Xiao-Li Meng, professore di Statistica Whipple V. N. Jones a Harvard e fondatore e direttore responsabile di Harvard Data Science Review, si è lasciato ispirare da uno studente per combinare vino e statistica — ottenendo intuizioni ben oltre quanto entrambi si aspettassero.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Semplicità nelle statistiche, complessità nel vino, il resto nei biscotti della fortuna.

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  

There’s little Graham Eunson hasn’t seen in his 30 years in the Scotch whisky industry. From pushing barrels at Scapa straight out of school to managing one of the biggest names, the Orcadian has worked in almost every production role at five Highland distilleries. Over the course of his career, the Tomatin Distillery Operations Director has been at the painful end of two consolidations and led the revival of a distillery lost for 22 years. For the past decade, he has had to pool all this knowledge and experience to bring a distillery that was once famed for mass production to single malt prominence. “I always say it’s the most fun I’ve had in the whisky industry,” he declares with a chuckle, “and I’ve loved every single one of the distilleries I’ve worked at.” Eunson talks with such fondness about the industry and all his colleagues that it’s easy to see why both his children have followed him into the profession. He refers to his route into the industry and progression through the ranks from mashman to stillman to brewer as the “old-fashioned way”. When Allied Distillers closed his first distillery during the 1990s whisky loch, Eunson faced a tough decision: leave his beloved Orkney or wave goodbye to a fledgling career he absolutely adored. His homeland lost that tug of war and Eunson moved his wife and one-year-old son to Aberdeenshire and Glendronach Distillery until that also closed its doors. Glenmorangie became Eunson’s third Highland distillery where he worked as Assistant Manager to Dr Bill Lumsden for two years before Head Office beckoned and he took over as Distillery Manager. After a decade in the role, the chance to reopen a ghosted distillery lured Eunson away. “My wife would argue I don’t have a romantic side to me at all, which is probably true, but when it comes to whisky I do – and the opportunity to re-open the distillery after such a length of closure was too much to resist.” On April Fool’s Day 2008, Eunson stood on the balcony in the Glenglassaugh still house looking at the rusted pipework where sections had been pilfered by thieves and seriously questioned if he’d made the right decision to leave the breathtakingly beautiful, not to mention functioning, Glenmorangie. “But I have to say, the sense of achievement on the day we first mashed in again, after about eight months of struggling to try and design everything to get it to work better… the sense of achievement was fantastic,” he says with real pride all these years later. The next call, to take on a newly created General Manager role at a distillery that was once the largest in Scotland and had fallen out of favour, came in 2011. If he accepted, Eunson would look after everything from the malt coming in, to the distillation, maturation and recipes for all the whiskies. “They sold it well to me,” he says with a wry smile. “Basically, the buck stops for everything with me.” Two years ago, Eunson was asked to choose his new title. After some thought, he suggested General Operations Director – “So GOD,” he laughs; in the end he had to settle for “DOD” – Distillery Operations Director. The beauty of working at Tomatin, according to Eunson, is that he and the 62-strong team are masters of their own destiny. “We have gone from being a distillery which made lots and lots of spirit to go into other peoples’ whiskies. To the complete opposite way round percentage wise,” Eunson says. In the 1970s, Tomatin produced 12.5 million litres of pure alcohol a year making it the largest in Scotland. Today, the Highland distillery produces less than two million litres a year. Of this number, 1.1 million goes into Tomatin in its various forms, roughly 400,000 litres are swapped with other distilleries in exchange for whiskies for their Antiquary, Talisman, Big T, Ancient Clan and other blends, and 100,000 litres is sold for cash. Apart from malting and bottling, every stage of the traditional production – milling, mashing, fermenting, distilling, ageing and blending – takes place on the 140-acre site. “It’s great to be in control of all that ourselves,” Eunson says. “In the last 12 to 15 years, we have had a complete change of tact. We’ve reduced the volumes we’re making and it’s all about quality over quantity.” The gear shift is clearly working. Since its rebrand in 2015, sales have soared by 83% and visitor numbers to the distillery are topping 50,000 a year (in non-pandemic times). Tomatin produces a range of unpeated single malts from the entry-level (£30 a bottle) to the 50-year-old-plus (£10k+ per bottle). In their vast warehouses, the team is sitting on almost 200,000 casks and Eunson oversees it all. “It is one of the few jobs I would have thought in the world that you can do for 30 years and still look forward to going into work,” he says. “My job is wide and varied and never the same two days running.” In his latest project, and the first “serious launch” since the rebrand, Eunson has sourced rare Monbazillac, Sauternes and Rivesaltes barrels to finish three parcels of nine-year-old single malt. In typically self-deprecating fashion, Eunson says: “The stars aligned basically. We had released our Sherry-cask finished Cuatro and were looking at alternatives and these wine casks became available. When the cooperage told me about them, I asked them to hold the casks and got straight on Google.” The cask finishing trend has been one of the biggest changes Eunson has witnessed in his career. He says: “It used to be, ‘Well if it was a tree at some point in its life then you can use it for maturing whisky’, whereas now there is so much more care and attention put into it. “Some of the companies I have worked for… Allied, no longer exist, so I can say what I want about them. They had codes on their stock system for seven-fill and eight-fill casks. By the time you’ve filled it seven or eight times, there’s not a lot of flavour going to come from the wood.” While Eunson says he’d never say the cask is the most important part of the process, he is not shy in professing it is the most influential. “What a lot of companies are doing now, ourselves included, is look at the raw materials – different barley varieties, different types of malt, different yeasts, different lengths of fermentation times, different cut points in the stills – you can play around with all of that but it is still only going to arguably contribute 25 to 35% of the final flavours. Seventy to 75%, even 80%, will come from the time spent in the cask during maturation. “So that is where we have to put the attention to detail because it’s going to have such an impact going forward onto the final character of the whisky we produce.” Computerisation is another huge change in the industry. And not one Eunson thinks is strictly positive. “It’s a good thing in that if you’ve got a computer and sensors running the pumps, setting the temperatures and suchlike, there is less room for human error and you get more consistency of spirit. So you know what your new-make spirit is going to be like but at the same time, that human error can sometimes lead to exceptionally unusual whiskies. You become almost a generic whisky, so we need to be careful to keep the individual characteristics there.” The Tomatin Distillery is semi-automated. It is still up to the Stillmen to decide when to make the cut and how fast to run the stills by controlling the steam valves. Whether it’s technology or trends, Eunson says the one constant in the Scotch whisky industry is change. “We are always changing and trying to be innovative and look at different ways of doing things while still trying to stick to the traditions that have been there and the rules and regulations as well." The industry might constantly be evolving but Eunson says the people within it are far more permanent. “We have a Head Warehouseman who’s been working with us since he was 18 and he’s now 67. He has more or less done the same job in the same distillery for 50 years. He is showing absolutely no intention of retiring and he’s probably the fittest guy we have on site in reality.” And how about Eunson? “I can’t see myself retiring at 60,” he says. “There is way too much that I want to do in the industry to even consider that. I’d probably think about retiring at 65… or maybe 66,” he quickly adds. We’ll believe it when we see it. Browse all Tomatin listings or read more Editorial 

