The Emperor of Wine

 

        Edinburgh Central Library is in the heart of the city’s Old Town, a tourist mecca. A stone’s throw from the entrance, visitors will see a mass of scaffolding, behind which a hotel has been hidden for years. It is an embarrassment to this once handsome capital city, but nobody seems to want to do anything about it.

        I went to the Central Library not to see this eyesore, but to read The Wines of the Rhône Valley and Provence, by Robert M. Parker, Jr., the ‘Emperor of Wine’. The book was published a long time ago, in 1987, and is for reference only. It took me back to my student days, when I whiled away hours in that library, reading texts which were far less interesting.

        It may legitimately be asked why I bothered. Well, I wanted something to write about and I’m very keen on wines from the Rhône Valley. I was curious to discover what this legendary wine critic had to say about one of my favourite regions.

        I quickly discovered that Robert Parker was a really excellent writer. I don’t think I’d ever read that about him. He is still famous for having a profound influence on wine styles before the Millennium, owing to his preference for very ripe, full-bodied wines, but his talents as a writer seem to have been forgotten.  

        I found myself laughing at his turn of phrase in that silent room around the corner from Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. Gigondas ‘seems to have as many dogs and cats as human inhabitants’, he wrote. Now of course a famous appellation, ‘Gigondas does not have a distinguished history’. Hence the fact that ‘all the growers and négociants seem to relish’ its previous incarnation as a ‘booster wine’ for red Burgundy.

        He was not a fan of the wine villages in the département of the Drôme in the southern Rhône, which he described as ‘one-horse towns’. As for Vinsobres, which is these days considered a source of some excellent red wines, its name ‘seems a contradiction in itself (“sober wine”)’. The eastern side of the river in the southern Rhône, an area of ‘sun-scorched, lazy hill towns’ and ‘spectacular vistas’, was ