings of the mid-2000s Though multi-site blending remains the norm (and with an increasingly unreliable climate, the blenders may eventually have the last laugh) single site wines from high spots, like Campinoti’s Passo del Lume Spento at 621m asl in Ragnaie, some distance south of Montalcino town, are redefining the upper octaves of Brunello. Meanwhile, blends that incorporate at least some (and often several) high-altitude elements are a snappy riposte to many low-energy bottlings of the mid-2000s. Andrea Cortonesi of Uccelliera based his second brand, Voliero – which, unlike Uccelliera, is blended from across the denomination, including Sant’Angelo in Colle – on the notion that high-altitude sites are linked by consistent (and desirable) characteristics. On the other hand, there is also clearly some variability among high-altitude wines. Some, like Campinoti’s, trend delicate, tart-fruited and herbal, with alcohol levels (~13.5%) to match. Contrast this with Poggio Antico’s wines, including I Poggi, from their highest active vineyard at 550-575m asl, which is a potent 15%, though with great tension from its dynamite acidity. Exposure, slope and airflows have great impact at these heights – Sanlorenzo’s vineyards sit southwest of Montalcino at 500 asl in two valleys that face southwest towards the Mediterranean and its warming breezes, but Ciolfi says they recently planted some north-facing land in the same area and have just started to vinify the results. Antonio Michael Zaccheo of Carpineto, where vineyards run from 470-500m asl, believes they are the only ones at that altitude with vineyards fully exposed to the north and slopes up to 30%; they typically harvest over three weeks after valley vineyards, with low sugars and elevated acidity. The challenge is that, with new Brunello plantings frozen since 1997, opportunities to plant higher are limited. Pignattai says though they would like to plant more high-altitude sites, they haven’t found owners willing to sell. D’Alessandro says ‘we do not have higher land to plant because there is no higher land’– Montalcino, unlike Chianti Classico, has no land above 650m asl. However, he is sanguine that with experimental viticultural practices – more dynamic vineyard architecture that permits rapid response to changing conditions – the advantages of higher altitude can be maximised. Giulia Härri, enologist at Mastrojanni, agrees that cultivation techniques are key to altitude’s effectiveness against climate change; she credits their biodynamic viticulture with helping avoid vine stress. While not a silver bullet, altitude is undoubtedly one factor that may help preserve Brunello’s freshness. Montalcino’s best and brightest are harnessing its power in some of the denomination’s most exciting wines where intense aromatics (and sometime generous ripeness) are offset by gravity-defying acidity. Browse all Brunello di Montalcino listings.

Writing for Club Oenologique in 2025, Sarah Heller MW talks to producers in Montalcino about how altitude has become a key tool in preserving Brunello's freshness and why it might prove critical in protecting the wine's character in the face of climate change

Writing for Club Oenologique in 2025, Sarah Heller MW explores how altitude helps Montalcino’s producers preserve Brunello’s freshness and singular character.

Altitude’s role in the future of Brunello di Montalcino

Steep slopes, high hopes: Altitude’s starring role in the future of Brunello di Montalcino 

There are times when you put a question to a winemaker and he puffs out his cheeks and rubs his chin and you know he’s thinking, ‘Journalists.’ When I ask Promontory’s David Cilli what exactly is meant by ‘interpretation of terroir’, he courteously describes the process of trying to get the wine to reflect the character of the land. But he gives the impression my question was like quizzing Monet on how he got his effects. If you don’t get it, you probably won’t. The character of Promontory, on the day I visit, is quite something. It’s early May and the rain, which has been falling steadily all night, has turned to a lashing downpour that has raindrops bouncing six inches off the windscreen. We’re in a jeep piloted by winegrowing director Cory Empting and since turning off the main road we’ve been climbing steadily through dripping stands of oak with pocket-handkerchief vineyards between them. ‘Shall we stay in the car?’ asks Empting. ‘If we could,’ Will Harlan suggests from the back seat. I’m here with Empting, Cilli and Harlan. Bill Harlan has appeared briefly but I don’t see him again until we sit down to taste. He formally handed over control of Harlan Estate, Promontory, Bond and The Mascot in 2021, appointing 37-year-old Will managing director. Cilli (44) arrived in 2012 and is in charge of vineyard and winemaking at Promontory. Promontory is an 840-acre fastness, a deep valley folded into the foothills of Mount Veeder, on the west side of the Napa Valley. From the highway, you think the looming ridge you’re looking at is the edge of Sonoma. But there’s another ridge beyond and between them this interesting domain. It’s remote, even by Napa standards (contrary to opinion, there are plenty of wild spaces in the county). The ultra-refined French Laundry is a couple of miles away but it might be in Wisconsin for all the relevance it has up here. Bill Harlan had come upon it hiking in the 1980s. ‘I used the Carmelite monastery [we’d passed it on the way up] as a base and just started climbing’. There were no vines but he was intrigued by its seclusion. It might be possible vineland for the Napa project he had in mind. In the end, Harlan Estate was founded less than a mile to the north but for 25 years Harlan kept the idea of that parcel tucked under his hat (he never mentioned it, Will says) before it came on the market in 2007 and he snapped it up. "Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir" The owner – the Harlans don’t reveal who that is – had planted 80-odd acres of Cabernet Sauvignon. It was neglected, the vines overgrown. Trees had been felled and never collected. ‘It was a mess,’ Will says. ‘It looked like a logging operation.’ But it is magnificent. Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir. The whole estate is thickly forested, the vines often shaded on three sides. An old drovers’ road, running through the woods, will suddenly open out on a wide vista of vineyard and scree. Everything is deeply, lushly green in the steadily falling spring rain. The geology of the land is unusual, in that it rests on two distinct fault lines and consists of all three soil types that are found in Napa: volcanic, sedimentary and metamorphic. ‘You get all three in the same soil pit,’ Cilli notes. This, combined with the wild variation in aspect and the microclimate of the valley-within-a-valley, gives credence to Harlan’s claims that this part of Napa is like nowhere else in California. When the celebrated soil scientists Claude and Lydia Bourguignon came, they found the experience ‘novel’. Cilli said he fell in love with Promontory at first sight. It reminded him, in part, of his native Tuscany, but it was the wildness that captivated him, ‘I love that character that you can see in the wines.’ He said it was probably ‘the only project that could keep me in the valley.’ You get the impression none of them can quite believe their luck. ‘It somehow redefined what looks beautiful,’ Will says. It also redefined their ideas of winemaking. He goes on: ‘We were used to control. Harlan in the 1990s was obsessed with organisation and uniformity but Promontory was wild.’ The theme of wildness recurs. Harvest times are key to ‘find a way for it to come through,’ Will says. Empting: ‘Pick too late and you lose the ruggedness.’ Ageing, in the magnificent Howard Backen-designed chai, is all in Stockinger Austrian oak barrels ranging in size from 10,000 to 46,000 litres, for up to 36 months. ‘The fine-yet-tight tannins required longer barrel-ageing but [we] didn’t want the wine to be overpowered by new oak’. It’s a constant process of refinement and improvement – ‘we learn something new each season’. Empting: ‘It has blown every expectation out of the water. We were excited and we were scared. We didn’t know what this beast would be. Our learning curve has been very steep, it remains very steep. At least now we’re starting to get our arms around it but at the beginning, it was like: God, we cannot figure this thing out.” "I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness" You have to remember we’re talking about winemaking here, not Wittgenstein. But ‘interpretation of terroir’, if it’s to mean anything at all, should be taken seriously. I’ve seen vineland all over the world – rock-strewn fields in the Andean foothills, rainless Spanish deserts – but I’ve never seen anything like Promontory. Were I to be tasked with bottling the soul of that vineyard, I’d reach for metaphor as well. And so we come to the missing shade of blue. This is the concept propounded by the 18th-century philosopher David Hume, that an idea can be formulated without a previous sensory impression to give rise to it. He asked, Could a shade of blue missing from a spectrum be imagined by an observer? Harlan says (with a smile – he does have a degree in philosophy) that Promontory is the missing shade of red. ‘Until you’ve seen and experienced it, you don’t know that it’s missing. And so for us this was that final piece. The piece that wasn’t there that we had the opportunity to understand and try to translate into the wine.’ The next morning, in gorgeous May sunshine, we gather to taste. It’s almost the same group, though smaller, that did the mighty vertical of Harlan estate from magnum in 2020. Bill Harlan is there (he sweetly thanks the team for allowing him to taste, saying it’s the first full vertical of Promontory he’s ever done), Will, Empting, Cilli and the journalist Elaine Brown. We wonder, at the end, if there is thread that runs through the wines. In my notes the words ‘deceptively light’ recur, as do ‘structure’ and ‘stone’. Reaching for metaphor again, Will Harlan compares the structure of the 2016 to cathedral stone, which has ‘both weight and lightness. It’s intricately carved and light filters through the windows.’ I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness. Will Harlan calls this vintage an ‘inflection point’ and notes how the tannins are the ‘main differentiators’. Yes, agrees Cilli, ‘and because of the character of levity and lift, we have to be precise with the tannins.’ The younger vintages have an astonishing latent energy, tannins under tight rein, aromas bursting, the fruit compacted. Brown and I were struck not by the sophistication of these wines but by their honesty. Brown WhatsApped me later. ‘Promontory is the most transparent to place. The wines are impressively well crafted and elegant while still offering an almost wild or primal complex of flavours.’ "The wines are unmistakeably Californian but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa" ‘How do we take wine from a wilderness and have sophistication?’ Will asked. It’s a great question – with their resources, the Harlans could do anything they liked with Promontory. After all, they have to make a wine that will please their audience. But this was so unexpected. The tasting revealed a keen focus on the land and the vintage. The difference between the years was often marked – the challenge of 2015 for example showed in the wine – yet we could see that common thread running through, even as the wines increased in elegance. And what of Will’s quest for the missing shade of red? The wines are unmistakeably Californian – that splendid 2017 could come from nowhere else – but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa, which is quite a claim, in the world’s most cultivated wine region. Perhaps the last word should go to Bill Harlan, who started the whole thing. He speaks hardly at all during the tasting, his Old Testament face giving little away. At the end of the morning, he talks of his fascination with the ‘ongoing discovery’ of the project. The wines have character, layers and depth, he says, and – by way of praising their authenticity – he notes, ‘You never know what’s coming next.’