After three decades in the whisky industry Tomatin’s Graham Eunson is more energised than ever. He tells Holly Motion why his latest role is the best yet

Tomatin’s Distillery Operations Director on the pace, and people, that keep him in the industry after more than 30 years working at the coalface.

Tomatin’s Graham Eunson on a life in whisky

Graham Eunson: a life in whisky

Sono passati 20 anni da quando Eduardo Chadwick radunò alcuni dei più famosi critici enologici europei per una degustazione alla cieca — una prova per rivaleggiare con il famoso Giudizio di Parigi del 1976 (quando la California dimostrò che i suoi vini potevano competere con — e battere — i migliori vini di Francia). Chadwick era convinto che i critici sottovalutassero i vini cileni — per nulla più che snobismo nei confronti della nazione. La Degustazione di Berlino mise alla prova i migliori vini di Chadwick (Viñedo Chadwick, Seña e Don Maximiano Founder’s Reserve) contro i Premier Cru di Bordeaux e un unico Super-Tuscan (la Solaia di Antinori). Chadwick incaricò il compianto Steven Spurrier di condurre l’evento. “Non avrei mai immaginato che ciò che stava per accadere sarebbe accaduto,” mi dice Chadwick. Con sua e l’altrui incredulità, il Viñedo Chadwick 2000 conquistò il primo posto, seguito dal Seña 2001, poi dal Château Lafite Rothschild 2000 e dal Château Margaux 2000 — ex aequo al quarto posto con il Seña 2000. Finalmente, c’era la prova che i vini del Cile meritavano un posto sul palcoscenico mondiale. 
 Ma, per Chadwick, un momento spartiacque non bastava. Ripeté la degustazione, prima a São Paulo, poi a Tokyo — e avanti, organizzando la stessa degustazione alla cieca 22 volte in tutto il mondo, ottenendo risultati parimenti spettacolari per i suoi vini. Serve nervi d’acciaio — e una buona dose di ego — per essere disposti a rischiare ripetendo una simile prova, eppure Chadwick fu giustamente premiato. La sua campagna è solo uno dei modi in cui ha tracciato un percorso per il vino pregiato cileno — con una determinazione implacabile e ostinata. Chadwick è la quinta generazione della sua famiglia a fare vino in Cile. Don Maximiano Errázuriz emigrò dai Paesi Baschi e fu il primo a piantare viti nella Valle di Aconcagua nel 1870. Individuò la località, a 100 km a nord di Santiago, con le sue brezze oceaniche fredde, estati calde e inverni piovosi, come perfetta per la coltivazione della vite. Operando sotto il motto “dalla migliore terra, il miglior vino”, piantò viti in questo sito idilliaco, vicino a Panquehue, e costruì una cantina — che ancora oggi esiste. 
 Gradualmente, l’azienda crebbe — diventando il vigneto più grande del mondo di proprietà di un singolo individuo, con 1.300 ettari coltivati al suo apice alla fine del XIX secolo. Nonostante questa prosperità iniziale, l’industria vinicola cilena non continuò a fiorire. Non esisteva un mercato d’esportazione e il consumo interno (che arrivò fino a 80 litri pro capite l’anno) venne decimato da pesanti tasse, mentre turbolenze politiche ed economiche, con regimi comunisti poi militari, misero in crisi non solo l’industria, ma la nazione. All’inizio degli anni ’80 il vino costava meno dell’acqua e circa la metà dei vigneti del paese venne estirpata. Fu in questo scenario instabile che arrivò Eduardo Chadwick. Si era inizialmente formato come ingegnere industriale prima di decidere di concentrarsi sul vino, andando a studiare a Bordeaux sotto il leggendario enologo Émile Peynaud. Suo padre riacquistò la cantina di famiglia alle banche, e Chadwick iniziò a spolverare le ragnatele, riaprendo Viña Errázuriz e — armato di nuove conoscenze tecniche — realizzò la prima annata del Don Maximiano Founder’s Reserve, il vino di punta della proprietà, nel 1984. L’operazione era ancora rudimentale — con tinozze in rauli (un legno nativo), nessun controllo della temperatura e viti allevate a pergola nei fondi fertili — ma fu un primo indizio di ciò che era possibile. Degustando quel vino quattro decenni dopo, ha retto sorprendentemente bene — con vivacità al naso e un profilo cesellato e sapido di puro Cabernet Sauvignon. 
