"È stato un anno davvero terribile," dice Mark Gaskain. È settembre 2024 e siamo alla fine di quella che è stata una stagione di crescita difficile in gran parte dell’Europa – con piogge apparentemente senza fine. Fortunatamente, Gaskain sa che tali sfide fanno semplicemente parte del lavoro. È un agricoltore, nato e cresciuto, ora alla guida dell’azienda di famiglia e responsabile della produzione di 70 milioni di mele all’anno. Ma nell’ultimo decennio ha aggiunto un nuovo ramo all’attività – dopo aver venduto un’ampia porzione di terreno nientemeno che a Champagne Taittinger nel 2015. Quel terreno è ora la sede di Domaine Evremond – uno dei progetti di vino inglese più entusiasmanti fino ad oggi. 
 La storia è iniziata quasi un decennio fa. Patrick McGrath – fondatore e CEO di Hatch Mansfield, che rappresenta Champagne Taittinger nel Regno Unito – stava cercando di aggiungere un vino spumante inglese al portafoglio dell’azienda. Erano i primi anni 2010 e lui aveva intravisto un’opportunità in questa categoria nascente – ma Pierre-Emmanuel Taittinger suggerì che, invece di acquisire una tenuta esistente, McGrath avrebbe dovuto crearne una propria, lavorando con Taittinger. Taittinger aveva intrapreso un’iniziativa simile in California, creando Domaine Carneros con il loro agente statunitense, Kobrand, sotto la guida dello zio di Pierre-Emmanuel, Claude. Insieme, decisero di fare il grande passo. 
 Affidarono all’esperto di vini inglesi Stephen Skelton il compito di aiutarli a trovare il sito perfetto – che doveva avere terreni gessosi, pendii esposti a sud/sud-ovest (per la massima esposizione al sole) e un’altitudine inferiore ai 100 metri (con la temperatura che diminuisce di 1°C ogni 100m, qualsiasi cosa al di sopra sarebbe stata semplicemente troppo fredda nel clima marginale inglese). Si decise per il Kent – con facile accesso alla Champagne – ma ci vollero 18 mesi per trovare il sito giusto. Allo stesso tempo, i Gaskain stavano valutando la vendita di una parte dei loro terreni (un’avventura nella frutta morbida si era rivelata difficile e volevano tornare al loro core business delle mele). Il tempismo fu fortunato e i frutteti di Stone Stile Farm – intorno al villaggio di Chilham, a sud-ovest di Canterbury – erano perfetti. Come mi disse Alexandre Ponnavoy (Chef de Cave sia per Taittinger che per Evremond), se un sito può produrre buona frutta – è un buon indicatore del suo potenziale viticolo. Nel 2015, l’accordo fu firmato e il progetto lanciato con grande clamore all’Abbazia di Westminster. Domaine Evremond prende il nome da Charles de Saint-Evremond (1614-1703), un francese, saggista e primo ambasciatore dei vini di Champagne – che li portò alla corte di Carlo II – ed è sepolto a Poets’ Corner. Sebbene Didier Pierson – un viticoltore in Champagne – avesse già prodotto vino inglese sotto l’etichetta Meon Hill, Taittinger fu una delle prime grandi Maison di Champagne a investire in Inghilterra (Pommery aveva acquistato vigneti nell’Hampshire nel 2014). Non sorprende che la copertura mediatica fu estesa: i Champenois stavano arrivando per produrre vino spumante sul nostro territorio – e gli scettici francesi avrebbero dovuto ricredersi mentre il mondo iniziava a riconoscere la qualità dello spumante inglese. 
 Le prime viti di Evremond furono piantate nel 2017, con ulteriori aggiunte nel 2020 (il team si stabilì al Premier Inn locale per affrontare il lavoro in piena pandemia) e nel 2024. Il terreno qui presenta uno strato di argilla alluvionale sopra il sottosuolo gessoso che fa parte del bacino di Parigi, condiviso con gran parte del nord della Francia (inclusa la Champagne). Tuttavia, intorno a Canterbury, c’è più selce nel terreno – qualcosa che, secondo Ponnavoy, emerge chiaramente nel vino, conferendogli un carattere minerale e riduttivo. C’è anche una netta influenza marittima – che modera le temperature ma porta anche brezze oceaniche da Whitstable, che dista solo dieci chilometri. Per Ponnavoy, è la combinazione tra i terreni gessosi del sito, la morbidezza marittima e i venti marini – una “climatologia contrastante” – a definire i vini di Evremond. 
 Gaskain è profondamente coinvolto nel progetto – la sua conoscenza approfondita del territorio è una risorsa inestimabile, sapendo ad esempio dove si trovano le sacche di gelo potenziale o dove il terreno potrebbe essere troppo fertile per le viti. Lui e il suo team gestiscono quotidianamente il sito, guidati da Christelle Rinvelle (Direttrice dei vigneti Taittinger). Attualmente hanno 62 ettari di vigneti, suddivisi tra 45% Chardonnay, 45% Pinot Noir e 10% Meunier. Hanno piantato Chardonnay nelle aree con lo strato di terreno più sottile, consentendo alle radici di accedere quasi direttamente al substrato gessoso, mentre il Pinot Noir e il Meunier si trovano nei lotti più ricchi di argilla e ghiaia. Le viti sono ampiamente distanziate (5.000 viti per ettaro – metà della densità di impianto che Taittinger utilizza in Champagne) e allevate più in alto rispetto all’altra parte della Manica, permettendo una migliore circolazione dell’aria (che aiuta a gestire la pressione delle malattie) e una chioma più ampia (per favorire la maturazione). Sebbene non siano mai stati utilizzati erbicidi e ci sia un impegno concreto verso la sostenibilità, Gaskain è chiaro sui limiti della viticoltura nel Kent: “Il biologico è una follia in questo clima,” mi dice – come forse ha dimostrato il 2024. Sebbene il team disponga di irroratrici specifiche per la vite, Gaskain può anche utilizzare le attrezzature del suo frutteto – un vantaggio quando le condizioni sono difficili – e irrorare l’intero sito in un solo (lungo) giorno. 
