A Morte

            I had a near death experience once. A friend was driving my Renault Clio on an empty motorway in the northeast of France a few years before the Millennium. I had purchased that car the year before because the TV adverts featuring Nicole and Papa were really good. Times have changed for the worse in that respect, as well as in many other ways.

I was in the passenger seat, and my pal asked me to light a cigarette for him. He leaned towards me and I held the lighter in front of him. When I looked up we were heading straight for the central reservation at about eighty miles an hour. What happened next was terrifying. My friend desperately jerked the steering wheel to avoid a collision. He managed to regain control of the car after another two or three sharp turns of the wheel. He pulled up on the side of the road, switched off the engine and sat with his head in his hands for about ten minutes.

        Those are the facts, but what happened in that very short time was supernatural. I’ve heard that time seems to stand still in such moments of total crisis, and so it was. I was a witness to my friend’s efforts to control the car, and I saw it all unfold as if time had slowed down. It was as if an unseen entity had flicked a switch and we were living through those seconds in slow motion, which I suppose means we were close to death. I’ve never experienced anything else like it.

        I think I took over the driving after that incident. We continued for about thirty minutes before stopping for the night in a place called Épinal. We had dinner and a bottle or two of wine in an Ibis hotel. I’ve never laughed as hard as I did during that meal. My friend was always funny, but he attained unmatched heights of comedy that evening. I suppose we were both hysterical after almost dying, but it was probably the funniest night of my life, and I’ve had a lot of them. We went for a walk in Épinal afterwards. All I remember is that the river Moselle was wide and bordered by flags.

The river Moselle, in Metz

        I’ve rarely enjoyed driving abroad. Looking back, I can scarcely believe some of the drives I attempted when I was younger, like the occasion I thought it would be a good idea to drive all the way from Carcassonne to Navarra, over the Pyrenees, in one go. Fortunately, I never blew a tyre and my car was never stolen, although someone did once pinch a windscreen wiper in Annecy. I’ve never been able to figure that one out.

Carnuntum

 

The vineyard of Rosenberg was almost silent when I visited at the end of July. I could hear cicadas croaking and the soughing of the wind, but that was about it. Rows of vines stretched down the gentle green slope towards the small town of Göttlesbrunn, beyond which the ground rose again towards a windfarm. Stones and pebbles lay on the soil beneath the vines, but the ground between the rows was covered in grass.

 

Rosenberg

        Sleepy Göttlesbrunn is in the heart of the small Austrian vine-growing region of Carnuntum, a short drive to the east of Vienna Airport. The wind blows three hundred days a year, lowering disease pressure to such a degree that the majority of production is organic. 

 

On the day I arrived, the temperature hit thirty-three degrees. The heat is, however, mitigated by forests and the River Danube, which flows unseen just a few miles to the north. ‘The Danube gives us cool nights’, according to Johanna Markowitsch of Weingut Markowitsch.

 

Göttlesbrunn

This being Austria, it should come as no surprise that a lot of very good white wines are made in Carnuntum. The Grüner Veltliners I tried were fuller-bodied than those from famous regions further west like the Wachau, with a lovely rich mouthfeel from long lees ageing or barrel fermentation. ‘We believe in working a lot with the lees’, said Hanna Glatzer of Weingut Glatzer, another producer in Göttlesbrunn.

 

Wines made from Grüner Veltliner can be labelled 'Carnuntum DAC', a designation which is used for regionally typical wines. Wines made from four other grape varieties – Weissburgunder (Pinot Blanc), Chardonnay, Zweigelt and Blaufränkisch- may also be labelled this way. Blends, known as 'cuvées' here, qualify as Carnuntum DAC wines as long as two thirds of the blend comes from the grapes mentioned above. 

 

Chardonnay is a favourite at Weingut Markowitsch. Johanna Markowitsch commented that Chardonnay ‘can deal with the sun but also loves the cool nights’ in Carnuntum. She drove me to Ried Schüttenberg, a vineyard whose high limestone content suits the grape. It abuts the Maria Ellender Wald, a large forest north of the vineyards in Göttlesbrunn, which has a cooling effect.