 Gradualmente, Chadwick investì in attrezzature — serbatoi in acciaio inox, presse moderne e botti — e iniziò a impiantare vigneti sulle pendici con suoli più poveri. Parallelamente a questo cambiamento, le elezioni decisive del 1989 riportarono il Cile alla democrazia — e figure chiave del mondo del vino iniziarono a visitare. Presto i vini di fascia d’ingresso vennero esportati da realtà come Oddbins e Victoria Wine. Le porte si erano aperte per il vino cileno. Robert Mondavi visitò Chadwick nel 1991 — e i due uomini si trovarono in sintonia, condividendo un’esigenza inesorabile di spingere avanti la loro industria, e Mondavi riconobbe in Cile il potenziale che aveva visto a Napa negli anni ’60. Sapeva che la sua partnership con Château Mouton Rothschild (Opus One) era stata fondamentale per cambiare la reputazione di Napa — e la coppia sperava che la loro joint venture potesse fare lo stesso per il Cile: nacque Seña (letteralmente “segnale”). Bob Mondavi junior, Tim, collaborò con Chadwick al progetto e suggerì di cercare un sito più vicino alla costa nella Valle di Aconcagua, in cerca di ancora maggiore finezza, producendo la prima annata nel 1995. 
 E Chadwick non si fermò lì. Suo padre aveva acquistato un fondo nell’Alto Maipo nel 1945, sede di un campo da polo (Alfonso, il padre di Eduardo, era stato per anni capitano della squadra cilena). Nel 1992 Chadwick convinse il padre a lasciargli trasformare il campo da polo — con i suoi puri suoli ghiaiosi e un’escursione termica di 15˚C — in un vigneto, ritenendolo perfetto per il Cabernet Sauvignon. Alfonso morì l’anno successivo, ma la prima annata di questo progetto — Viñedo Chadwick, chiamato in onore del padre — venne realizzata nel 1999. 
 Chadwick sapeva che i vini erano buoni — ma convincere il mondo di ciò fu la sfida. È chiaro per lui che il Cile commise un grande errore nel produrre in massa vini di ottimo rapporto qualità-prezzo, di ingresso — buoni, ma non vini di pregio — una fascia di prezzo che finì per definire la nazione. “Per questo fu molto difficile convincere il pubblico che possiamo anche produrre vini di livello mondiale,” dice Chadwick. “Il Cile non aveva riconoscimento. Non avevamo valutazioni, punti Parker, punti Suckling.” E così si mise al lavoro per cambiare la situazione con la Degustazione di Berlino. Con i risultati che scossero il mercato (poi riecheggiati in tutto il mondo), creò una spinta al cambiamento. Un decennio dopo, superò un altro confine: il Viñedo Chadwick 2014 divenne il primo vino cileno a ottenere 100 punti (da James Suckling). Solo l’anno scorso, l’annata 2021 è stata il primo vino cileno valutato 100 punti dalla Wine Advocate. Quando mi sedetti con lui a marzo di quest’anno, fu in occasione di un evento che rendeva omaggio ai due decenni trascorsi dalla Degustazione di Berlino — con le prime annate di ogni tenuta e i loro più grandi successi. Il Seña 1998 fu particolarmente notevole — una vendemmia fresca che oggi è profumata, elegante, brillante e di incredibile persistenza. Qualsiasi dubbioso sul vino cileno rimase immediatamente in silenzio. E, come per la degustazione di Berlino, l’evento veniva replicato in tutto il globo — la campagna per promuovere il vino cileno non finisce mai. 
 Quando Chadwick iniziò nel 1983, Viña Errázuriz aveva appena 10 ettari di vigneto. Oggi, nelle loro tenute, Chadwick coltiva 900 ettari di vigna. Comprò le quote dei fratelli anni fa, quando scoprì che erano più interessati ai dividendi che a far crescere e investire nell’azienda. Ora tre delle sue quattro figlie lavorano al suo fianco — entusiaste del potenziale dei siti costieri (dove producono i vini Las Pizarras) e di un nuovo progetto spumante. Non sono mancate le difficoltà lungo il percorso, ma queste hanno solo alimentato la incessante ricerca di riconoscimento di Chadwick per il Cile e i suoi vini. “Dove siamo oggi supera i miei sogni più sfrenati,” mi dice, eppure è solo grazie alla sua instancabile ambizione che il vino cileno è arrivato a questo punto. Fortunatamente, sembra che i suoi figli abbiano ereditato la sua determinazione — pronti a governare il prossimo capitolo di questa epica storia. 
 Esplora tutte le inserzioni di Viña Errázuriz, Seña e Viñedo Chadwick o leggi di più sul Cile

Negli ultimi 40 anni, Eduardo Chadwick ha forgiato da solo un posto per il Cile nel panorama dei vini pregiati. Due decenni dopo la fondamentale degustazione di Berlino, Sophie Thorpe ha incontrato l'uomo in persona per esplorare la sua eredità e ciò che lo attende.

20 years after the Berlin Tasting, we sit down with Eduardo Chadwick – the man that created Chile’s first icon wines, Sena, Vinedo Chadwick and Errazuriz

Championing Chile – Eduardo Chadwick

Sostenitore del Cile: Eduardo Chadwick

Burgundy expert Jasper Morris MW has had his finger on the region’s wine pulse for several decades. Especially for FONDATA, he profiles eight domaines to watch, producers that are bringing vital energy and fresh winemaking talent to the celebrated wine region 

Jasper Morris MW on eight of Burgundy’s most exciting domaines – including Eleni & Edouard Vocoret, Chantereves, Alvina Pernot and more 

The new Burgundians – Jasper Morris MW 

The new Burgundians

2021 Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Nuits, Louis Auguste, Domaine David Duband  
This wine, named in honour of David’s son, Louis Auguste, comes from higher-altitude sites and some of the domaine’s oldest vines (over 55 years in age). In 2021, it’s spicy and lifted – offering a mouthful of pure, crunchy red fruit. It’s fresh and mouth-watering, building to a savoury, smoky finish. Superb value.  


2021 Gevrey-Chambertin, Charles van Canneyt  
This village bottling is an excellent entry point to Charles van Canneyt’s range – especially if you can’t get your hands on any of his Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat wines. The 2021s may be the best vintage to date of his négociant label, with a line-up of elegant and vibrant wines that offer great value. The village Gevrey-Chambertin is a wine of such finesse – with a lifted, perfumed nose. But behind the aromatics, there’s a more serious palate, with persistent, focused fruit, and vivid acidity driving through the core of the wine. The long finish is scented with delicate florals. 


2021 Gevrey-Chambertin, Domaine Duroché  
Because yields were so low in 2021 (due to frost and hail in the north of Gevrey), Duroché’s 2021 village Gevrey includes fruit from Le Clos, Champ, En Vosne and what little survived the hail in Premier Cru Champeaux. All Duroché’s vines are old, and for this cuvée, they were all planted between 1930 and 1986. The nose is perfumed and floral, but it’s the palate that really sings – with a tight energy and ripe, round mouth-feel. A gentle toastiness (with 15% new oak) coats the sweet, red cherry fruit. This vibrates with potential – the finish long, saline and mouth-watering. A brilliant introduction to the Duroché style. 


2021 Savigny-lès-Beaune, Premier Cru, Aux Guettes, Domaine Jean-Marc & Hugues Pavelot  
This vineyard sits just below the forest, with only 30cm top-soil over the hard rock below. The Pavelot plot (a mere 0.35 hectares) shows a totally different side to Savigny – brighter and lighter, with vibrant red fruit and a creaminess (with 25% new oak). The nose is full of raspberry and cranberry, with a welcome, sublime freshness thanks to this more “traditional” vintage. The medium-bodied palate is mineral and elegant, with great tension. The oak is well-integrated, bringing extra weight to the mid-palate, building to a vibrant, long finish. This is a top wine – classic and airy, as Burgundy used to always be. 


2021 Givry, Premier Cru, Clos Marole, Domaine Joblot  
Clos Marole is one of the few survivors from a catastrophic growing season at Domaine Joblot, with yields slashed by 50%. But – even if there’s not very much of it – the wine is superb. You’re instantly struck with vibrant, fresh red fruit, blackberry and crushed strawberry – possibly thanks to the old vines (on average 40 years old). The oak (35% new) needs a little more time to integrate fully, but is well-judged. Relatively light-bodied, the palate is driven by great acidity and silky tannins. The finish is long and suave. Enjoy this delicious wine young, but it has everything to keep for a decade or more.  