 Hanno raccolto quantità minime di frutta nel 2018 e 2019, con la prima vendemmia di dimensioni commerciali proveniente dal 2020 (fortunatamente la vendemmia dell’uva si colloca comodamente tra quella delle Gala e delle Braeburn). I primi vini furono prodotti presso i vicini Simpsons e, dal 2020, si stabilirono in un vecchio fienile di cemento nel sito – con l’intera operazione alimentata da un generatore. Nel giugno 2022, iniziarono i lavori per una nuova cantina (“Eravamo fuori budget quattro settimane dopo l’inizio,” dice McGrath, con un sorriso stanco). La stessa azienda che lavorò al Tunnel della Manica scavò 83.000 tonnellate di gesso (circa 2.000 camion) per far posto all’edificio a tre piani che si estende per 20 metri sotto terra. Progettata dall’architetto di Reims Giovanni Pace, l’idea è che la cantina si integri nel paesaggio – piuttosto che imporsi su di esso. Ha la capacità di immagazzinare 1,5 milioni di bottiglie – tutto senza consumare ulteriore energia per il raffreddamento, grazie al naturale fresco sotterraneo. 
 I lavori sono stati completati in tempo per la vendemmia 2024 – un sollievo indubbiamente per il team. C’è qualcosa di affascinantemente britannico, leggermente improvvisato e da outsider in questa operazione – nonostante i capitali molto seri dietro di essa (finora si parla di 17 milioni di sterline investiti). “Tutti hanno dovuto darsi da fare,” dice McGrath. Potrà essere il CEO di Hatch e uno dei fondatori di Evremond, ma è anche il primo a indossare gli stivali di gomma per aiutare alla vendemmia – e ha trascorso più weekend tra i filari di chiunque altro. Vitalie Taittinger ha preso il posto del padre come Presidente di Taittinger, e la figlia di McGrath, India, gestisce il lato commerciale di Evremond – rendendo l’operazione davvero un’impresa di famiglia, anche se con un certo tocco di eleganza in stile Champenois. Con l’associazione a Taittinger, naturalmente, le aspettative sono altissime – qualcosa di cui McGrath è dolorosamente consapevole. Parlando con Ponnavoy – responsabile della vinificazione sia di Taittinger che di Evremond – c’è stato qualcosa di molto entusiasmante nel creare un progetto da zero, anche se non senza difficoltà. Ha insistito per conservare la piccola vendemmia del 2018 solo per la proprietà, permettendo loro di seguire i vini in vasca per diversi anni e conoscere meglio il sito. È stato un costo enorme e ha ritardato la prima uscita, ma qualcosa che ha ritenuto essenziale. 
 “Era davvero importante non fare la copia di un altro spumante, non produrre uno… ‘stile’,” dice. L’obiettivo, invece, era: “Identificare il terroir, identificare il suolo, identificare il clima e riprodurre tutto ciò nella bottiglia. Trovare l’identità di Evremond.” Inevitabilmente, c’è la tentazione di tracciare paragoni tra Taittinger ed Evremond, ma il team è chiaro sul fatto che si tratta di progetti totalmente separati, con DNA molto diversi. Lavorando con uva inglese, Ponnavoy ha ritenuto fondamentale gestire l’acidità potenzialmente pungente (e il vino subisce quindi una fermentazione malolattica completa), ma – per lui – la sfida più grande era evitare l’amaro che trova comune in alcuni vini inglesi. Gestire i composti fenolici per evitarlo era dunque essenziale, mentre si è concentrato anche sulla consistenza delle bollicine – lavorando per ottenere una mousse molto fine, qualcosa che ritiene distingua il vino dalla concorrenza. 
 Con il tempo, Evremond spera di produrre 400.000 bottiglie all’anno, anche se il primo rilascio ne conta solo 120.000. Ci sono piani per aggiungere una cuvée millesimata e una rosé una volta che le viti saranno mature e avranno imparato a conoscere il sito, ma per ora producono solo la Classic Cuvée non millesimata. Ora, a dieci anni dall’acquisto del terreno, l’Edition 1 della Classic Cuvée è pronta per il rilascio. Per un debutto, è un risultato straordinario – forse non sorprendente, data la caratura dell’operazione. Incredibilmente fine, tesa e stratificata, con note di conchiglia d’ostrica, iodio e selce, è un vino pieno della promessa di ciò che Evremond può realizzare. 
 La Classic Cuvée Edition 1 di Domaine Evremond sarà rilasciata giovedì 3 aprile: contatta il tuo Account Manager per registrare l’interesse o iscriviti qui per ricevere una notifica.