 

Bunches of grapes on the vines in Schüttenberg were shrouded by black nets as a protection against wild boar and deer. I saw these nets elsewhere in Austria, where the main concern was hail. Markowitsch’s Ried Schüttenberg Chardonnay 2023, a ‘riedenwein’ (single vineyard wine), was mouth-filling with a touch of new oak. ‘The idea of all our whites is that they have power but also good acidity’, Johanna Markowitsch told me.

 

        Carnuntum is more renowned for its red wines, though. In the vineyard of Rosenberg I saw tiny Merlot berries growing on the vine. They were green, having not yet gone through véraison. Merlot apparently grows well on sand and gravel soils in Carnuntum, but Hanna Glatzer deemed it ‘challenging’ because its sugar content shoots up before the seeds are ripe.

 

        The most planted red grape in Carnuntum, and indeed Austria, is Zweigelt. In the vineyard of Rosenberg, it’s grown on clay, which is rare in Carnuntum. I was informed, however, that it can grow successfully just about anywhere, explaining its ubiquity. Although widely planted, Zweigelt 'doesn’t have the best reputation’, in the words of Benjamin Edthofer of Weingut Wieninger in Vienna, who said that it ‘can be tricky as a single varietal wine’.

 

Zweigelt ‘has many faces’, according to Johanna Markowitsch, but the wines tend to be full-bodied and always have a dark fruit character, with cherry a common flavour. The dark cherry note was also mentioned by Hanna Glatzer, who observed that Zweigelt has more ‘charming’ tannins than the other leading red grape in Carnuntum, Blaufränkisch.

 

        Hanna Glatzer had many interesting things to say about red wines. She observed that Blaufränkisch has blackberry, earthy and spicy notes in Carnuntum, with a tannin structure similar to that found in the French grape Syrah. You won't find jammy, overripe reds made in the region, despite the intense summer heat. 'Carnuntum wines are approachable', she said.

 

Lighter reds are also made in Carnuntum, from Pinot Noir and Sankt Laurent. I find it hard to get excited about the former, as shown by the fact that I didn't write a tasting note about the Pinot Noir I was given at Weingut Markowitsch. I was more eager to try a Sankt Laurent, although the one I tasted at Weingut Glatzer reminded me of a Pinot Noir! Hanna Glatzer remarked that it has good natural acidity and 'silky and smooth' tannins.

 

         The next day I drove to the region of Wagram, an hour to the west. The soil is mostly loess and it was very sunny and warm, so my mind turned to Washington State, where lovely red wines, especially Merlots, are made.  Inspired by my time in Carnuntum, I asked a winemaker if Merlot was grown in Wagram. The answer was an emphatic no. Perhaps my question came twenty years too soon.  

 

 

 

The Viennese Field Blend

 

In what feels like another lifetime, I taught English conversation classes at a university in Tokyo. One of my colleagues was an American from Tennessee called David. He told me about a fellow foreigner he had worked with in Saudi Arabia, who pursued a curious lifestyle. The man in question would live like a hermit while in Saudi, spending almost none of his very competitive salary. Then, at the end of the academic year, he would go to Vienna for a month and blow the lot. He did this every year.

 

Nussberg © Austrian Wine / WSNA

        I was in Vienna to learn about the city’s wines, so I didn’t get a chance to explore and imagine what this man might have spent all his money on. I did have a chance to do some driving, which was about the most stressful experience I’ve had since my flat in Japan began rocking crazily during a nighttime earthquake. Hopefully, then, some of his hard-earned cash went on taxis.

 

        Winemaking in Vienna has a long history. I learned from Benjamin Edthofer at Weingut Wieninger that vine growing continued in the city’s second district until the 1960s. In addition to Wieninger, which has vineyards in both the Bisamberg and Nussberg areas in the north of the capital, I also tasted wines at Weingut Christ.