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites, with a vertical tasting of 14 vintages revealing the wild beauty, elegance and remarkable evolution of its wines.

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites.

Wildness captured: tasting 14 vintages of Promontory

It has been an exceptional few weeks for FINE+RARE events. From Hong Kong to London, Milan to the Scottish Highlands, this run of extraordinary occasions – each distinct in character – has been united by the thread that runs through everything we do: bringing people closer to the world's most exceptional wines and spirits in settings that do them justice. Tiberio Dinner Table by Sandy Keung, Hong Kong — Wednesday 21 May The run began with one of the most eye-opening evenings of recent weeks, centred on the wines of Tiberio, the Abruzzo estate whose commitment to a no-oak philosophy — for both fermentation and ageing, with the sole exception of Archivio — continues to challenge assumptions about what Italian wine can achieve without the influence of wood. The evening opened with three vintages of Fonte Canale: 2016, 2018 and 2023. The 2023 drew immediate attention — many guests found it hard to believe that a wine of such depth and power had not seen any oak influence whatsoever. Vibrant acidity and a clear capacity for long-term ageing were immediately apparent. The 2016, with more time in bottle, had moved into more evolved territory, displaying nutty and dried fruit notes while retaining impressive freshness. The 2018 proved a wonderful companion to the mixed clam dish, its texture and salinity enhancing the natural sweetness of the seafood. Among the whites, the standout for many was the Quarmari 2023 — exceptionally aromatic, revealing layers of beeswax, jasmine, caramel, lemon cream, basil and sweet spice. It was universally appreciated around the table, with some guests going so far as to compare its quality and presence to Corton-Charlemagne. The reds were equally compelling. Four vintages of Colle Vota — 2014, 2018, 2019 and 2021 — demonstrated remarkable depth and character across the board. Full-bodied and structured, with pronounced notes of dark fruits, liquorice, cedar, cinnamon and spice, the 2018 and 2021 in particular showed great power and concentration, their style subtly reminiscent, for some guests, of Château de Tours from Rayas. Paired with the lamb neck course, these wines were in their element. What surprised many most was that, despite their weight and complexity, not one had been aged in oak — a testament to the intrinsic power and expression of old vines. The inaugural 2014 vintage of Colle Vota was a particularly memorable moment. Despite showing early tertiary notes, it retained excellent fruit, freshness and structure, offering a compelling demonstration of the outstanding ageing potential these old-vine wines possess. It was an evening that left a very strong impression on everyone present, and a powerful reminder that great winemaking is, above all, about the vine and the land. Update by Jonathan Leung, Sales Manager, Hong Kong Castello di Ama — Vigneto Bellavista Vertical Dinner The River Café, London — Thursday 18 June One of the most memorable evenings of the year so far took place at The River Café, where proprietor Lorenza Sebasti guided a remarkable retrospective of Castello di Ama's Bellavista — the estate's defining wine, drawn from one of the highest and most historic sites in Gaiole in Chianti. Presented across nine vintages spanning more than three decades, from 1990 through to the newly released 2022, the dinner offered a rare opportunity to explore both the evolution and the extraordinary consistency of one of Tuscany's great wines. The oldest vintages were deeply impressive. The 1990, 1995, 2004 and 2006 demonstrated that great Chianti Classico belongs among the world's most ageworthy wines, maintaining freshness, detail and vivacity decades after harvest. For many around the table, however, the greatest surprise came from the 2011 — universally praised and the favourite of numerous guests — which has now entered an ideal drinking window, combining maturity, complexity and harmony in a way that rewards the patience Bellavista has always asked of its admirers. Among the younger vintages, the 2018 impressed for its purity and transparency, while the 2021 and 2022 elevated the conversation further. Both displayed remarkable polish, power and refinement alongside the freshness that has become an increasingly important hallmark of the site. It was the 2022 Bellavista that generated the greatest excitement. Awarded a perfect 100-point score by Antonio Galloni, the wine was the subject of considerable discussion throughout the evening, though the consensus was clear: the score tells only a small part of the story. What made the 2022 so fascinating was what it represents — a convergence of decades of technical progress, viticultural understanding and winemaking refinement in a single wine. It possessed concentration and potency, but delivered these with remarkable elegance, precision and energy. More than any previous vintage tasted, it felt like a blueprint for the future of the estate. Throughout the evening, Lorenza and Arturo offered invaluable personal reflections on the evolution of Castello di Ama, transforming the dinner from a vertical tasting into a living history of one of Italy's great estates. The River Café, with its understated elegance and deep connection to Italian cuisine, proved the perfect setting. The main takeaway was a simple truth: Bellavista is one of Italy's great wines, and only growing in stature and completeness. Across more than thirty years, through changing vintages and shifting climates, it has maintained a consistency of purpose and identity that very few wines anywhere in the world can match. Update by Dara de Lacy, Senior Sales Manager, UK EAWCO Rarities Selection — Bowmore & Springbank Masterclass FINE+RARE HQ, London A masterclass that set the bar high from the very first pour. We were delighted to welcome Christian Leusder, founder and owner of East Asia Whisky Company, to FINE+RARE headquarters for an evening dedicated to some of the rarest independent bottlings in existence. East Asia Whisky Company has been a longstanding and deeply valued partner of FINE+RARE. An exclusive independent bottler built on principles of understatement, exclusivity and meticulous attention to detail, EAWCO's portfolio spans blue-chip distilleries including Macallan, Bowmore, Springbank, Chichibu and Caroni. They remain the only independent bottler to have released multiple successful Mizunara cask bottlings from these houses — releases that have, remarkably, achieved higher prices than the original distillery bottlings of the same vintages. Christian guided guests through the history of the company before leading a tutored exploration of five extraordinarily rare expressions from Bowmore and Springbank: Bowmore PX Mizunara, 31 Year Old Bowmore Japan Edition, 30 Year Old Springbank Lumen Refill Sherry, 30 Year Old Springbank Yokai Series Asanoha Dragon, 24 Year Old Springbank Yokai Series Yurei (Ghost) Cat, 25 Year Old With a few surprises woven in along the way, the evening was a genuine privilege — one of those rare tastings where every bottle opened carries real weight and significance. For those who were unable to attend, a small number of these bottlings remain available, though given how few exist, they are being offered very selectively. All come very highly recommended. Update by Morgan Richards, Senior Account Manager An Extraordinary Journey Through Bordeaux's Greatest Estates Trattoria de La Trebia, Milan — Tuesday 23 June In Milan, an evening of extraordinary ambition brought together a side-by-side exploration of the 2012 and 2014 vintages through Bordeaux's most celebrated First Growth estates and the legendary Petrus. Far more than a tasting, this was a rare opportunity for guests to compare the expression of each château across two very different vintages — discovering how terroir, philosophy and vintage character shape wines that stand among the finest ever produced. The lineup was nothing short of remarkable. Across both vintages, guests tasted Château Margaux, Château Cheval Blanc, Château Haut-Brion, Petrus, Château Lafite Rothschild, Château Mouton Rothschild and Château La Mission Haut-Brion — fourteen wines in all, representing the very pinnacle of Bordeaux winemaking. The tasting was complemented by an exclusive five-course menu designed by the culinary team at Trattoria de La Trebia, crafted to enhance and showcase each wine served throughout the evening. If one wine captured the room above all others, it was the Château Haut-Brion 2012. Explosive from the first moment, with blackcurrant, smoke and herbs, it simply grew in the glass — every passing minute revealing more power, richness and intensity. Full-bodied, multi-layered and framed by wonderfully chewy tannins, this is a wine of real charm: approachable now yet built to last another twenty years with ease. A blend of 65.5% Merlot, 32.5% Cabernet Sauvignon and 2% Cabernet Franc, it offers extraordinary quality for its level — the kind of Haut-Brion that gives joy from the very first sip. Not to be missed. The Château Margaux 2012 also showed beautifully, drawing considerable admiration from guests throughout the evening. Designed for collectors, enthusiasts and connoisseurs alike, the dinner brought together extraordinary wines, great conversation and a shared passion for excellence — everything a FINE+RARE evening in Italy should be. Update by Jonathan Bruni, Sales Director, Continental Europe Visit to Hazelwood House Speyside, Scotland — Thursday 25 to Friday 26 June The series closed with something truly special: a private, two-day visit to Hazelwood House, the Gordon family home in the Scottish Highlands and the inspiration behind the House of Hazelwood collection — one of the world's greatest inventories of aged and rare Scotch whisky. Over two days, a small group of guests were given rare access to a world that very few ever see: private tours of the Balvenie and Glenfiddich distilleries, a whisky tasting drawn from House of Hazelwood's private reserves, a Gordon family archive session led by archivist Andy Fairgrieve, and an evening of wine, whisky and storytelling over a four-course dinner at the house itself — each course paired with exceptional wines from FINE+RARE alongside whiskies of extraordinary age and provenance. It was the kind of experience that simply cannot be replicated — not just rare access, but a genuine connection to the family, the place and the history from which these remarkable whiskies come. These past few weeks have captured everything we love about what we do at FINE+RARE – connecting people with the world's most remarkable wines and spirits, in the most exceptional settings, surrounded by the stories and the people that bring them to life.  We look forward to sharing what lies ahead for the rest of the year. Interested in joining us at future events? We are pleased to announce that it is now possible to browse, book and purchase event tickets directly through our website, with all tickets viewable in your portfolio. Get in touch with your account manager or visit frw.co.uk/events to see what's coming up — we'd love to see you at the next one.