Dieci anni fa, Champagne Taittinger fece qualcosa di inaspettato: acquistò un terreno nel Kent. Alla vigilia dell'uscita del primo vino del progetto, Sophie Thorpe ha incontrato il team di Domaine Evremond per parlare delle sfide e dei successi della loro avventura inglese.

Champagne Taittinger bought land in Kent 10 years ago. As the first wine from the project is released, we talk to the team behind Domaine Evremond

Diving into Domaine Evremond – Taittinger’s new English wine

Alla scoperta di Evremond: il nuovo progetto enologico inglese di Taittinger

France's Prime Minister declared that his country was at war with an "invisible, elusive" enemy at the start of an unprecedented lockdown this month but a century ago, the enemy was clearly visible. The 1914 harvest was approaching for the growers of Champagne, but the German army also loomed large on the horizon.  In the opening months of World War I, as the grapes approached ripeness, the Germans entered the Marne Valley in a bid to inflict a quick defeat on The Western Front. Having
entered both Reims and Epernay in early September, the French launched a counter-offensive, pushing back the Germans with losses on all sides exceeding 150,000 men. Champagne remained a battleground for the duration of the war: in the forest above the village of Verzy on the Montagne de Reims, a general commanded the French fourth army, using the high vantage point as an observation post. The producers of Champagne badly needed an abundant harvest with stocks in the summer of 1914 at critically low levels but the region's men had been mobilised, leaving those
left behind – the elderly, women and children – to gather the crop they so desperately needed to the sound of gunfire. "Shortages of money, materials, transport and labour were the prevailing obstacles for everyone in the region...and with only ten days in which to organise the harvest after the German retreat, time also became a factor. Additionally, the enemy continued to shell many of the villages to the north of Epernay," writes Cynthia
Parzych in Champagne Pol Roger's official history. 
The harvest began on 21 September and continued into October. There was no luxury to wait for so-called optimal ripeness, it was a case of picking when possible and the bracing acidity imbued it with longevity. Benoît Gouez, the chef de cave of Moët and Chandon, which teamed up with Sotheby's to auction several bottles from the 1914 vintage in 2013, says,
"the harvest was brought forward due to the war, and the wine took a long time to develop but today it is truly remarkable."  However, there were casualties in the vineyard during the collection of the 1914 harvest,
including children picking in their fathers' absence. The enemy had only retreated to the outskirts of Reims and continued to rain fire on the city over the course of the next four years. Its majestic 13th century cathedral, home to coronations for 600 years, was heavily shelled, leaving only the walls standing. The once-bustling streets were left in ruins: just forty of the city’s 40,000 houses remained standing while vineyards in the Reims area were heavily shelled; craters soon replaced vines.  Meanwhile, the French government left Paris at the start of September 1914 and Bordeaux
briefly became the seat of national power. Away from the theatre of war, the Bordelais were able to harvest an abundant but relatively average-quality crop. A year later, the region's harvest was a washout: Château Latour, for example, declassified its wine as a 'vin rouge', to maintain its reputation.  The war vintages were relatively small with few hands to keep vineyards healthy and inauspicious growing conditions. However, war was thirsty work: the French government bought a quarter of a litre of wine a day for every soldier from 1916 onwards, amounting to 12 million hectolitres each year so the war years were not the financial disaster that many wine producers had originally feared.  The Belgian market closed for the duration of the war and the Russian market for fine wines ceased to exist following the 1917 Revolution. England, however, managed to drink 20,000 cases of champagne every year between 1914 and 1918. The British had clearly taken a leaf out of Winston Churchill's attitude to champagne and war: "In success you deserve it and in defeat, you need it." Explore more Editorial 

In a series of articles, Rebecca Gibb MW looks at how historic events in the last century affected the world of fine wine.

In a series of articles, Rebecca Gibb MW looks at how historic events in the last century affected the world of fine wine, starting with the 1914 vintage