 

I had an informative conversation about the differences between the Nussberg and the Bisamberg hills with Rainer Christ, the owner of Weingut Christ. He makes wines solely from the Bisamberg, so I asked him if wanted to have a vineyard on the Nussberg. ‘No’, he said, without hesitation.

 

The Bisamberg, to the north of the River Danube, is ‘the sunny side of Vienna’, he told me. Although the Nussberg is more famous historically, the Bisamberg has been ‘the most successful over the last 30 years’, he said. It’s greener, with forests. The soils are quite different, with more limestone found on the Nussberg. Rainer Christ used to have two vineyards on the Nussberg, but it was an unhappy experience.

Nussberg © Austrian Wine / WSNA

        Vienna’s gift to the world of wine is Wiener Gemischter Satz, a field blend. Only this style of wine, comprising at least three white grape varieties from the same vineyard and vinified as one, may be labelled with the DAC appendage, which indicates regionally typical wines. According to Benjamin Edthofer, the field blend was historically a good option in Vienna as it ensured ‘stable yields.’ Some grapes might struggle one year, but others would perform well, ensuring wine could reliably be produced.

 

     Only one of Wieninger’s Wiener Gemischter Satz wines is made using just three white grapes, the Bisamberg Wiener Gemischter Satz DAC 2023. To those from outside Austria, it might seem an incongruous French blend of Weissburgunder (Pinot Blanc), Chardonnay and Grauburgunder (Pinot Gris), but the grapes have a long history in Austria.

 

Wieninger uses up to fifteen grapes in its field blends, though, which is what I find appealing about this style of wine. You can try a Gemischter Satz which includes several grape varieties you have no familiarity with. Neuberger, which I knew nothing about before travelling to Austria, appears in the majority of Wieninger’s field blends. 

 

I asked a winemaker in another region of Austria about Neuberger and he deemed it ‘a pain in the ass’ in the vineyard. In Vienna I was informed that it ‘lacks aromas’, suffers from the vine disease peronospora and requires ‘a lot of work.’ Probably best in a field blend then!

 

Grüner Veltliner is the main grape in field blends at Weingut Christ. Of the French grapes, Grauburgunder/Pinot Gris is the least favoured as its sugar content can shoot up. The high percentage of Grüner Veltliner was certainly noticeable in some of the wines I tried. Wieninger’s Wiener Gemischter Satz DAC 2023, which has about 40 percent of Grüner Veltliner in the blend, had a very distinct peppery character. I think this tasting note is really overused to describe wines made from Grüner Veltliner, but this one certainly had the peppery aroma in abundance.

 

I left Vienna with a half-bottle of a 2017 Wiener Gemischter Satz from the vineyard of Ulm, which is on the Nussberg. It had a hint of Fino Sherry about it, which was very appealing – if you like sherry. 

 

Rhône Valley: The Smart Traveller's Wine Guide: A Review

 

            I have a particularly serious case of nostalgia for Japan, where I spent several years. I’m aware that I was irritated by many aspects of life there, but the feeling of nostalgia is inescapable.

The river at Arles

        I feel the same way about the Rhône Valley, although to a lesser extent. The memory of the summer warmth and of walks at twilight through the vineyards of Rasteau, or along the river in Arles, stays with me.

        That, more or less, explains why I bought Rhône Valley: The Smart Traveller’s Wine Guide, by Matt Walls. I love reading, and I like drinking wines from the Rhône Valley almost as much; mostly, though, I just wished to indulge in a bit of good old-fashioned nostalgia. I only had a vague notion of writing a book review.

Rasteau

        The short book commences with a brief section about the history of viticulture and winemaking in the region. I sometimes wonder why there’s always a chapter about the history of a country, a region or winemaking in books about travel and wine. Often I skip these pages, and I think I have a greater enthusiasm for history than most. Do readers really care about the history of viticulture in the Rhône Valley? Perhaps.