Tiberio in Hong Kong, Castello di Ama and rare whiskies in London, First Growth Bordeaux in Milan and a private Scottish estate — a glimpse of our events programme week to week. Plus, you can now purchase event tickets directly through our website.

From a Tiberio dinner in Hong Kong to rare whiskies in Scotland, a look back at recent FINE+RARE tastings, dinners and experiences.

Looking back at our recent events

Saint-Julien: Vineyards, Cellars, People, and Place is the latest addition to the Académie du Vin Library's Exploring the Appellations of Bordeaux series, written by Marc Bouffard. Compact in geography but outsized in reputation, Saint-Julien is home to some of the Médoc's most celebrated Grands Crus Classés — and this book sets out to explain, with rigour and warmth, exactly why. Bouffard approaches the appellation from the ground up, opening with a meticulous account of Saint-Julien's terroir: the two glacial gravel terraces shaped over 2.5 million years, the moderating influence of the Gironde, and the 17th-century Dutch drainage works that transformed a swampy peninsula into one of the world's great wine regions. He then turns to the human story — the winemakers, the châteaux, and the restless spirit of innovation that has defined Bordeaux from Peynaud's fermentation breakthroughs to today's precision viticulture and climate adaptation. The result is a book that rewards both the curious newcomer and the seasoned Bordeaux enthusiast. It is a portrait not just of an appellation, but of a living community of growers and thinkers who, as Bouffard puts it, are still very much succeeding — vintage after challenging vintage. The two passages below, drawn from different points in the book, offer a taste of both its scope and its spirit: the first plants us firmly in the land itself; the second lifts the gaze toward history, science, and the future. The lie of the land Most readers who decide to open a book dedicated to Saint-Julien will not be novices to Bordeaux, but I think this isn't the worst place to start for those who are. Regardless of the level of expertise, there's some setting of the scene that needs to be done as a basis for the coming focus on Saint-Julien's Grands Crus Classés. This begins with the AOC's terroir. Bordeaux is divided into two banks by the Gironde estuary, itself formed from the rivers Garonne (originating in the Pyrenees) and Dordogne (coming from the Massif Central). Saint-Julien sits on the Left Bank of the Gironde on the Médoc peninsula. The waters of the Gironde play a major influence in the AOC's terroir, cooling it when weather is hot and heating it when weather is cool, with the numerous influences on ripening in moderation, promotion of air flow, and mitigation of threats such as frost. In her excellent work Inside Bordeaux (2020), Jane Anson delivers a wonderful masterclass in geology as it pertains to Bordeaux's formation and soil types. Most pertinent to the understanding of Saint-Julien is that cycles of glacial formation and melting beginning 2.5 million years ago led to sequential periods of erosion in the Pyrenees and deposition of gravel onto the Médoc peninsula. The eras in which these deposits were made bear the names 'Mindel' and 'Günz'; they form two terraces – Terrace 3 and Terrace 4. The latter is closer to the Gironde and is home to the three Léoville châteaux, Langoa Barton, Ducru-Beaucaillou, and Beychevelle. Terrace 3 is home to the estates in the western half of the appellation. The two terraces are gravel-rich, composed of sandy gravels and gravelly sand (so called depending on their proportions). It doesn't seem totally clear that there is a neat division of one terrace being comprised solely one kind of gravel; according to local sources the plateau of Beychevelle is comprised of Günzian gravel and the plateau of Saint-Julien of Mindel (like Pauillac), though both together form Terrace 4. The general trend is to see gravel of shallower depth as one moves westward in the appellation, but there are exceptions, such as at Château Gruaud-Larose. The eastern, southern, and southwestern edges of the more-western Terrace 3 are also hugged by older, deeper soil types at lower altitudes as one comes down off the higher plateaus – these are composed of Molasse du Fronsadais (a particular soft limestone) and clay/limestone. The iron-rich sandstone subsoil, alios, is also found in the vineyards of Château Talbot. To the west of Saint-Julien, there are still patches of Terrace 3 and Grands Crus Classés of the Haut-Médoc indeed sit on them – but the terroir is different and less regular. To the east of the vineyard land – between the easternmost reaches of vineyard and the Gironde – is a wet, grassy area referred to as the palus or palu; it is too wet for vine cultivation here and it floods regularly. This area can become rather dramatically waterlogged; Lilian Barton Sartorius recounts a story about the palus flooding, prompting the need to rescue grazing cattle that were up to their necks in water! Immediately to the south of Beychevelle and Branaire-Ducru (which delimit the southern border of Saint-Julien), there is a broad stretch of palus that separates the Saint-Julien AOC from the next village of Cussac. Most of the Médoc was once as swampy as the palus can be today. The peninsula was drained by Dutch engineers in the 17th century, increasing the amount of arable terroir dramatically. The land that was uncovered was understood from the outset to be of fine quality, particularly for the quality of the wine it would produce. The rapid expansion of vineyard sites producing subtly different wines inspired a kind of 'vine frenzy', with planting increasing rapidly throughout the last part of the 17th century. The drainage ditches (jalles) can still be seen today, augmented by numerous fosses (more recently dug drainage ditches), which keep the Médoc relatively dry. The Jalle de Juillac – its name a charming portmanteau of 'Julien' and 'Pauillac' – demarcates the northern boundary of Saint-Julien where it meets Pauillac, and the Jalle du Nord runs along the appellation's southern boundary. By this point, it may seem clear why blind tasting with a goal of determining a Médoc's village of origin can be difficult, if not outright folly. One AOC, yet two different terraces which extend to neighboring AOCs, with some properties in Saint-Julien overlapping or sitting between the two terraces. My goodness. Nevertheless, Saint-Julien still somehow manages to convey a character of equilibrium, borrowing some of the power of Pauillac and some of the elegance of the better Margaux properties, to create what could reasonably be perceived as an archetype of Bordeaux. Even more meaningful than the character of the appellation as a whole is the individual character of each of Saint-Julien's Grands Crus Classés, their complexity reflecting the geologic complexity of their origin. They are great personalities in the wine world. So, open a bottle of Saint-Julien, pour a glass, and enjoy the long tour. Later in the book, Bouffard turns from the physical foundations of Saint-Julien to the intellectual and human ones — tracing a tradition of scientific curiosity and open-minded innovation that he argues has always set Bordeaux apart. A tradition of innovation One last point is crucial to recognise. Michael Georges at Léoville Las Cases recounted a quote of Emile Peynaud's: 'innovation is Bordeaux's tradition'. So, we must look to the past and to the future simultaneously. Tradition is sometimes right, sometimes wrong. We should learn when to stick with it and when to depart from it. To address new challenges, we should accept the need to test new ideas – even if sometimes we don't like the results and revert to the way things were done. In this regard, Bordeaux has perhaps always led the wine world. Consider Peynaud's own work with Ribéreau-Gayon in understanding the malolactic fermentation. After clarifying that there actually was a second fermentation, it was a struggle to convince many winemakers that malolactic fermentation was a good thing for red Bordeaux! This is long forgotten. Now everyone simply does it for red wines; with malic acid converted to softer lactic acid, harmony is improved, and the drinking window is broadened. When Peynaud was brought in to consult at Léoville Las Cases in 1959, the property sometimes suffered from stuck fermentations, which Professor Peynaud found was to be the result of fermentation temperatures soaring into the 30s Celsius – so hot that the yeasts were killed before they could complete the fermentation. Whereas ice was previously added to the vats to prevent this problem (famously across Bordeaux in 1947), Peynaud counseled careful temperature monitoring and the withdrawal of a portion of wine from the vat to allow it to cool when the must became too hot. At the same time, Las Cases dealt (perhaps paradoxically) with extraction difficulties. Peynaud increased the overall vatting time essentially to the duration it sees today. The wine made first year he consulted – 1959 – was in my opinion a clear step up at the property thanks to these fundamental innovations.  Peynaud was carrying on the legacy of scientific observation and enquiry that had brought Bordeaux through its darkest days in the 19th century. Bordeaux led the way in grafting French vines onto American rootstock to combat phylloxera. In the same era, a cadre of individuals recognized the anti-fungal property of copper. Bouillie Bordelaise – a mix of copper sulfate and quicklime, effective against both downy mildew and powdery mildew (oïdium) – was developed in 1878, forever changing the world of organic farming as a result. The legacy of innovation continues today. It is often assumed that innovation means more technology will be used in winemaking, but many times the opposite is the case. Léoville Las Cases has the largest private oenological laboratory in Bordeaux (perhaps anywhere) and Lagrange and Ducru-Beaucaillou are also particularly innovative places. Cornelis van Leeuwen at the University of Bordeaux has been mentioned far too few times in this book given his important work in helping to understand the science of terroir and of the vine. Despite the research that has been done over the past couple of decades, we have not seen more gadgets but rather fewer. We have seen a better understood and more balanced ecosystem, fewer synthetic interventions, and a lighter touch in the winery and barrel cellar. What we're seeing now is the application of scientific principle to study every decision, and that approach has brought people closer to their terroir and to their vines – not farther from them. Bordeaux is well suited to lead the way in adapting to climate change and Saint-Julien is playing a key role here. Some very hot and sunny growing seasons of the distant past produced ripe wines of only moderate alcohol (the perfectly sun-kissed 1949s, for example). The reasons for this are multifactorial – vineyard health, vine material, canopy heights, picking dates, and vinification choices all likely played a role. Understanding how certain outcomes were reached is helpful; the goal is not to be reactionary, but rather to learn lessons that might be useful today. So much of that wisdom has been lost, and one of the goals of this book is to preserve it for the future. Saint-Julien: Vineyards, Cellars, People, and Place by Marc Bouffard is published by Académie du Vin Library and is available now. FINE+RARE customers receive 15% off all purchases through the Académie du Vin Library website – use your exclusive discount code FINE15 at checkout, valid until 31 January 2027. Learn more about Marc Bouffard's Saint-Julien: Vineyards, Cellars, People, and Place Shop all books from the Académie du Vin Library Visit the Académie du Vin website

From ancient glacial gravels to Dutch-engineered drainage ditches, Saint-Julien's terroir is a story of geology and human ingenuity. Marc Bouffard reveals why this compact Médoc appellation remains the most perfectly balanced archetype of Bordeaux.

Marc Bouffard reveals why Saint-Julien remains the most perfectly balanced archetype of Bordeaux.