The 1914 vintage

A year in wine: 1914

“Turbot,” Hugh Johnson says, the sense of satisfaction-to-come oozing down the phoneline. It’s a Friday morning and like any dedicated oenophile he’s already planned dinner, and – most importantly – what he’ll be drinking. I expected white Burgundy, something majestic drawn from a cavernous cellar, but Johnson – arguably the world’s most famous wine writer – is not nearly that traditional, or predictable. A Cambridge degree, a flawless RP accent, an air of good tailoring and tweed, and 60 years in the wine trade might lead you to think otherwise. But, throughout our conversation – even with a Covid-safe telephone call in lieu of a face-to-face – there’s an undeniable sense that there is forever a twinkle of mischief in his eye, and that Johnson is a man who enjoys being ever so slightly provocative. On the aforementioned Friday night, he was planning to uncork a bottle of Kit’s Coty Bacchus – “Giving it a good chance to show,” he says. Chapel Down’s single-vineyard bottling of England’s trademark grape comes from a chalky site on the North Downs, a spot that Hugh thinks is “a Grand Cru of the future”. He’s currently particularly excited about the prospects for England’s wine production – “Not just because I’m a patriotic citizen,” he reassures me.  “I’m passionate about the new school of English winemaking… wonderful characters and flavours are emerging from the south of England.” Gusbourne’s 2018 Pinot Noir “blew [his] socks off” and he’s keenly following low-dosage experiments such as Dermot Sugrue’s #ZODO. He wonders if perhaps the line of chalk between the North and South Downs could in fact be the Côte d’Or or Champagne of the future. It was an oft-quoted encounter with two Burgundies at university that set a young Johnson on the path to wine writing. I love the image of his university room-mate stumbling in a little too merrily, sloshing fine wine over the floor and Hugh’s undoubtedly immaculate notes, insisting that the serious and studious character sampled the two glasses in his unsteady hands. “One was magic and one was ordinary,” Hugh has said of the incident: he was instantly hooked. Cambridge’s Wine and Food Society laid the groundwork for his education, and he penned his first wine column for Vogue in 1960 – recommending a rather ambitious line-up that included 1955 Cheval Blanc and 1960 Ch. Margaux. There was a stint at House & Garden, then he took over from André Simon as editor of Wine & Food, joined The Sunday Times and started turning out a series of smash-hit books, starting with The World Atlas of Wine in 1971. His annual Pocket Wine Book – the world’s best-selling wine guide – has been solid stocking fodder for 44 years. The Story of Wine – first published in 1989, and a reprint of which is the cause for our conversation – is my personal favourite. It’s a book that captures exactly why I love wine: it literally seeps through our history, a liquid that links nations, cultures and generations. And Johnson’s passion for the topic drips off the page; writing that’s as intoxicating as the substance it describes. The oeuvre feels like it hasn’t aged a day since its initial publication, expertly tracing our ties to the vine and its fruit “from Noah to now”.   The copy I was gifted aged 21 is a hefty thing – an impractical hardback of coffee-table only proportions that precludes it being devoured the way it should be. I was delighted, therefore, to discover the latest edition is much more comfortably lap-sized – as Hugh describes it, “friendlier”. It’s a book that begs for an afternoon in the armchair. But it’s a book he never set out to write, and one that fell out of a foray onto the small screen. Much of the research was undertaken by a young history graduate Helen Bettinson, for a series aired the same year on Channel 4. “I learnt so much about history generally, never mind the wine part,” Hugh says. And that’s part of the joy of The Story of Wine – it’s not really a wine book; it’s just a great book, that happens to be about wine.  “When I started, there was very little knowledge around,” Hugh explains. “I saw my job as stirring up interest, encouraging people to enjoy wine in a very general kind of way.” The tricky thing, over the years, he says – has been avoiding the tendency to get closer to the subject, to focus on ever more detail – “sometimes a really boring amount of detail,” he chuckles. His heart sinks, he tells me, when someone asks him what the percentage of X grape is in a wine – “I’m not interested in percentages, yet the world is,” he laments. “To be frank, I sometimes think that journalists get into the nitty gritty because they have nothing better to say.” He’s a man tired of the state of wine writing (“glossy magazines full of incredibly boring photographs of vineyards”), and especially with winemaker profiles (“It’s pretty hard to engage the average consumer in the story of an Italian farmer: there are millions of them”). We should be, he feels, “getting the point of a wine” – but, most importantly, not the points. Johnson has long riled against scores. “My real beef against it is that it gives the impression that there’s something absolute going on,” Johnson says. He understands that for consumers it’s a short-cut (“you don’t have to read all the blurb”), but he’s fought long and hard to try and wean them off their numbers dependency. How something as varied and glorious as wine, something so dependent on “mood and moment” could be captured by mathematics – for Johnson – beggars belief. “The whole notion of a 100-point wine is unimaginable to me – how could it not be better?” For Johnson, a fine wine is a wine worth talking about – and that sums up rather neatly why scores are, for him, so offensive. As he says in the preface to the new edition of The Story of Wine, “If [wines] lack the power of speech they can still tell stories.” He’s sold 20 million books (and counting) filled with their stories, and his. But what’s next for the veteran wine writer? Well, proofs for his next gardening tome – the latest anthology of Trad’s Diary – are sitting on his desk awaiting attention. Then, of course, there’s that turbot – and a bottle of Bacchus hoping to tell its tale. The latest edition of The Story of Wine is available to purchase from Académie du Vin Library.  Read more Editorial

Since he started writing about wine in the 1960s, Hugh Johnson has sold 20 million books. As a new edition of The Story of Wine is published by Académie du Vin Library, Sophie Thorpe talks to the best-selling author about a lifetime spent telling – and selling – the stories behind every bottle

The best-selling author Hugh Johnson on a lifetime spent telling – and selling – the stories behind every bottle.

Hugh Johnson, the wine whisperer

Hugh Johnson: the wine whisperer

In an era where minimal intervention is so applauded, discussing the art, skill and work of a winemaker can be unfashionable. Producers can seem keen to gloss over or shy away from discussing the tricks of their trade. And tricks there undoubtedly are – as vintages like 2021 prove.  Jean-Antoine Chaptal was a man of many talents. Working in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, he was a scientist and statesman whose interests varied from sugar beets to gunpowder and merino sheep. For wine-lovers, he has been immortalised thanks to his 1801 paper, L’art de faire, de gouverner et de perfectionner les vins – in which he introduced what we now call “chaptalisation”. It was nothing short of revolutionary.   During fermentation, yeast converts sugar into alcohol and carbon dioxide. Chaptal realised that if you added additional sugar to raw grape juice, you could increase the final alcohol content of the wine. The sugar would, along with the natural sugars from the grapes, be fermented, producing a dry, but stronger wine, and – with alcohol a natural preservative – one that would keep better. Suddenly producers could give wines from cooler years a boost (with the alcohol adding much more than just ethanol). Some winemakers, of course, abused the technique – at one point in the early 20th century, the Languedoc reportedly produced twice as much wine as was feasible for the volume of grapes harvested.  Today the practice is strictly controlled by regulatory bodies, only permitted in cooler regions where it is deemed a useful tool, limited according to region and vintage conditions to protect quality. In marginal climates where ripeness isn’t guaranteed, chaptalisation has been the norm. Although you won’t find them in marketing pamphlets or Instagram feeds, bags of Tate & Lyle are widespread in the cellars of Champagne, Burgundy and England, in particular. It’s one reason why climate change has, for many such regions, been a blessing of sorts – the warmer conditions allowing them to more reliably bring in a crop of sufficiently ripe fruit.    Throughout the 19th century in Bordeaux, wines were often blended with those from warmer climes – the finest had a dose of Hermitage (something which Ch. Palmer pays tribute to today with its Historical XIXth Century Wine), while lesser wines had a dollop of something Spanish. Chaptalisation took over in the 20th century, and was widespread – considered part and parcel of making wine in the region.   Global warming and the technology that has revolutionised viticulture and winemaking in the region has changed that, but 2021, with its frost, mildew and generally cool conditions, saw many of northern Europe’s winemakers forced to chaptalise once more – or at least consider it.  Setting off to taste Bordeaux 2021 en primeur, I was braced for the polished spiel of the world’s grandest estates. But perhaps signalling a broader move towards transparency in the industry, what I found was a refreshing frankness. Not a single producer looked to mask the incredible challenges of the year – and the often unspoken reality of making wine in such conditions.  We asked about the potentially contentious topic at every property we visited, receiving only a small handful of slightly wary responses on the topic (“We did what we had to do,” one winemaker said, with a smile). The vast majority of producers felt it was a necessity in the year, although not everyone agreed.  At Ch. Cheval Blanc, Pierre-Olivier Clouet firmly stated, “We never touch the natural balance of the wine.” That said, they did chaptalise three plots in the end, but none of them made it into the Grand Vin. Delphine Kolasa of Margaux’s Marquis d’Alesme believes that you can almost always feel a warmness from the additional, unnatural alcohol – although she noted a few properties who had managed it so well you could barely tell.  At Les Carmes Haut-Brion, Guillaume Pouthier highlighted the balance needed with the year’s acidity levels. The relative lack of sunshine resulted in grapes high in malic acid, meaning that the malolactic fermentation (where hard, green-apple malic acid is converted into softer lactic acid) had a greater impact in the wines, reducing the overall acidity. With this in mind, he felt that chaptalisation could lead to wines feeling “flat” – but it wasn’t a necessity for him, given he managed to reach 13.5% natural alcohol thanks to the property’s warmer, suburban microclimate. These producers weren’t alone – Beychevelle, Léoville-Poyferré and Lafite-Rothschild all opted to work with what nature gave them.  But there were plenty of outstanding estates which felt it was an essential element to success in the year. At Le Pin, Jacques Thienpont remarked how they had to employ “forgotten methods”, noting that it was more than 20 years since he’d had cause to chaptalise in Pomerol. He used it on a couple of vats. Joséphine Duffau-Lagarrosse – the young vigneronne who has taken over her family’s estate – joked about having to learn how to do it, so alien is the process to a millennial winemaker. (“I called Burgundy,” she said, laughing mischievously.)  Similarly, Christian Moueix – another of the Right Bank’s old guard – noted how he used it almost every year in the 1970s, but hadn’t needed to for a long time. For him the key was not to overdo it, enough to add a maximum 1% alcohol. There was a clear consensus on this among proponents – adding half or one degree (of alcohol) was beneficial, but if you pushed things too far, you’d lose balance in the wines. That touch of additional alcohol added body, carried flavour and allowed for more extraction.  At Ch. Canon and Ch. Berliquet, they noted that they always pick on phenolic rather than sugar ripeness, but one of the quirks of 2021 was that the skins ripened before the sugar had accumulated to the expected level. They therefore picked and chaptalised to bring the wine up to 13.5%.  Omri Ram – who produced a particularly exquisite flight of 2021s at Ch. Lafleur – emphasised that he wasn’t anti-chaptalisation, but was anti it being popularised. He used it on a handful of parcels (the most humid plots) where he felt they would benefit from just “a little bit more” – with all the wines ending up between 13.4 and 13.6%. Ch. Margaux was notable for highlighting that, at least for them, chaptalisation wasn’t abnormal. They also used it on a couple of plots in 2017, 2019 and 2020.   There’s no doubt that chaptalisation can be done badly. But tasting through the 2021 vintage in Bordeaux, it’s also clear that it can be done well – used seamlessly to produce wines that are better for that spoonful of sugar. If you don’t trust us, check the critical acclaim for some of the wines mentioned above.  Intervention is key to wine – a vigneron’s craft goes beyond the field. The best wines come from carefully farmed vineyards, sites nurtured to produce expressive fruit, but it takes a talented winemaker to translate that into something you can drink. And in a year like 2021, no winemaker should be criticised for using every tool available to them.   Browse all Bordeaux wines or read more Editorial 

Chaptalisation – the addition of sugar to enrich wines – isn’t fashionable but it’s a practice that has long been common (and often essential). The 2021 vintage saw many Bordeaux winemakers turn to the technique; here we dig into exactly what it is – and why it shouldn’t be dismissed 

Chapitalisation became common practice in the cool Bordeaux 2021 vintage. We talk to some of the region's top growers about this controversial technique. 