        ‘Have you ever met a wine lover who isn’t obsessed with food?’ asks Matt Walls in the introduction to the book. Yes, me. I wrote the following after my last visit to the Rhône Valley:

I’m influenced by two factors when I order food: first, how hungry I am and, second, what I want to drink. Maybe the second takes precedence. My aim was to drink only local wine, and it had to be red. This suggested meat, which was in fact essential as I was utterly ravenous every time I sat down for dinner.

        Matt Walls has some interesting things to say about the local cuisine. He remarks that Andouillette, ‘a large sausage’, is ‘an acquired taste'. Its ‘detractors say it smells like faeces’. This reminded me of the time I ordered it in a restaurant in Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, where the waitress seemed to want to persuade me not to have it. ‘You know what it is?’ she asked. I did, and it wasn’t very pleasant.

        ‘It’s not always obvious what to serve Condrieu [the most famous Viognier of all] with, as it’s so rich and aromatic’, writes Matt Walls. I don’t think this is true. I had a bottle of Guigal’s Condrieu a few years ago and I thought immediately that, like other full-bodied, glycerol-rich and low acidity whites from the Rhône, it would be an ideal partner for roast chicken. In fairness to the author, he does go on to say that poultry works with the grape. So, if you see a poulet rôti on the menu, look for a good Rhône white.

        I always enjoy reading about grapes, and there are a lot of them in the Rhône Valley. Not surprisingly, Matt Walls provides a very informed description of the varietals in the region. One of the ‘heady aromas’ of Viognier is jasmine, he comments. I think that’s true, but I’d say that jasmine is in fact rarely detectable in a Viognier. A lot of wines made from the grape are mediocre and disappointing, in my opinion. However, when you do pick it up, the jasmine tea note is both unexpected and wonderful.

        There is of course a lot of information directed towards tourists in the book. As someone who has travelled a lot, I can say that Matt Walls’ observation that taxis in the Rhône Valley ‘are inexplicably, eye-wateringly expensive’ could apply to just about any country. Not that that’s a good thing, of course. The only country where I felt like there was no chance of being stiffed by the driver was Japan. It was pricey, certainly, but I never believed I was being ripped off.

The Pont du Gard

        As I wrote at the start of this article, I have a bad case of nostalgia about the Rhône Valley. I suppose the litmus test, therefore, was whether the book made me want to return. Among the many excellent pictures of the region is one of the Pont du Gard, ‘an ancient Roman aqueduct’ over a river. As Matt Walls writes, ‘you can even go for a swim in the river on a hot day’. I did that once, and when I read those words I wanted to return.

       

       

The Wines of the Wachau

 

        Robert Bodenstein wants to visit Wrexham. I could hardly believe my ears when I heard this. Here I was in Weissenkirchen, a village in the beautiful Austrian region of Wachau, and a winemaker wanted to see Wrexham. He had opened a special bottle, so I felt I owed him some candour. As a native of the U.K., I said do not go.

I wasn’t in the Wachau to chat about Welcome to Wrexham, of course, but to see Achleiten, a famous vineyard. My enthusiasm stemmed from a masterclass I attended last year in which the presenter remarked that Rieslings from Achleiten could last forty or fifty years. Then I saw a picture of the place: beneath a forest, green rows of vines spread across a long slope and downhill all the way to the Danube. What a sight this was!

        Robert Bodenstein works at Weingut Prager. The winery is on the main road which passes through Weissenkirchen and along the Danube. Being so close to the river, it is protected by a flood wall. This proved to be a blessing in September 2024 when torrential rain hit the Wachau for four days, destroying the cellars at some other estates.

        

I tasted a number of wines from Achleiten at Weingut Prager, all of which were classified as ‘Smaragd’. Such wines are from the Wachau’s top vineyards, must have an abv of at least 12.5% and are the best the region has to offer. Robert Bodenstein told me that he could tell immediately if a wine was from Achleiten. It ‘obviously has this smokiness to it,’ he said.