Saint-Julien: Vineyards, Cellars, People, and Place

What springs to mind when you think of Bordeaux? Probably châteaux the size of medieval palaces, formal dinners, and rows and rows of pristine vines, neatly manicured rose bushes the only other signs of plant life. What you’re unlikely to be imagining are cow horns stuffed with manure buried in the ground, or horse-drawn ploughs churning through earthworm-rich soil. ‘In the past, in Bordeaux, you were scared to say you were growing biodynamically,’ says Corinne Comme, who manages 10ha of biodynamic vines at Château du Champ des Treilles in Entre-Deux-Mers with her husband Jean-Michel. ‘Now it’s trendy.’ An engineer and geologist, Jean-Michel Comme was behind the first transition of a grand cru classé estate on Bordeaux’s Left Bank to biodynamics. Although he and Corinne first came across the concept in the mid-1990s, he didn’t begin to advocate for the approach at Château Pontet-Canet in Pauillac until the early 2000s. ‘Corinne was scared,’ he recalls. ‘She thought they would fire me.’ "Behind the more esoteric elements is a series of principles that have been shown to improve soil health and vine strength" Originally laid out in a series of lectures by Austrian philosopher, scientist and social reformer Rudolf Steiner in 1924, biodynamic farming emerged as a holistic approach to agriculture before quickly evolving into formal certification movements. At its core, biodynamic farming centres on soil health and biodiversity; most distinctively, it operates according to the lunar calendar, with practitioners timing agricultural activities around specific ‘fruit days’, ‘root days’, ‘leaf days’ and ‘flower days’ to align with cosmic rhythms believed to influence plant growth and agricultural processes. For many in Bordeaux – Jean-Michel Comme included – this all sounded a bit wacky. ‘I was young, full of expectations about chemistry; the way biodynamics was presented was so remote that I felt it was crazy,’ Comme says. ‘But with experience, we did change our minds.’ Why? Because behind the more esoteric elements is a series of principles that have been shown to improve soil health and vine strength. In vineyards, biodynamic farming means specific practices such as hand-harvesting, using natural composts made with specific herbal and mineral preparations, avoiding chemical fertilisers and pesticides, and treating the entire vineyard as a self-sustaining ecosystem. In the cellar, there’s an emphasis on minimal intervention, using native yeasts, avoiding commercial additives, keeping sulphur use to under 70ppm, and employing gentle pressing and ageing techniques that respect the wine’s natural development. While biodynamics took root in regions like the Loire and Burgundy in the 1990s, biodynamic winemaking in Bordeaux largely began in the new millennium, with just two early St-Emilion exceptions: Château Meylet, which has been practising it since 1987, and Château Fonroque, experimenting since 1995 with direction from Loire legend Nicolas Joly. This delay largely stemmed from two factors. First, Bordeaux’s humid maritime climate means that vines are especially vulnerable to both downy and powdery mildew, making the avoidance of synthetic fungicides a risky business. Second, large châteaux with multimillioneuro operations were reluctant to abandon the technological viticulture and winemaking that had built their global reputations in the first place. Comme, however, was convinced of the virtues of biodynamics. He began by seeking the assistance of François Bouchet. The Loire Valley winemaker was one of the first in France to pioneer biodynamics, also consulting for Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, Domaine Leroy and Domaine Leflaive in Burgundy. Bouchet guided the transition to biodynamics at Comme’s Château du Champ des Treilles; then, he persuaded Château Pontet-Canet owner Alfred Tesseron of its merits. In 2004, it was trialled on 15ha (about 20% of the estate’s total growing area) of the fifth growth at which Comme was also technical director. A severe mildew outbreak in 2007 led to the use of pesticides, undoing three years of progress, but it then became a crucial lesson that strengthened their long-term commitment to biodynamics. ‘They believed the fruit had more expression, more brightness,’ says the current technical director at Pontet-Canet, Mathieu Bessonnet, who reveals that they converted the whole of the growing area soon after. ‘It’s obviously much more difficult, time-consuming and expensive, so it was very risky,’ he adds. Since then, biodynamic farming has become a significant and growing practice across different classed growths in the region, with some of the most prestigious estates – such as Château Latour and Château Palmer – adopting biodynamic methods (the latter certified). ‘The link between the wines and the place where the fruit came from had become less and less obvious,’ says Château Palmer’s technical director Thomas Duroux, commenting on the region’s turn to the trend. He notes that, since the noughties, many have adopted organic practices in a bid to reverse this perceived drop in terroir definition. ‘Biodynamics is, in a way, the same story as organic farming, but with a larger vision,’ he adds. This shared perspective has led to more cooperation between practitioners. Every spring, the Médoc branch of the Biodynamic Agriculture Movement gathers at Château Ferrière. After unearthing a thousand manure-filled cow horns and replacing them with silica-filled ones (a process reversed in autumn to produce preparations 500 and 501, required for Demeter certification), participants share wines and gardengrown salads. The humus removed from the cow horns is stored in a cold, damp facility and made available to members. ‘We do that for free,’ says Claire Lurton, owner of Château Ferrière. ‘It’s a community.’ Though ‘community’ might be too strong a word for some, these gatherings symbolise a deepening professional exchange that has emerged among estates of all sizes through the practice of biodynamic winemaking. In fact, the shift among the classed growths has happened at the same time as these practices have been adopted by smaller growers arriving in the region. Christophe Landry of Château des Graviers, for example, returned to Arsac in the 1990s and began practising biodynamics around the same time as Comme at Pontet-Canet. He’s consulted for the Lurton estates and other properties. Originally from Minervois in Languedoc, Michel Théron established Clos du Jaugueyron nearby and has been certified biodynamic since 2008, while Laurence Alias and Pascale Choime – who are both from southwest France – established Closerie des Moussis, a patchwork of sites across 2ha, including a 170-year-old pre-phylloxera plot leased from Théron. On the Right Bank, other producers began switching lanes even earlier. Le Puy, owned by the Amoreau family, began practising in 1998, with certification since 2013, and Château Gombaude-Guillot in Pomerol has been certified biodynamic since 2006. While larger estates like Latour and Palmer collaborate on issues like mildew, smaller producers tend to engage more with one another. Shared biodynamic practices, however, are definitely helping to break down barriers. For example, Château Haut-Bages Libéral maintains regular communication with its neighbours at Château Latour, and the son of Théron at Clos du Jaugueyron interned at Château Palmer for two months. Can we speak of a unity of praxis? Not exactly. There is considerable variation in which aspects of biodynamics winemakers emphasise, regardless of estate size. The primary aim across the board is achieving living soil with rich biodiversity to promote deep-rooted vines. In pursuit of this, some winemakers emphasise tree growing or cover cropping (like Haut-Bages Libéral, which also recently planted a variety of local and fruit trees). Others, such as Le Puy, let nature take its course, allowing a diverse array of plants and flowers to sprout from the earth. Whether certified or not, biodynamic practitioners throughout Bordeaux use homeopathic treatments like nettle teas for the vines – they are believed to stimulate soil health, enhance plant immunity and improve nutrient uptake. More important than any of this, however, is the concept of energy. How can the energy of the plant be retained as its raw material transforms into wine? Every winemaker I visited was at least intrigued by the concept – and most were captivated. After a few days in the sometimes eerily flat Médoc, I drive through the verdant hills of St-Emilion to Le Puy, arriving with a raised spirit. Standing before a 5,000-year-old Celtic cromlech, Harold Langlais, the estate’s director, tells me, ‘Le Puy is a place of energy and life,’ pointing to its deep history as an intersection of water springs. At modern-day Le Puy, this philosophy extends from the vines to the cellar. Indeed, many others I speak to express that, since adopting biodynamics, the most striking change in their wines has been an increase in ‘energy’. It’s a term without a precise definition, but according to Château Palmer’s makers, something shifted with the 2015 vintage, the second year after full conversion. ‘You cannot measure it,’ Thomas Duroux says. ‘You can just feel it.’ At Château Durfort-Vivens, where the vineyard was operating under biodynamic principles by 2013 (with full conversion by 2016), owner Gonzague Lurton recalls the 2014 vintage as ‘the first where you really feel the energy of biodynamics’. It’s tactile and warming, with a sophisticated grip and charm. ‘It’s what I love – the linearity of tannins, never weak from start to finish. With many of the estates I visited, their wines showed an immediate appeal, vibrant even in their youth. Is energy just another way of describing freshness? Laurence Alias at Closerie des Moussis trained as an agricultural engineer; for her, energy and vitality are tied to the physical properties of grapes grown biodynamically. ‘We have more acidity, that’s an analytic fact,’ she tells me, standing in front of a newly acquired plot of vines bordered by forest. It might be romantic to think of energy as something ineffable, but it’s also rooted in what remains within the grapes. ‘Our idea of energy is based more on Einstein than Steiner,’ Langlais later qualifies. ‘Energy is matter.’ Biodynamic winemaking in Bordeaux: five to follow Château Pontet-Canet At the 55ha Pontet-Canet estate in Pauillac, an immensely smooth operation is palpable. Winemakers here have spent almost two decades honing their biodynamic craft, continually moving towards a goal of self-sufficiency for the estate. Sturdy Comtois horses, introduced in 2008, now work half the vineyard, preventing soil compaction. Vineyards are sprayed over a single day using compost and herbal teas produced from plants grown in and around the property and processed in the state-of-the-art infusion room. Biodiversity-boosting fruit trees and hedges have been planted. The estate even employs a carpenter who repurposes wood from vats used on the property. Ageing involves custom-made wooden eggs and qvevri-style amphorae, with no fining and minimal filtration. The result? A Pauillac with untypical levels of energy and minerality, and a plush, velvety texture. But it’s more than that – according to Bessonnet, thanks to a low-intervention approach across the board, ‘you can really feel the soil.’ Château Palmer Thomas Duroux’s conviction in biodynamics is based in what he calls a ‘holistic vision’. ‘We started to see the entire place as a living organism,’ he says of Château Palmer, one of the most storied and historically significant third-growth estates in Bordeaux. When converting (a process that started in 2009), the Margaux estate was initially guided by François Bouchet’s son Matthieu, but now it follows its own evolving philosophy, integrating cover crops, animals for fertilisation and estate-grown vegetables and meat. ‘It’s just going back to agricultural common sense,’ Duroux says. ‘That was the way to grow anything before World War II.’ This respect for nature results in wines that are deeply tied to their terroir. ‘If I had to describe the wines how they are today, compared to how they were before, I’ll just say that it’s not a revolution, but we have the feeling that the wines have a better identity,’ says Duroux. He likens biodynamics to restoring an old painting: ‘Suddenly, you see small details that you were not able to see because of the dust.’ The estate uses stainless-steel vats for fermentation and temperature-controlled rooms for barrel-ageing, combined with nativeyeast and low-sulphur winemaking, to produce its esteemed Alter Ego and Château Palmer cuvées; both have been increasingly celebrated among critics and drinkers since the turn to biodynamics. ‘We just think it does help to go a little bit further in the interpretation of the place,’ says Duroux. Château Durfort-Vivens Standing over a rustic sorting table explaining how it used to work, Gonzague Lurton is visibly passionate about the savoir-faire of the past. This sensibility is reflected in the current winemaking practices, too, and in the second-growth Margaux estate’s reputation (and critics’ scores) increasing year on year. The thing to emphasise is that what began with a biodynamic approach in the vineyards led to a series of domino effects that changed the character of the wines. In search of what Lurton calls greater ‘singularity’, the proportion of Cabernet Sauvignon had already risen to over 90% by 2014 (from around 75%); and with the use of indigenous yeasts during fermentation and the reduction of sulphur levels over time (initially sparked by Demeter’s upper limits of 70mg/l), the wines have become more aromatically complex and expressive. The introduction of amphorae by Italian producer Tava has allowed for microoxidation without overextraction, contributing to a more delicate balance of flavours, with the 2019 estate wine a blend aged one third in amphorae and the rest in barrel. ‘It’s not a big wine,’ says Lurton. ‘And it’s what I was looking for with biodynamics, in terms of style.’ Château des Graviers Christophe Landry’s pioneering status in Margaux stems from an instinct refined over decades at his own estate. He grows medicinal plants — horsetail, absinthe, calendula, chamomile — for vineyard treatments, as well as using the manure from his own cows. ‘What we need to remember is that biodynamics isn’t just a practice,’ he tells me. ‘It’s about finding your own path to self-sufficiency.’ His precision extends to the cellar, where he uses concrete tanks, amphorae and oak barrels (produced according to the biodynamic calendar) tailored to each of the five cépages’ oxygenation needs, then ages the wines for different lengths of time. Timing is everything, with harvest choices also following the biodynamic calendar. Obsessive care for the vines’ life cycles goes hand in hand with the level of precision in the cellar. The outcome is two phenomenal wines that are, as Landry puts it, ‘thirstquenching’. Château des Graviers and Quintessence — which contains a higher proportion of Petit Verdot and is aged longer in barrel and amphorae — are aromatically expressive, velvety and strikingly lively, with the latter offering more depth and an enveloping finish. Expanding to 18ha, Landry has also turned his focus to Clos Dufourg, cultivating vines on previously wild land nearby and hand-building a striking new cellar with cement tanks painted with clay from the surrounding earth. Le Puy For technical director Harold Langlais, the Le Puy estate’s significance lies in how it challenges Bordeaux’s conventional identity. Outside of the region’s traditional focus on appellations and classifications, Le Puy sits on a plateau near St-Emilion. The estate’s land is unusual, with no topsoil but a deep limestone bedrock beneath red-brown clay, which forces the vines to develop deep roots to access the earth’s natural water and nutrients. This is further supported by horse-ploughing and biodynamic sprays made from horsetail, buckthorn and nettles, which grow on the property. ‘Our approach focuses on rooting the vine deep,’ Langlais explains, ‘encouraging it to search out hidden nutrients.’ A vigorous wind circulates around the vines, and Langlais explains the effects of the elements. ‘The beauty of Le Puy is that it’s an acid factory. The whole place creates acidity in the berries.’ The biodynamic philosophy extends to the winemaking, with two different processes applied to their 100% Merlot cuvées. Cuvée Emilien uses a ‘decantation method’, or ‘fermentation by infusion’, while Barthélemy is produced with zero sulphites and a process of lees-stirring called ‘dynamisation’, which is done on fruit days and involves a specific motion to create a vortex in the old barrels it ages in. ‘Barthélemy is much more intense,’ Langlais says. ‘All the matter taken by the plant is in there.’

Written for Club Oenologique in 2025, Joel Hart visits Bordeaux to track the region’s belated embrace of biodynamic winemaking. While other French regions ploughed ahead, Bordeaux had its reasons for delayed adoption. Yet now the practice is booming, and Hart gauges its employment across estates.

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Joel Hart visits Bordeaux to track the region’s belated embrace of biodynamic winemaking. 

Taking root: the rise of biodynamic winemaking in Bordeaux

Sitting opposite us, the dark-suited, dark-haired figure waved an elegant hand at the bottle of white Burgundy which he’d just fished out of a carrier bag and planted on the table with the air of a conjuror at a party. “You’ll like this,” he said; it was a statement, not a suggestion, delivered in a faint accent with American overtones and a hint of gutturality. In this totally unremarkable West London pub, a bottle of Meursault looked as out of place as a KGB officer. Which he was. We did like it, of course, who wouldn’t? It made the greasy steak and chips almost bearable, and was one of the best wines I’d ever tasted at that point in my life. I was 33 that year, 1978, and as a newish BBC foreign correspondent I wasn’t particularly well paid. He’d brought the Meursault with him to show us how sophisticated he was, and to counter the blandness of the food. But why had he suggested The Mitre as a place for lunch? It was handy for the Soviet embassy up the road, certainly; but I realised that the real attraction for him was the high-backed seats that enclosed our table and kept our conversation private. Sergei was a major in the KGB, masquerading as a press attaché. The habit of secrecy was deeply ingrained in him. The Meursault started to work on my companion, a gossipy, amusing, slightly naïve BBC executive. It worked on me, too, but under the influence of alcohol I tend to go quiet and introverted. Not so Harry. He delivered the brief lecture about Soviet harassment of our Moscow correspondent which he’d been planning. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t make Sergei burst into tears. On the contrary. “Ah, yes, the famous Declan.” Sergei managed to put the accent on the second syllable. “Such good Russian. A pity he wastes his time hanging around those drop-outs and wastrels.” I was particularly impressed by ‘wastrels’. “I suppose you mean dissidents,” I said, pushing my glass across for more Meursault. The label read ‘1968’; the Soviet embassy must have had a superb cellar. Sergei laughed scornfully and poured. “I hear Declan’s marriage isn’t going so good now,” he said. “Ah, no, his wife left him for an airline pilot,” Harry replied, giggling. I kicked him sharply: you didn’t feed personal details about your colleagues to KGB officers. “What?” Harry said, looking at me. We saw the bottle out. Sometimes I think I can still taste that rich, green-gold collection of butter, almond, citrus and, could it have been, or is it just my imagination after more than 40 years, hints of bracken and mayflower. At the end, we stood up and shook hands. “So you’ll go easy on Declan from now on?” Harry said. “Well, Declan must stop creating bad propaganda against the Soviet Union.” He had a good ear: this time the accent was on the first syllable. Sergei turned in the direction of the embassy, and we headed back to Television Centre. “Bloody good wine those Russkies can afford,” Harry said, and gave his high-pitched laugh.For journalists and spies, booze is a famous lubricant, a fuel, even. I came from a teetotal background, yet when I started as a foreign correspondent I soon found myself ordering a glass of single malt as a means of self-protection, while someone I was trying to pump for information opened up and talked in a way he or she never would if I’d ordered a Britvic orange. Yet there were exceptions. In Belfast and Derry, where I started my reporting career, the leaders of the Provisional IRA were mostly ultra-Catholic and never drank a drop; and as I branched out and began reporting on the Middle East, I found that organisations like Hezbollah and the followers of the Ayatollah were as teetotal as I had once been. There were no bars to meet them in, either. Fortunately, though, cities like Cairo and Beirut were more sophisticated. I soon found that anywhere with a sizeable Christian population, Egypt and Lebanon, of course, but also Syria, Iraq and westernised countries like Turkey and Pakistan, made allowances for thirsty westerners and permitted them to drink, even if in cities like Peshawar you had to sign a big leather volume and register yourself as an alcoholic. The bar in the old Commodore Hotel in Beirut was a wonderful centre for professional alcoholics of this kind. I first went there in June 1982, when West Beirut was under hourly attack from Israeli planes and tanks, and there were no shelters to protect us. The presiding spirit of the place was a correspondent called Chris Drake, a hospitable soul who dispensed booze and information even-handedly. When the barrage was going on, it would have been suicidal to leave the Commodore, and the building shuddered to every nearby explosion. Chris Drake had a parrot, and when the bar was packed in the evening with journalists glad to still be alive, it would imitate the sound of a shell in flight with startling accuracy. Most of the people there, not me, thank God, had walked into the bar on their first night, heard the parrot’s hugely convincing whistle, and thrown themselves on the floor shouting “Incoming!”. There would be a roar of laughter, and someone would help them up and offer them a glass of arak, an infusion of grapes and the seeds of the anise plant. I acquired a real taste for arak at that time, and I still think of that slightly oily, metallic, liquorice-tasting liquid hitting the back of my throat and burning its way down. A few years later, during another upsurge of fighting, the Commodore was heavily shelled by the Syrian army. The building was destroyed, and no trace of the parrot was ever found. When peace was restored and there was money around, the Commodore was rebuilt, much bigger and more glitzy, but the architect designed a new bar precisely where the old one had once been. You can still see the space on the floor where many a famous journalist measured his length when the parrot did its party trick. I took my wife and 13-year-old son there a couple of years ago, and one afternoon, when the bar was empty, my son insisted on re-enacting the whole thing. In China, things were different. Meetings with underground figures usually took place at their homes or outdoors, given the fear of surveillance. I often chose Ritan Park in Beijing, where teahouses served pu-erh tea and offered a discreet place to talk. By contrast, official meetings required alcohol, specifically Maotai, a fierce baijiu distilled from sorghum at over 50% ABV. At one banquet, after being insulted by a local Party official, I tried to outdrink him. The plan failed, he had help, but we still ended the night collapsed together, singing in two languages. The next day, I was told this had enhanced British prestige. Countries where alcohol is banned present different challenges. In Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, I smuggled in a 27-year-old bottle of Laphroaig disguised as Fanta, only to pour it down the toilet when soldiers began searching rooms for alcohol. They never entered mine. After the fall of the Soviet Union, I tried to track Sergei down but never found him. Before that, though, I had taken my revenge by signing him up to every unwanted mailing list I could find, encyclopaedias, dubious magazines, and more inventive subscriptions besides. It made me feel very good.And yet, if I imagine meeting him again, I always picture the same thing: Sergei standing in the doorway, holding a superb bottle of Meursault. For that, at least, I’ve always been grateful. This article was written by John Simpson, who reflects on his experiences reporting across the world, and the role alcohol has played in the art of face-to-face reconnaissance. Illustrations by Natsko Seki. Originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson reflects on reporting from conflict zones, recalling memorable bars, encounters and the role alcohol plays in the subtle art of face-to-face reconnaissance.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson on bars, encounters and how alcohol shapes reporting, trust and intelligence gathering worldwide.