Chaptalisation and Bordeaux 2021

A spoonful of sugar

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

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

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

FONDATA: Exploring the art of collecting 

 I Collect, Therefore I Am

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

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

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

Wines of Bordeaux’s Left Bank versus Right Bank

Bordeaux: the Left Bank versus the Right Bank

Last year the Chianti Classico governing body of producers (the Consorzio) banned the use of international varieties in wines bearing the top Gran Selezione classification. The decision has caused an outcry among some of the region’s top producers. Many claim that Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot were not only instrumental in raising the quality and consistency of the region but have since become an important part of the region’s identity today. Some producers claim that the Consorzio, in the name of authenticity, is limiting the vigneron’s creativity when instead they should be focusing on upholding quality. As far as appellations in Italy go, Chianti is one of the oldest, dating back to the early 1700s. Quality, even back then, was an important factor for the top producers. Castello di Ama discovered records from 1773 which showed their estate was exporting wines to England and producing wines with exclusively red grapes designed for ageing – something that became a rarity in the region during the 20th century.  With few exceptions, Chianti production up until the 1990s was focused on quantity. Vineyards were mixed, typically with three Sangiovese vines for every white vine, either Malvasia or Trebbiano. “The white grapes were part of the culture here”, says Castello di Ama’s Lorenza Sebasti. “The white and red grapes were made together, to make a wine for everyday – it was part of the meal and needed to be as light as possible. It was safer to drink than water. And it gave you energy.” Under the Chianti appellation, the wines had to include white varieties (Malvasia or Trebbiano) alongside Sangiovese.  With a focus on quantity, the quality of the Sangiovese clones planted at this time was generally poor. As such, Sangiovese struggled to reach full maturity, resulting in aggressive tannins – typically mellowed by the blending of white varieties. From a quality perspective, it was impossible to make a 100% Sangiovese wine of any quality. The 1970s marked the beginning of a fascinating creative and experimental winemaking period in Tuscany. Piero Antinori and Giacomo Tachis were instrumental in replanting programs focused on quality. New clones of Sangiovese would eventually help, but international varieties were an essential component in quickly raising the quality of the region’s wines, as well as their ageing potential – another important attribute of fine wine. As well as working in Bolgheri creating the first Super Tuscan with Sassicaia, Tachis and Antinori produced their first vintage of Tignanello from their top vineyard in Chianti Classico in 1971. This first vintage was made only from red grapes (Sangiovese and other local varieties) and matured in oak barriques (the first wine of the region to be made in such a way).  With mixed results, they went back to the drawing board. After much discussion, and no doubt buoyed by their results at Sassicaia, they believed Cabernet Sauvignon was the solution. It wasn’t until 1975 that they produced the next vintage of Tignanello, this time a blend of 80% Sangiovese and 20% Cabernet Sauvignon – a blend that has remained the same ever since. The addition of Cabernet Sauvignon and maturation in barriques meant it broke the appellation rules and had to be declassified to a table wine. But it was the quality of this wine that spurred a new generation of winemakers that was to reshape the Tuscan landscape. More and more quality-led producers in Chianti Classico started experimenting with different varieties. Lorenza Sebasti describes Castello di Ama at this time as a “workshop of experiments”.  “When we started introducing varieties from France, we did many experiments – Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Sauvignon Blanc… Our greatest success turned out to be Merlot.” Although the Consorzio eventually caught up with these pioneering producers and allowed up to 20% international varieties to be included in Chianti Classico blends, wine made from 100% Sangiovese was still not permitted. As better, lower-yielding Sangiovese clones started to appear, other Chianti Classico producers such as Fontodi, Montevertine and San Giusto a Rentennano broke the rules and started to produce 100% Sangiovese wines – again forcing them to declassify them. It wasn’t until 1996 that the Consorzio allowed Chianti Classico to be made from 100% Sangiovese. For Stefano Carpaneto, Tignanello’s winemaker since 2002, the presence of Cabernet was absolutely fundamental in Tignanello’s success. In the early days, Sangiovese was still lacking consistency and suffered with aggressive tannins if not blended. “Sangiovese was also difficult to manage in vinification and during the élevage in barrels,” he says. For him, the introduction of Cabernet gave balance to the Sangiovese at vinification and provided a tannin structure that allows the wine to age. It also guaranteed consistency year after year, which was paramount if Tignanello was going to compete with other fine wines around the world. At Castello di Ama, Merlot not only became an essential component in their top single-vineyard Chianti Classico wines but was so good in its own right that they created L’Apparita – a 100% Merlot wine that today competes with the finest Merlots in the world. “Merlot in Tuscany has its own personality,” says Sebasti. “The aim was to make a very good Chianti Classico. But the Merlot stood out with its personality, we took it as a gift. It was part of our research, but it was also a discovery.” Sabasti explains how Tuscan Merlot is totally different to the Californian style, or Pomerol. “Somehow,” she says, “it has depth, but is not with fat and remains very vertical.” Tignanello, L’Apparita, Fontodi’s Flaccianello, Percarlo and Le Pergole Torte are some of the region's very top wines, responsible for raising its profile, yet all were forced at one time or another to declassify their wines. The Consorzio has caught up and now allows barrique ageing, 100% Sangiovese and the use of international varieties in Chianti Classico. But at a time when quality has never been higher, they have again been criticised for their recent decision to ban international varieties from the top Chianti Classico Gran Selezione classification. Castello di Ama’s Sebasti is not happy. She is a big believer in what she calls “renaissance thinking” – where quality-led winemaking should be about creativity and discovery, not rules. After all, it was the rulebreakers in Chianti Classico that brought quality to the region. Sebasti recalls how Robert Mondavi who, despite his position of power in Napa, stood up against imposing rules that would restrict young, up-and-coming winemakers to produce wines in a region where it was becoming too expensive to own land. Many other producers wanted to allow only bricks-and-mortar wineries to become members of Napa Valley Vintners, but Mondavi believed this would stifle creativity in the region. Sebasti echoes Mondavi, “We need the energy, the creativity, the new challenge of young winemakers and rulebreakers to continue to make our wines the best.”  Despite Antinori’s reputation largely being built on the success of international varieties, they are in favour of the banning of international varieties in Gran Selezione and voted for the change. “While the international varieties were absolutely necessary to transition the region from quantity to quality, they can now be put to one side,” says Carpaneto. For Carpaneto, the changing of the rules will help create a clearer identity for the region. He believes being able to taste 100% Sangiovese wines from different villages within Chianti Classico will help the critic and consumer compare the differences. “The international varieties can influence the wine too much,” he says. “A variety like Merlot can go over the terroir, it can cover the terroir.”  Sebasti, on the other hand, is yet to be convinced. She understands the allure of making Chianti Classico from 100% Sangiovese. She regularly tastes her own vats of Sangiovese and, while they can be great, for her, the magic touch for her terroir is a soupçon of Merlot added to the Sangiovese that makes her wine better – she is more interested in that than the classification. “They go for monotony,” claims Sebasti. “They say authenticity is 100% Sangiovese and this is historically incorrect […] It is not a political choice, it should be a vigneron’s choice.” If forced, Castello di Ama will leave the appellation.  While Antinori approved the decision for the ban, they have no intention to change the blend of Tignanello, or Solaia for that matter. “We cannot touch the Super Tuscans,” says Carpaneto. Their reputation is bigger than any classification. Regularly compared to the top wines of the world Carpeneto believes they have earned their place in history.  Among these top producers their wines do not need to rely on the classifications, however it is interesting that the top wines in Antinori’s portfolio, for example, are wines that rely on a blend of both Sangiovese and international varieties. In 2002 (a terrible vintage for Sangiovese), Solaia was made entirely from Cabernet Sauvignon. Carpeneto says they would never do this again. “the wine doesn’t taste like Solaia,” he says. “If we had the same vintage conditions again, we just wouldn’t make it.” As at Castello di Ama, it is the special relationship between the international variety and Sangiovese that makes their top wines so special.  Tuscany’s rapid rise in quality could not have happened with Sangiovese alone. It has the international varieties of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Syrah, at least in part, to thank for that. They were instrumental in Tuscany’s transition from an industrial-led wine-producing region to a qualitative one. The decision to ban their inclusion in the Gran Selezione classification will cause ruptures in the appellation – though the region is no stranger to controversy. Each vigneron will need to decide for themselves whether it compromises quality. Either way, the mavericks that have helped build Chianti’s reputation are not likely to let rules get in their way. Browse all Italian wine listings or read more Editorial