Prager’s Riesling Smaragd Achleiten 2024 had the Wachau’s characteristic apricot flavour. It also had a shocking amount of acidity – ‘off the scale’, to use my tasting note. Sampling a Grüner Veltliner Smaragd from the same vintage and vineyard was fascinating, for it showed the stark difference in acidity between the two grapes. I also experienced just how good an aged Grüner Veltliner can be when we had a Smaragd from Achleiten from 2011.

Apparently, it wasn’t even a particularly great year. 2021 was ‘the most beautiful vintage this century’, 2014 was ‘horrible’ and 2013 was ‘really beautiful’, but Robert Bodenstein had to consult his phone about 2011.

I wrote at the time that the wine had an ‘amazing nose’, which I felt incapable of describing, so I asked Robert Bodenstein for his opinion. Honeysuckle and chamomile, he suggested. On the palate, the trademark Achleiten smoky note came in after a while. The mouthfeel was soft initially, but then the acidity crept in, lingering on the front of my tongue. As for the finish, it seemed never-ending. It was the best Grüner Veltliner I’ve ever had.

They make another Grüner Veltliner Smaragd from Achleiten called ‘Stockkultur’ at Weingut Prager, which means ‘pole culture’ in English. All the vines are trained on poles, rather like the stakes used in Côte-Rôtie. This part of Achleiten is by the woods and above the fog line. The oldest vines were planted in the 1930s. The wine was even more acidic than its counterpart made from grapes further down the slope.

Five minutes along the road is Dürnstein, where the arid slopes behind Domäne Wachau feature the stone walls for which the Wachau is famous. Rows of vines are planted on the terraces atop the walls. I was told at Weingut Prager that thirty to forty sections in their vineyards were damaged in the Biblical rains of September 2024.

As the biggest name in the area, Domäne Wachau of course makes wines from Achleiten. I tried two young Grüner Veltliners, both classified Smaragd, but from different vineyards: one from Achleiten, the other from Kirnberg, a vineyard on the opposite side of the Danube. The one from Achleiten, I wrote, was ‘smoky and mineral’, with much higher acidity than the one from Kirnberg. I also tasted two Rieslings: one from Achleiten, the other from Singerriedel, a vineyard in Spitz, at the western end of the Wachau. Remarkably, the harvest in Spitz occurs two weeks after the grapes are picked in Dürnstein, despite the negligible distance between the two villages. I wrote that both Rieslings were ‘super dry.’

I didn’t get to see Achleiten, sadly, as I simply ran out of time. When I got back to the U.K., I went to Majestic Wine and cleaned them out of Domäne Wachau’s Riesling Smaragd Achleiten 2021. If a branch near you still has some stock, I suggest you do the same.

 

The Less Famous Veltliner

 

        I was standing on a bank by the side of a sloping and narrow kellergasse (a road bordered by old wine cellars) in Fels am Wagram. Franz Leth Sr. of Weingut Leth was showing me the loess (pronounced ‘lurse’ in English) soil, which rose like walls on either side of the road. A compacted mélange of wind-blown sand, limestone and clay, it crumbled as I squeezed it between my thumb and fingers. Close by was a very short row of vines.

        ‘What grape is that?’, I asked him.

        ‘Do you work with wines every day?’

Like most people I met in Austria, he spoke excellent English. It didn’t occur to me at the time that he probably meant ‘vines’, though, so I said yes.

        ‘What do you think it is?’, he asked.

        The berries were small and green, having not yet gone through véraison, when the grapes change colour. I’d been told a couple of hours earlier by Horst Kolkmann Jr. of Weingut Kolkmann, another noted Wagram estate, that over 60 percent of his family’s vineyard was planted with Grüner Veltliner. Ergo, it was most likely Grüner Veltliner.

        ‘No’, Franz Leth said, with an air of disappointment. ‘It’s an American hybrid.’

        I’d never seen an American hybrid. Nor, if someone were to show me one today, would I recognize it. I would, however, be able to tell them plenty about Wagram and the grape Roter Veltliner, thanks to Franz Leth and other winemakers I met in Austria.