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

I. Distractions In 1987, when I was 18 and a dollar was worth more than twice as much as it is today, I started reading magazines: M, Esquire, GQ. Nearby, in our somewhat cultured Texas town, a new bookstore opened in a cavernous space that had formerly housed the shag-carpeted roller skating rink of our childhood. Through the front windows, which had before been darkly tinted to give the place an alluring den-of-prepubescent-iniquity vibe, now streamed bright, clean light, showcasing a look and layout that would become the interior design gestalt of today’s national-chain, big-box book superstore. The rows upon rows of open, dustless shelving bearing a veritable warehouse of volumes; the ceiling hung with its industrial innards on display; the enfilade of check-out cubicles; and the wall – the great wall – that displayed a preposterous-to-behold assortment of glossies, quarterlies, journals, newsweeklies, fanzines, tabloids, almanacs, and all other flora and fauna of magazines arrayed upon a rack perhaps 50 feet long.  I went in there to look for a book. I liked books, and, one day, I was sure I wanted to write one. But I got distracted and bought a magazine instead – that August’s issue of GQ, which still stands out in my mind as a thing of formative significance. At that time, the zeitgeist was defined by a Walkman-wearing version of the American Renaissance Man – the highly-ambitious, status-obsessed, money-motivated, health-nut known as a Yuppie. No magazine positioned itself more authoritatively in defining this new sociological creature’s lifestyle than GQ, and it did it with whiter teeth, snappier suspenders, better accessories, bigger polka dots and more caffeine in the ink of its display copy.  I remember that issue less for the photos by Richard Avedon or Steven Meisel, the words of Martin Amis or Frederick Exley, than for this: Erzeugerabfüllung. It was one of the longest, strangest strings of letters from the Roman alphabet I had ever seen. Neither did it seem designed to come out of someone’s mouth. But there it was in Alan Richman’s Wine & Spirits column, accompanied by a lovely still-life photograph of his topic: two bottles of Riesling Kabinetts on a white, sun-dappled tablecloth. Richman’s main point – made almost 35 years ago – still holds true: estate-bottled, table-quality German wines remain some of the least expensive, most delicious wines in the world, chiefly because – then as now – the labels, as he wrote, “cannot be understood by anyone who is not a part-time oenophile, linguist and cartographer”. One US dollar in Richman’s pocket, as I have already said, bought what roughly two-dollars-and-fifty-cents does today; what he was on the hunt for was a good dry white in a range that would now cost somewhere between 12 and 30 bucks, and he easily accomplished that by finding a dealer in New York City who carried a good selection of wines from the Mosel and Rheingau. At the time, I didn’t know the meaning or significance of any of this, but it staked a claim in my brain. The only wine I had ever tasted was the one served at our Episcopal church during Eucharist on Sundays. The flavour it had was of a strange, super-concentrated jam that somehow warmed your upper body. Even as a young kid, I liked it. But the adjectives these German bottles were squeezing out of Richman – “citrus-like”, “honeyed”, “tart-sweet” – weren’t close to describing what was in that chalice, even if you believed in transubstantiation. Was it because Richman’s wine was white, and the parish’s was red? Perhaps, but both colours of grape juice bottled by Welch’s tasted pretty much the same to me. No, I sensed there was something – a lot – I had to learn, and, along with the romance and beauty of the labels, and the contextual air of well-bred taste and cultural with-it-ness featured on the other pages, this, I feel sure, was the decisive moment, the true origin point, when I came to believe that among the many extraordinary things that make life worth living, not just words but wine reigns at the top.  I warned you about distractions, didn’t I? Because that would be my excuse for now informing you, as a quite apropos footnote, that, yes, there was something unusual about our church’s Communion wine. It was, as I have confirmed with the church, actually port (Taylor’s Tawny, to be more accurate), cut, according to tradition, with water. There is a good and fascinating reason for this. In 1701, when the War of the Spanish Succession kicked off, France also became an enemy of England, and its wines, as a result, were no longer made available for import. The Anglican Church searched for and found a replacement, the fortified wines of its new ally, Portugal, and port continues to be an acceptable option to pair with the Host.  II. Distillations A satisfying story, not unlike a satisfying life, is one that surprises you with the mystery of its unfolding. A thing pulls in a certain direction long enough to reach the proximity of something else which then turns toward a new destination. I had actually gone into that bookstore, as I said, to look at books. But I came out, even though I didn’t yet know it, with a different compass point. Within a few years, shortly after graduating from college, in 1992, I got hired by The New Yorker, where I stayed for almost nine years. I then met my future wife, who wisely laughed at the thought we might be able to survive in New York City on my meagre salary, so I went to Vogue, and soon after became the founding editor of Men’s Vogue. After 23 issues, and four years, the financial crisis laid an axe to many magazines, including that one. Eventually, I took on the editorship of Town & Country. Then, finally, in 2016, I moved up to Esquire, the magazine, as it happens, that didn’t offer me a job when The New Yorker did, and became that storied magazine’s editor in chief, until – well, you best read about that in The New York Times.  As far as distractions go, magazines were a good one. They made me who I am, gave me a tremendously worldly education, honed my taste, introduced me to all manner of accomplished people, required me to build quite a wardrobe, and paid me pretty well to do all of this, often with a glass of wine not far out of the picture. There was really no other way I would have ever got to taste all the bottles I have (a lot of the big names people whisper about from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Champagne and also Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa). I built a modest cave à vin of my own by buying the Smith Haut Lafittes of the world way before hedge-fund hoi polloi ran up the prices, and by having access to rare offerings, like 12 bottles of Fiorano, the legendary white wine Alberico Boncompagni Ludovisi, prince of Venosa, made before ripping out all his vines. I smelled the musty perfume of Margaux in the cellar as I watched the workers rack the wine by candlelight. I lured Jay McInerney away from the Wall Street Journal to become my wine columnist; and I once stood in Bordeaux’s town square, tight on 2002 Pétrus, trying with great focus to commune with the statue of Michel de Montaigne while my French friend, a true oenophile, extolled the majesty of the Big Mac’s special sauce.  As the editor of a magazine, curiosity is your profession, even to the point of distraction. Editors – writers, too – are prone to it. It’s a hazard of the gift, and having a jumble of ideas, if you’re any good, is key to making a magazine of any real intellectual or creative daring. Now as a husband and father of three, working from home and trying to be ‘present’, and a still youngish former editor and occasional micro-influencer trying to stave off the solitude to fathom and plot the next phase of a fruitful future, this skill of mine, the strength of which became even more magnified over two decades, is something of a family project.  The way I most often hear the word ‘distraction’ now, for instance, is when it’s being hurled at me in verb form by my wife or daughters accusing me of being more of a phone-enslaved screen vegetable than they are. (I respectfully disagree.) But it’s a sore point for two reasons. One, what I did as an editor is, in a nutshell, now what a smartphone essentially does. Not very imaginatively, of course, and not with taste or charm or originality, but with a bloody, money-grubbing ruthlessness that stalks every step of our digital peregrinations and doesn’t give a twist if the algorithms that are its brain make us its slave by retrofitting our attention spans for kindergarten.  