Despite a long history of growing native Tuscan varieties, Chianti’s reputation is tied to the Bordeaux varieties. We talk to leading producers about their role in the region – and why the Consorzio is trying to ban them from its top wines

Exploring why the Consorzio is trying to ban Bordeaux varieties after they have been so instrumental to Chianti’s success. 

Chianti Gran Selezione classification in crisis

Looking beyond Sangiovese: Chianti

The Macallan has become the most collectable Scotch whisky in the world. It consistently surpasses its own records at auctions and is known the world over as a luxury brand – even by those who know have little-to-no interest in whisky. The Macallan has come an awfully long way in its 200-year history. From its humble beginnings as two stills in a wooden outbuilding, the Speyside distillery has continually grown in size and prestige. Today, the Scottish whisky-maker calls a stunning £140 million state-of-the-art distillery home and continues to release remarkable long-aged whiskies from its vast stocks. This steady supply of exceptional single malts and rare bottlings, including its fabled #263 cask filled in 1926, has secured its reputation as a collectors’ must-have. But just how has The Macallan become such a tour de force and what should you know if you’re looking to add a bottle to your whisky collection? The history of The Macallan Based in Craigellachie in the Highlands, The Macallan distillery was founded in 1824 by farmer Alexander Reid and became one of the few licensed distilleries following the Excise Act of 1923. In 1868, James Stuart took over the distillery and rebuilt it. Stuart ran the site until 1892, when Roderick Kemp, a distilling giant who previously owned the Talisker distillery, took over and led the distillery to success. Kemp’s ancestors managed The Macallan for over a century, greatly expanding the distillery – increasing the number of stills from six to 21 between 1965 and 1975. In 1986, Suntory bought out a quarter of the stocks, with Highland Distillers buying out the rest in 1994. The distillery changed hands again in 1999, when Edrington took control. The Macallan has been largely responsible for the company’s unprecedented growth. Macallan’s reputation was built on the use of Sherry casks. Indeed, until 2004 it used exclusively Sherry casks, but then introduced the Fine Oak series, which was aged in ex-Bourbon and Sherry casks. The Macallan cask programme Today, The Macallan invests more per cask than any other distillery in sourcing, crafting, seasoning and caring for its casks – all under the watchful eye of Master of Wood, Stuart MacPherson. The entire process of creating a Macallan Sherry-seasoned oak cask takes approximately six years. Today, European and American oak are both used. Once felled at the optimum age (100 years for European and 70 years for American oak), the trees are left to air-dry for at least one year before they are cut into staves and transported to Jerez de la Frontera, Spain, where they are air-dried for a further 12 months, then coopered, toasted and Sherry-seasoned. All The Macallan whiskies are natural in colour – with nothing added and the only colour imparted by the long maturation in barrel. The curiously small stills  The Macallan boasts some of the smallest stills in Speyside. At just shy of 13 feet in height, the small and squat shape of the stills enables maximum copper contact and little-to-no reflux, resulting in the characteristically rich, fruity and oily new-make Macallan spirit. The 24 stills are also run incredibly slowly – at a trickle – and Macallan only takes 16% of the final spirit from the stills to fill its casks. When the new £140 million distillery was built in 2018, The Macallan commissioned the famous coppersmith company Forsyths to faithfully replicate the existing stills, down to the last dent. The 24 stills are designed to be exact replicas and the distillery maintains the new spirit will be unchanged. Kirsteen Campbell became the first female Master Whisky Maker in The Macallan’s near 200-year history in 2019. Campbell is squarely responsible for maintaining The Macallan’s distillery character and deciding which whiskies to pull from the archives. She was instrumental in the record-breaking Red Collection – a six-whisky set of superlative single malts, including two of the oldest released by the distillery. Campbell and her team are always looking at future-proofing the distillery, and run various barley trials. Currently, The Macallan uses Concerto barley and its own exclusive strain called Momentum that is grown on the estate and in other parts of Scotland and the north of England. The new £140 million distillery  Inspired by the great wineries across the globe, the Edrington team set out to build a distillery unlike any other in 2011. The project, led by Rogers Stirk Harbour + Partners – the architects responsible for Heathrow Terminal 5 and the Leadenhall Tower, or Cheesegrater, as it has become known – took seven years from idea to launch. It involved up to 400 people specialising in more than 20 different trades and cost £140 million. The result is an architectural marvel and has increased The Macallan’s distilling capacity from 11 million to 15 million litres a year. Easter Elchies House, located on the 485-acre Speyside estate, is still the spiritual home of the brand. At present, the old Macallan distillery, complete with its original 21 stills, has been mothballed but rumours swirl that it might resume production in the not-too-distant future. The Macallan and 007  The Speyside single malt has featured in two James Bond films. It first appeared – very heavily – in the 2012 Skyfall when M and Bond are both seen drinking Macallan. There is also the memorable scene between Javier Bardem’s Silva and Daniel Craig’s Bond when The Macallan 50 Year Old (the 1962 Fine & Rare) gets an