2021 Morey-Saint-Denis, Premier Cru, Clos des Ormes, Domaine George Lignier  
Domaine Georges Lignier is the largest owner in Clos des Ormes, with almost two hectares of the Premier Cru, all on calcaire comblanchien. The nose is pretty and perfumed with sweet spice notes courtesy of the oak (around 25% new). The fruit is bright and crunchy, yet there’s a darker, more brooding aspect on show – with a powdery tannic structure adding texture to the pure, long palate. An impressive result in the vintage.  


2021 Coteaux Bourguignons, L’Eclos des Abeilles, Domaine de Bellene  
Nicolas Potel only made 6,000 bottles of this wine in 2021 (instead of 20,000 normally) – yet it’s once again excellent for what is “just” a Coteaux Bourguignons, rivalling some top village appellations. The fruit for this great-value cuvée comes from cooler vineyards on the limits of the Bourgogne appellation in Nantoux (where the vines are 80 years old), Saint-Romain and Nuits-Saint-Georges, classified as Coteaux Bourguignons (an appellation more often associated with reds). The wine is mainly Chardonnay, however there’s a sprinkling of Aligoté adding extra zip.  The nose is honeyed, fresh and mineral, with the palate crisp at first, with clean acidity and superb balance. It rounds out with toasted almond and citrus, building to a long finish that brings a generous dimension of complexity to the wine. It is almost ready to drink now. A superb effort from Potel.  
  
2021 Puligny-Montrachet, La Rue aux Vaches, Alvina Pernot  
This was a particular highlight of our tasting – offering a very different style to Clos des Noyers Brets. Versus the soft purity of Clos des Noyers Brets, this is both more mineral and with a riper core of fruit – juicy white peach and apple, but with a bright, zesty green edge to it, and the very slightest hint of toast. The texture is richer and creamier, offering a pleasingly round yet beautifully elegant mouthful. Long and nuanced finish. This was bottled exclusively in magnum – with just 146 produced.   


2021 Saint-Aubin, Premier Cru, En Remilly, Louis Jadot 
In 2021, there is just one barrel of this Premier Cru – and it’s exclusively available from FINE+RARE. Pithy with flinty, mineral tones that complement an almost orange-zest lift. Behind the citrus and minerals though, there’s a core of fresh, white-peach fruit and toasty, spicy oak that lingers on the finish. The concentrated core is balanced by vibrant acidity, with that creaminess rounding out the lithe palate. Delicious.  


2021 Chablis, Grand Cru, Les Blanchots, Domaine Long-Depaquit  
Domaine Long-Depaquit has 1.66 hectares of this cool Grand Cru. They managed to make just 20% of a normal crop in 2021, the region’s yields drastically reduced by cruel April frosts. This was a particular highlight of our tasting – with an intense, taut, lime-and-lemon profile. Although the fruit verges on lean, there’s a brightness to the wine too. Notes of chalk, oyster shell and Granny smith apple are complemented by a creamy, round character. The finish is long and zesty – classic, pinpoint Chablis. 
 Browse all available Burgundy or read more about the vintage 


The grandest names in the Côte d’Or might be the most desirable – but there’s much more to the region beyond the very top appellations. Here we highlight 10 of the wines that we think offer the best value in 2021 

Discover the 10 best-value wines from our tastings of the Burgundy 2021 vintage so far – from up and down the Cote d’Or