        Wagram is a green, peaceful and bucolic area to the west of Vienna. After the mind-blowing stress of driving on what was, for me, the wrong side of the road in the capital, it was a pleasure to head through the flat and sparsely populated countryside. Vines and other crops like corn and sunflowers grew to the north of the motorway and a wall of mountains loomed on the western horizon. Frost being an issue in Wagram, the vines were planted on the hillsides.

        I was here to try a lot of Roter Veltliner, which, despite its name, is used to make white wines. Nor is it related to the Austrian superstar grape, Grüner Veltliner. I was intrigued by Roter Veltliner, for it’s a wine which is rarely seen in my home country, the U.K.; in fact, I don’t think I’d ever tried one. Wagram is the main area for the grape, which is one of the three varietals in that region which can be used to make single-vineyard wines (Riedenwein).

        Roter Veltliner is nicknamed ‘the diva from Wagram’, according to Horst Kolkmann Jr. He reeled off the reasons why it has this reputation. In the vineyard, you need to ‘work double the time’ on it compared to Grüner Veltliner. Rather than growing upwards, the shoots grow out to the side or sink. It's prone to mildew and requires a green harvest after flowering and careful canopy management. Half of each bunch needs to be removed to promote ripeness. In other words, fifty percent is dumped. Franz Leth showed me precisely what this entails by pulling off the bottom half of a bunch in front of me.

        Roter Veltliner is evidently worth the considerable effort, for the wines can be really outstanding. As Rainer Christ of Weingut Christ in Vienna expressed it, the grape is ‘very interesting when you have the perfect terroir’. The growing environment in Wagram suits this late-ripening varietal, which demands dry soils and a warm climate. South-facing vineyards like Ried Scheiben and Ried Brunnthal are exposed to abundant sunshine and the region’s deep loess soils drain water very well, while retaining sufficient moisture for the vines.

        Having tasted a substantial number of wines in situ, I can report that Roter Veltliner has ample acidity, which endures even in old bottles. The wines do not lack weight in the mouth and it’s highly aromatic. It has a lovely flavour reminiscent of tropical fruits, coupled with some kind of spice, which I found hard to pinpoint.

I had read that Roter Veltliner could be disappointing when young, but that was not true of the bottles I tried. It clearly ages well, for I had a number of older wines which were wonderful. I have to mention Kolkmann’s Roter Veltliner Vision 2013 in particular, for it brought a smile to my face. From Ried Scheiben and aged for 12 months in acacia then 10 months in used oak barrels, its super ripe nose and flavours brought to mind a late harvest wine, but it contained just 3 grams per litre of residual sugar. The finish was never-ending.

        My final visit in Wagram was to Weingut Josef Fritz, in the tiny hamlet of Zaussenberg. As was often the case during my time in Austria, I couldn’t find his winery, and had to enlist the help of a tough-looking and shirtless man.

Josef Fritz is renowned for producing Roter Veltliner, and he was amused by an old press clipping on his wall in which he was described as a Traminer specialist. He was emphatic that Roter Veltliner has great potential for ageing. He said that he’d done a vertical tasting going back to the 2010 vintage, and the only year that didn’t show well was 2014, a wet year. (The many winemakers I spoke to in Austria were unanimous that 2014 was a bad year, with one exception.)

A genial and generous man with a fabulous cellar of wines, Fritz opened a bottle of his 2006 Chardonnay from the limestone-heavy Ried Steinberg. Beads of condensation were on the bottle, but the wine was astonishingly good, medium-bodied with a subtle smoky oak character. I found it almost impossible to believe that the harvest was nineteen years ago. The name of the Steinberg vineyard can no longer appear on the label, because from 2021 only wines made from Riesling, Roter Veltliner and Grüner Veltliner may be labelled as Wagram DAC single-vineyard wines. Look for his Chardonnay Grosse Reserve instead.

The last wine I tried in Wagram was not even from the region. It was a half-bottle of the storied Ruster Ausbruch dessert wine from Burgenland, which had been kindly gifted to me. It tasted like a Sauternes, but contained only 7 percent alcohol. Like many wines I had in Austria, it was stunning. On my next visit I’m definitely going to Rust.