extended amount of airtime, balanced in a shot glass on Sévérine’s head. A bottle signed by Bardem and Craig was later sold at auction, raising £9,635 for charity. The Macallan 18 Year Old makes a more understated appearance in the 2015 Spectre, on a table in James Bond’s apartment. The Macallan range The Macallan produces an extensive permanent range of whiskies, which include Sherry Oak (ranging from 12 to 40 years old), Triple Cask Matured (a trinity of whiskies aged 12, 15 and 18 years in European and American Sherry-seasoned casks), Rare Cask (single malts from the distillery’s library of Sherry-seasoned casks), the Masters Decanter Series (including M, M Black, Reflexion and No 6) and the Fine & Rare Collection. Limited releases (Edition, Anecdotes of Ages, Tales of The Macallan) The Macallan is arguably best known for its limited releases. These are one-off bottlings, often collaborations with artists and experts in their fields, and whiskies that are inspired by various stages in the distillery’s 200-year-history. Some of the most interesting limited releases include the 13-bottle Anecdotes of Ages collection. Each bottle of 1967 single malt features imagery of The Macallan Estate, created by British pop artist Sir Peter Blake and photographed by Mary McCartney. Only 322 bottles are available worldwide. The Archival Series is also worth highlighting. First released in 2015, with Folio 1, the series includes 24 individual bottlings that commemorate the distillery’s iconic advertising campaigns from the 1970s to 1990s. Today, a single Folio bottle can fetch upwards of £1,500. The Macallan has unveiled two highly anticipated limited releases over the past two years: the sixth and final Edition, and the first Tales of The Macallan. Prices for the complete Edition series (1-6), and individual Edition bottlings, have been steadily rising. The forecasted price for one of the 350 Lalique-designed Macallan Volume I decanters is £60,000. The Macallan also releases more experimental limited releases, like the Harmony Collection and A Night on Earth. The first Harmony Collection, unveiled in 2021, was the Rich Cacao expression, combining two of life’s pleasures: Sherry-matured whisky and chocolate. The same year, the distillery released its first A Night on Earth whisky, honouring Scotland and its legendary Hogmanay festivities. The seasonal release features illustrations from Japanese-French artist Erica Dorn. Cask #263 Without doubt, the most coveted bottles from The Macallan come from one hallowed cask: #263. The Sherry-seasoned cask, filled in 1926, slumbered for six decades until the precious liquid was filled into a mere 40 bottles in 1986. Of these, 12 were filled into bottles designed by pop artist Peter Blake and 12 were bottled in labels designed by Italian artist Valerio Adami; two were auctioned in blank bottles – one of which was later hand-painted by Irish artist Michael Dillion; and 14 were sold as part of The Macallan’s Fine & Rare Collection. Sporadically, and to great furore, these bottles have appeared at auction. One of the Blake bottles sold for £6,375 in 1991, an Adami fetched almost double that five years later, and another went under the hammer for $75,000 in the late 2000s. After this, things went quiet and speculation about the whereabouts of the bottles was rife – until a bottle of Blake and Adami sold for $1.2m in 2018. Unsurprisingly, this set in motion a veritable maelstrom of activity, and nine bottles have since changed hands. The Fine & Rare Collection The Macallan first launched the Fine & Rare Collection back in 2002, with a modest 37 different expressions. In the years that have followed, this collection has swelled to 57 different vintage bottlings from eight decades in the distillery’s history – making it the largest vintage-dated single malt collection in the world. The oldest bottling in the impressively vast Fine & Rare Collection is from the legendary 1926 vintage. The Macallan Red Collection The Macallan Red Collection is widely seen as the pinnacle of the distillery’s portfolio. Three of the six single malts are the oldest whiskies ever released by The Macallan – or any Scotch whisky distillery, for that matter. The entire collection – named after a colour that has a long association with The Macallan – is aged in Sherry-seasoned casks. The three oldest ongoing expressions (40 Year Old, 50 Year Old and 60 Year Old) join the three guest releases, which are the oldest in the distillery’s history (71 Year Old, 74 Year Old and 78 Year Old). Occasionally a lone bottle or an incomplete set of The Macallan Red Collection becomes available, but to find all six bottles is truly rare and exciting. Collaboration with Lalique on the Six Pillars Collection Over the course of one decade, The Macallan partnered with acclaimed French crystal maker Lalique on some truly memorable and collectable whiskies. In 2016, the Six Pillars set drew to a magnificent close with The Macallan in Lalique 65 Years Old . Only 450 individually numbered bottles were released worldwide. The first release in the collection, which began in 2005, was the 50 Year Old, followed by the 55 Year Old (in 2007), 57 Year Old (in 2009), 60 Year Old (in 2011) and 62 Year Old (in 2014). In 2019, four bottles from The Macallan Six Pillars Collection sold for £296,500. Browse The Macallan whiskies or read more Editorial 

The Macallan’s reputation is unparalleled. It is the most coveted and collectable Scotch whisky and a luxury brand in its own right. We explore the distillery’s rise and the bottlings that continue to secure its place at the pinnacle of collectability

The Macallan’s reputation is unparalleled - the most coveted Scotch whisky. We explore the distillery’s rise & the bottlings at the pinnacle of collectability

Everything you need to know about The Macallan

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