The best-value wines in Burgundy 2021

Burgundy 2021: top-value buys

The constant tension in wine is between art and science; the best winemakers managing to toe the line between the two to create something that can be inspirational. This relationship is most tangibly expressed on the labels of the world’s most iconic wines, with the likes of Ch. Mouton Rothschild, Leeuwin Estate or Domaine de Trévallon bearing specifically commissioned works. But at Castello di Ama, art is much more than an aesthetic afterthought; it is entwined with the very substance of the forward-thinking Chianti Classico estate. While the property has a long history – its hilltop location praised for the quality of its wines as long ago as the 18th century – the most recent chapter in Castello di Ama’s tale starts in the 1970s, when four friends identified the potential of the abandoned hamlet. It was, however, the arrival of Marco Pallanti in 1982, and then with current CEO Lorenza Sebasti in 1993 – daughter of Lionello Sebasti, one of the founding four – that proved pivotal. Together this duo has drawn equally on the worlds of art and science to thrust the estate to the forefront of Italy’s winemaking scene. When Pallanti arrived, fresh from his studies in Bordeaux, the cellar had been built, the vineyards established. The winery was remarkable for Tuscany – flush with stainless steel and temperature-control technology, lightyears ahead when much of Italy (and Europe) was still making wine in the same way their grandparents and great-grandparents had. The vineyards, however, needed work, planted at low densities and on overly vigorous rootstock. Pallanti gradually transformed the vineyards, switching them over to the lyre system – an open trellis that allowed more exposure for the fruit and fuller ripening, tweaking the varieties planted and using only the finest fruit in the cellar.  While the winery has all the latest gadgetry, there are no hard and fast rules for Pallanti – it’s all about having the option to tailor his winemaking to each cuvée. This palette of possibilities is a luxury of being, in his words, a “pedestrian winemaker” – being amongst the vines and barrels all year round, able to respond and adapt accordingly. “I’m not a consultant… I have the possibility to taste the berry, taste during the ageing and can decide step by step,” he explains. In many ways science allows him the luxury of playing the artist – armed with the knowledge and tools to craft each wine. Over four decades at the estate for Pallanti, and almost 30 years for Sebasti, one thing remains consistent: the importance of their role as “guardians” of Castello di Ama. “I never follow the fashion,” Marco Pallanti tells me. “It’s not about changing vats, or using another kind of temperature, or ageing more or less in barrels… but truly having more and more spiritual identity of the vines. This strong personality – this is what we have to keep. This is a gift.” In search of this spiritual identity, Pallanti has adapted his oak usage over the years – and how he talks about it, placing more emphasis on size rather than origin. At first he worked with big casks, of 20 to 40 hectolitres, but as the wines gained in body, they could support small casks – something which he feels is important for the stabilisation of colour. His aim, however, is never for the oak to be too present; in fact, over the last decade, the portion of new oak used at the estate has been halved, as he seeks to unmask the fruit and its terroir. Their responsibility is not to fads or fashions, but to the soul of this special site. Sebasti and Pallanti (previously married) have always loved modern art – but the inspiration for Castello di Ama’s remarkable project was the restoration of its cellars in 1998-99. Stripping it of concrete and artificial lighting, there was a huge wall just as you entered the winery with a line of large casks no longer in use. The duo felt intensely that they needed to get rid of them. “It didn’t show how we feel about the wine and the winemaking,” Sebasti explains. “Looking at this space, we both dreamed… this is a great space for a contemporary art sculpture.” They had recently been to see a Michelangelo Pistoletto show, and they thought maybe they could invite him to create something. He did just that, finishing his work L’Albero di Ama in 2000.  Since then, 15 artists – including Anish Kapoor – have produced pieces of art that are now part of the estate, gradually infiltrating the gardens, vineyards and winery. Initially the works were commissioned via the influential Galleria Continua, but since 2015 Philip Larratt-Smith has been in charge of curating the collection. The most recent addition, by Miroslaw Balka, was conceived over nine visits, with the Polish artist spending more than two months in total at the property. But every single artist visits Ama – the artwork inspired by the place and its wines, the finished pieces eventually returning to inspire Sebasti and Pallanti in their own art. “I believe our pieces of art can explain my wine better than me,” Pallanti says.  “Our dream has been to develop this collection,” Sebasti explains. “All the artists that we have met, they fall in love with the place… [They] get inspired by the story, by the history, the real methodology of our winemaking, that we don’t produce only from our vines. Somehow the art of wine and the art itself, they can have a dialogue.” That dialogue sparked the creation of Haiku, Ama’s other Super Tuscan – a blend of Sangiovese, Cabernet Franc and Merlot. Daniel Buren’s Sulle Vigne: Punti di Vista consists of a mirrored wall, two metres high and 25 metres long, that stretches along the edge of their San Lorenzo vineyard, offering five different windows, or five different impressions, of the same site. “So strong, so powerful… it’s about wine, art, history, landscape – everything is there,” Sebasti says of the work. It was standing in front of this impressive installation that Pallanti was inspired to make Haiku, a wine which he sees as an alter ego of the estate.  These remarkable contemporary sculptures are scattered around the hilltop site, providing a dramatic contrast to the original 16th century buildings – and a neat reflection of the estate’s philosophy. “We have this grafting with the new, with the rootstock of the past,” Sebasti says. “We work in a traditional place, with traditional varieties, but for the new world, for the consumer of today.”  The latest installation will be revealed later this year, 22 years after the first piece was commissioned for the collection. “As human beings, we all live with art,” Sebasti says. “If we can bring art into everyday life, it’s a great strength.” Combining respect for their history with the latest technology, she and Pallanti are forging a path ahead, artfully curating the story, and soul, of this extraordinary estate. Explore all listings from Castello di Ama or browse more Editorial

In amongst the vines and 16th century buildings at Castello di Ama, you’ll discover striking modern sculpture. Disruptive and disarming, the art and wine of this Chianti Classico estate is at the cutting edge. Sophie Thorpe spoke to CEO Lorenza Sebasti and winemaker Marco Pallanti to find out more

Exploring the sculpture and art collection at cutting-edge Chianti Classico wine estate Castello di Ama with CEO Lorenza Sebasti and winemaker Marco Pallanti