The smartphone – not the former me or any of my fellow kind still in the media biz – is now the true croupier of culture, dealing out a targeted shuffle of Pavlovian temptations to the point of daily mental exhaustion. And, though this thing is in many ways my personal nemesis, I am, against every fibre of my being, too often its obedient servant. Aiming not to live according to the famous line by T.S. Eliot – “distracted from distraction by distraction” – I recently decided to at least take a serious inventory of my favourite ones, both those of the pre-digital sort (tennis, The Walking Dead, checking the mailbox, my sock collection) and those of the post-digital sort (the any and everything I do because my phone wants me to). Then I caught myself watching tennis on my phone and realised this might be harder than I thought. It’s enough to drive a person to drink, thank god! With that in mind, I like to keep a special something for the occasion around, in this case – what else? – two bottles of Riesling Kabinett, for it had struck me as more than a little weird that I’ve probably tasted fewer than a handful of German wines in my entire life. Part of the reason is that those I had were bad, and, like a lot of other simpletons about this great wine region of the world, I’d come to think of Riesling as a cloying elixir equal parts green Jolly Rancher, apple cider vinegar, and hairspray. This, I knew, was wrong, not true and, in terms of wine equity and inclusion, on the wrong side of history. But, if you happen to live in a place like I do – a bourgie swathe of Connecticut bordering New York City where the shops cater heavily to Cali-Fran-Taly banker’s tastes – it might take you a few stops to find what Richman recommended, an erzeugerabfüllung (estate-bottled) Kabinett (wine made from grapes with a minimum must weight/sugar content) Riesling, and when you do it will probably be coated in a fine sift of years-old dust. I bought a green (Mosel) bottle for US$16 and a brown (Rhine) bottle for US$20, both handsomely labelled. I opened them a few minutes ago and took several investigative swigs. The words bright, invigorating and snappy came to mind. One is indeed sweeter, and, though not my usual jam, it is tamped by a pleasing peachy tartness, and the classic overtone of honey isn’t making my palate feel doused with syrup. The other example is, as Richman said so long ago, a very finely layered creature with mineral clarity and an echo of baked bread, something a gluten-free person like me finds particularly appealing. A rather obvious thought: why haven’t I been buying this instead of throwing a ton of endless money at affordably bad white Burgundy, which is mostly a product aimed at fulfilling a desired outcome, like White Claw hard seltzer? III. Words But don’t let me get distracted, again. A writer really has to be careful about such things. Just think about it. Unlike, say, a painter or musician or actor or photographer, the process of writing requires zero physical exertion, no chance to score an endorphin release while sitting staring anxiously at a blank page. Of the many things in life that vie against the counter intuitive impulse to be glued to a desk, Cyril Connolly, in Enemies of Promise, his classic study of the things that distracted him (and others) from becoming a great writer, names the temptations but does not say much about why they’re so deeply tempting to someone who would otherwise be sitting alone in an empty room. Praise, money, fame, social prominence, affairs and journalism are the most common boltholes, according to Connolly, who, as a famously late sleeper that married three times, might have also added the bliss of unconsciousness and excessive alimony. In 1938, the year the book was published, he would never have imagined how hard the task might get without a cigarette. Smoking is a death wish, I know, but when you want to off yourself for still having a hundred pages to go, being able to snap open a nice lighter, flick some ash, stub a butt and inhale some lungfuls of focus-enhancing nicotine must have been kind of helpful. Connolly also doesn’t have much to say about drink except that artists who drink to excess do so “out of the consciousness of wasted ability”. According to that, the 20th century’s most famous literary alcoholics – Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Styron, Elizabeth Bishop, James Joyce, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner – might have left behind even greater treasures than they did. Because Ernest Hemingway did almost everything with more gusto than any of his peers, including running up his bar tab, as a drinker he belongs in his own sentence. He is the novelist who most romanced a good drink or nice bottle of wine as one of life’s great pleasures. Who didn’t want to have a vermouth with Jake when reading The Sun Also Rises? (Don’t, it’s gross, at least if you order it at one of those kiosks in Montmartre where the bottles are hung upside down with spring-loaded dispensers.) Or, track down a bottle of Valdepeñas, Hemingway’s favourite variety of Spanish wine. Or, get a drink at the bar named after him at the Ritz, in Paris, and then go somewhere on the Left Bank to order “a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine”.  In the early work, he is not boastful about drinking so much as he is the possessor of an unusual appetite for a good buzz. He is also, like Connolly, aware of the need to keep writing separate from drinking, and drinking within his control. It is hard to read the first paragraph of A Moveable Feast, in which he describes an “evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness”, except as a kind of terrifying admonition to himself. It is tragic that he didn’t heed his own advice. Late in his life, Hemingway became fond of rum daiquiris at the Floridita, his favourite bar in Havana, which might explain his taste for a prose style that soon became too often cloying self-parody. In one of the most extraordinary drinking sessions ever committed to words, in the roman à clef Across the River and Into the Trees, a 50-year-old Hemingway, who was smitten with a teenage Italian countess from Venice, fictionalises his infatuation with a last muse. In one stretch (that covers an evening-to-dawn crawl from Harry’s Bar, the grill at the Gritti Palace, a gondola and a hotel room), one half or another of the couple imbibes: one scotch whisky and soda; six Montgomery Martinis (15 parts gin; 1 part vermouth), two of which are described in size as ‘super’; a bottle of Capri Bianco; two bottles of Valpolicella; two bottles of Roederer Brut ’42; and two bottles of Perrier-Jouët. That is, I suppose, one extreme, and, clearly, not one to be tried at home.  The other might have been espoused by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great critic and lexicographer. As a young man, he’d drained “many a bottle of wine” but loved port especially. (Perhaps Johnson, a devout Anglican who was born in 1709, in the midst of England’s 14-year war with Spain, also first encountered port as a boy at the Communion altar.) He describes himself to friend and biographer James Boswell as having been “apt to go to excess in it”, adding that, “therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it”.  Boswell, who worried about his own dependence on alcohol, even keeping a journal of his intake in an attempt to enforce moderation, argued for a third way, which some of the Romantics later adopted. Wine, he claimed, “produces truth; in vino veritas”. Hoping to persuade Johnson of his point, Boswell once convinced the critic to come down off the wagon for just one glass of claret, so Johnson “might judge, not from recollection, which might be dim, but from immediate sensation”. Boswell reports what happened after the glass was emptied: “Johnson shook his head, and said, ‘Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men,’” adding, “‘A man would be drowned by it before it made him drunk.’”  That actually reminds me of something I think I forgot to mention about Riesling Kabinetts – they’re also highly admired for their low percentage of alcohol. On that note, I think I’ll have another glass.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Jay Fielden, former editor of Men’s Vogue, Town & Country and Esquire, recalls how a magazine column on wine, read in a Texas bookstore, shifted his ambitions beyond journalism and set him on the path to becoming a writer of books.

Former Esquire editor-in-chief Jay Fielden reflects on magazines, writing, Riesling Kabinett and the distractions that shaped a life in words and wine.

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

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