The Wines of Central and Southern Spain: A Review

              The first book I bought in the Classic Wine Library series was Richard Mayson’s Port and the Douro. I used to read it in restaurants around Covent Garden and Trafalgar Square when I was preparing for the Fortified Wines paper of the WSET Diploma. It was a book I enjoyed immensely, Port being one of my favourite wines as well as the one which had provoked my worst hangover. The book is now somewhere in Italy, never to be seen again.

        Since then I have read many of the books which followed Richard Mayson’s fine work, the latest being The Wines of Central and Southern Spain by Sarah Jane Evans, a Master of Wine and an authority on Spain. I was excited to read this, for I have travelled widely in Spain and like many of the wines a lot.

        This follow-up to 2018’s The Wines of Northern Spain is divided into six sections, starting with Catalonia. The writer notes that although this region ‘sits in northern Spain, its history and character is altogether Mediterranean. Hence its presence’ in the book. I’m not particularly interested in Catalan wines, but I make an exception for Priorat, which can cast a spell on any lover of wine: a remote appellation of hills and mountains encircled by another, and loaded with old vines. The book’s back cover features an image of the village of Poboleda, revealing the majesty of the setting.

        The section on Priorat is a microcosm of the book’s strengths and weaknesses. There is plenty of useful information and some lovely prose:

        The early morning journey had taken me from Barcelona along the coast and up through the clouds, with the hilltop villages of Priorat appearing above the cloud, and the magical Montsant mountain.

        Very evocative! The general discussion of Priorat, however, is restricted to four pages, whereas ten are dedicated to notable producers making the wines. I think it should be the other way round. There’s so much to say about a place like Priorat. We read, for instance, that there are ‘12 village sub-zones’ which comprise the Vi de Vila (village wine) category, but there’s very little here about them. It’s a pity, for it’s a really fascinating subject. (Admittedly, this skewing of the text in favour of producers is common to all of the titles in the Classic Wine Library series.)

        A chapter is devoted to sparkling wine. Again, it’s not a style of wine that appeals to me, but I learned a great deal. I was also pleased to read that Sarah Jane Evans shares my feelings about Macabeo, deeming it a ‘too-often plodding’ grape. 

      I enjoyed reading about ‘the heart of Spain’ very much, for it’s an area whose wines receive scant attention in the U.K, and it reinforced my desire to go there. Places like Extremadura and Castilla-La Mancha, both part of ‘España vacía’ (empty Spain) hold a fascination for me. In the author’s words, La Mancha is ‘a remarkable landscape’, where ‘vineyards extend as far as the eye can see’.

        One of the curiosities of the wine regions in central Spain and the Levante (the focus of chapter four) is the unexpected presence of certain grapes. I learned that the aforementioned Catalan grape Macabeo, for example, is the main white grape in D.O.s like Manchuela and Utiel-Requena, and that Albariño has migrated south to feature in the latter. Indeed, the book is full of interesting facts: Picapoll Blanco is not the French grape Piquepoul, sweet Monsatrell is made in Alicante and Jumilla, and ‘a plague of spiders’ brought a halt to organic production at an estate in Ribera del Guadiana in 2017.

        In my opinion, sherry could be the greatest of all wines. Reading about it was somewhat chastening, though, for I realised that parts of my recent presentation about the wines were in fact incorrect! It filled me with a strong urge to return to Jerez, however, for the prospect of trying an Amontillado with ‘an average age of 50 years’ at Bodegas Emilio Hidalgo left me salivating.

        To sum up, The Wines of Central and Southern Spain is a very well-written work which will appeal to lovers of Spanish wine, WSET students and those planning a trip to Spain. Only one thing is missing: a chart of vintages. I will continue to rely on a rule of thumb I picked up somewhere: if the year ends in the number 3, it probably wasn’t the best vintage in Spain. Or maybe that’s Rioja.

Published in The Wine Merchant, August 2025.