Castello di Ama's art and soul 

Art and soul: Castello di Ama

The Scotch whisky world is a fickle beast. In its 500-year history, the number of distilleries in Scotland has swelled and contracted many times. There have been myriad casualties, and very few have lived through these downturns without shedding stills and stocks to stay afloat.  The less fortunate were shuttered temporarily, mothballed for inordinately long periods of time, or were ghosted with no hopes of revival. In many cases, everything – lock, stock and, quite literally, barrel – was sold to pay off debtors, and the site was razed to the ground. In the years that have followed, these silent or so-called ghost distilleries have taken on an almost mythical new name: lost distilleries. While these producers were invariably unknown while in active production, the allure of what is no more has made them astoundingly popular, sending prices into the tens, and in many cases, hundreds of thousands. In the 40-plus years since the last whisky loch, when a devastating number of distilleries were forced to close, some producers have languished in relative obscurity, with only the most devout knowing of their existence and diligently sourcing their precious nectar. Others have developed a cult-like status and become exceptionally collectable as a consequence. So collectable, in fact, that their owners have moved heaven and earth to bring them back to life. The most famous are those considered the “Holy Trinity” of lost distilleries: Port Ellen, Brora and Rosebank. “They are the lost history of Scotland’s distilling and whisky heritage,” Stephen Rankin, Director of Prestige at independent bottler Gordon & MacPhail, says wistfully. “They are from a time when whisky was made slightly differently from today. It’s a lost character. We cannot go back and make these whiskies like they were originally made. They reflect both the time as well as the people and place in our history,” he adds. When the vast majority of these distilleries were in production, huge quantities of their output was destined for blends. Their young single malts simply were not available, or more accurately, were not widely available, as distillery bottlings. If it hadn’t been for independent bottlers like Gordon & MacPhail, who prudently bought stock and squirreled it away, when distilleries were closing down in their droves, then these whiskies would almost certainly have been consigned to the very dusty history books. “I think the popularity has a lot to do with the mystery of times gone by and what older whiskies used to be,” the newly appointed Rosebank Distillery Manager Malcolm Rennie tells me. “There’s a certain element of the misty-eyed past being better in some way,” he muses. “Not always the case in my opinion – the exception being Rosebank, of course,” Rennie quips. For James Mackay, Head of Rare & Exceptional Spirits at Diageo, which owns Port Ellen, Brora (and Rosebank until 2017), it’s all about the experience. “Due to the very nature of ghost distilleries and their finite stocks, these are whiskies we will never be able to taste again. When you share a whisky from a ghost distillery with a friend, they’ll know that they're being treated to something completely irreplaceable and there is something very special about that.” This special experience is a costly one. Collectors – and flippers – have driven the price of lost distillery bottlings to exorbitant highs. Questions have been raised about what the reawakening of these lost distilleries will do to the prices of existing bottlings and where these new-old whiskies from the likes of Port Ellen, Brora and Rosebank will sit in terms of price and taste profile. On this last point, Mackay says: “This is the big question we’re all asking ourselves.” He continues: “We are confident that the new Brora and Port Ellen whiskies will sit amongst the best in the world, however we’ll have to wait two or three decades before we know for sure!” In terms of taste profile, Rennie says the new Rosebank will be a “very accessible” whisky “on the lighter end of the scale with a typical fresh, fruity smooth character but with an additional dimension of distillery character giving some depth also”. On the question of price, he says “I couldn’t comment.” Adding: “It would depend on age, I’m sure. Safe to say Rosebank will be viewed as a premium whisky.” In many ways, Rosebank was the least likely lost distillery revival, as Diageo offloaded the distillery site to British Waterways in 2002, and the original three pot stills and mash tun were stolen by thieves in 2008. Rennie says it has been a real honour to be entrusted with resurrecting the distillery, which was mothballed in 1993. When we speak, three new copper pot stills are being delivered to the site – a landmark moment in any distillery’s history, old or new. A new distillery team is being assembled and the goal is clear: emulate the original, heavy and oily triple-distilled style of Rosebank spirit. The new Distillery Manager says no expense has been spared on equipment and operating systems to give the team as much control as possible. He acknowledges there will be a lot of trial and error to get the spirit character to where they all want it to be, but he is confident the finished article will be “as good as, if not better, than the original”. “It may take a few goes but we will get it,” Rennie adds determinedly. When asked why he thinks the Lowland distillery has become such an icon, Rennie says: “I think the fact that Rosebank was always a sought-after whisky way back in time says a lot. It was in demand 100 years ago by blenders, so the spirit was always special. It didn’t become special only because it closed, not like some other lost distilleries. “Rosebank has always been seen as the ultimate Lowland whisky and deservedly so. When it was closed in 1993 that reputation was only going to be enhanced and [it was] a real loss to the local area and overall whisky industry.” Rosebank’s location on the banks of the Forth & Clyde Union Canal was integral to its prosperity and eventual closure. In many ways the distillery’s fate was sealed when the canal which connected Scotland’s two main cities, Edinburgh and Glasgow, closed in 1963. When the whisky industry spluttered and stalled in the 1990s, the then-owners made what many believe to be the wrong decision to officially mothball the distillery. To great surprise and delight, Ian Macleod Distillers announced in 2017 that Rosebank would be revived having secured the site from Scottish Canals – a former division of British Waterways – and acquired the remaining stock from Diageo in preparation for the £10 million project to bring Rosebank back to life. The decision to restore Brora and Port Ellen was also made in 2017, 34 years after their closure. Mackay says this was partly a response to the demands from whisky enthusiasts but also as a result of the strong growth in single malt Scotch and the opportunity to create a new generation of whisky consumers. He says the £35 million restoration process – which started at the same time for Brora and Port Ellen – has required enormous support from local communities, teams of highly skilled engineers, whisky noses and the Diageo archives. Brora, in the Highlands, took little under four years to bring back to life and opened in May 2021. Port Ellen on the isle of Islay has taken slightly longer and should begin distilling in spring 2023.
 With an eye to the future, many speculate which ghost distilleries could be earmarked for revival next – Diageo alone owns another 15 of them. Rankin believes there are very few left that could come back, but when pushed suggests there could be one or two, depending on the condition of the buildings, their current broader environment and land use around them, and the financing structure in place of those doing the resurrection. He remains tight-lipped on which. Regardless, there has arguably never been a more exciting time in Scotch whisky, with lost distilleries being brought back to former glory, a glut of new distillery builds and collectability at an all-time high. “It is a unique time for whisky lovers,” Rankin agrees. “Scotland shall be seen as the home of single malt and blended whisky. Those overseas are starting with a blank canvas and are making their own history, while those new in Scotland have the legacy of a 500-year-old industry to build upon. “Even if the whisky that draws them in is one distilled in Japan or the USA, India or Switzerland, they will find their way to Scotland and in turn to past bottlings from our history, as well as to new expressions from long-established brands, resurrected ones, or brand new ones. “As my grandfather said: ‘The future is shaped by what you do today, while today reveals what we did in the past.’” As the past and present meet, there will be a keen eye on these formerly lost distilleries and what their resurrection means for those fortunate enough to own bottlings from a bygone era. Five of our favourite lost distilleries Glenury Royal Highland whisky distillery Glenury Royal has a rather ill-fated history. Severe fire, a distillery worker death in a boiler-incident and ultimate closure in 1985 have all befallen the distillery which once stood near Stonehaven in Aberdeenshire. Despite all this, the Glenury Royal name has survived, and very aged bottlings are increasingly scarce and collectable. Diageo has released some remarkable aged Glenury Royal bottlings (including a 50-year-old) as part of its highly sought-after Cask of Distinction series. Gordon & MacPhail has also bottled some rare Glenury Royal single malts. Littlemill Littlemill is the oldest licensed whisky distillery in Scotland. Whisky from the Lowland producer is incredibly rare and is no longer being produced after the distillery was closed, demolished and consumed by fire. Some independent bottlings and very rare own labels have been released. To date, Testament – a 44-year-old limited expression distilled in 1976 – is the oldest single malt from Scotland’s first distillery. Celestial Edition (40 years), Private Cellar (25-, 27- and 29-year-old) and a 1991 vintage have all been released in extremely limited quantities. Port Ellen The  Port Ellen distillery on the south coast of the Hebridean island of Islay is responsible for some of the rarest peated single malts on the market. The distillery, founded in 1825, was a victim of the whisky downturn and eventually shuttered for good in 1983. As stocks decreased, secondary market demand for Port Ellen intensified and bottlings regularly fetched five-figure sums. The distillery is being brought back to life with two copper pot stills that are faithful replicas of the originals, and two smaller stills which will produce more experimental and innovative spirit.  Brora Brora distillery – or Clynelish as it was originally known – was established in 1819 by the Marquis of Stafford, later the Duke of Sutherland. Sadly, Brora was a casualty of the 1980s whisky loch and closed its doors in 1983. In the years that followed, Brora has become one of the most highly sought-after Scotch whiskies. Some of the most expensive bottles ever sold have included the 40-year-old Brora bottlings from 1972 which have sold for upwards of £26,000. Many believe bottlings from the late 1960s and early ‘70s to be the most exciting in Brora’s distilling history. There are some remarkable official and independent bottlings from the early 1970s as part of the Rare Malts series and Douglas Laing & Co’s whiskies. Rosebank Rosebank is a highly sought-after and respected Lowland producer, famed for its triple-distilled whisky, that was mothballed in 1993. In the years that followed, Rosebank joined Port Ellen in Islay and Brora in the Highlands as one of the hallowed, and highly collectable, trinity of lost distilleries. The so-called “King of the Lowlands” developed a cult following for its triple-distilled whisky – a practice that is highly irregular in Scotland as most double distil. With new whisky from the distillery unlikely to appear until 2030, there will be heightened interest in and demand for the last remaining bottles from the original distillery. Browse all Scotch whisky listings or read more Editorial 

Some of the most collectable whiskies are those from distilleries that no longer exist. These ghost or lost distilleries hold a unique allure – but as attempts to revive Scotland’s so-called “Holy Trinity” get underway, Holly Motion explores whether it’s really possible to turn back the clock

We explore how Scotland’s most coveted and iconic distilleries have come back to life, including the Holy Trinity of Brora, Port Ellen and Rosebank. 

Haunting the present: ghost whisky distilleries

Haunting the present: ghost distilleries

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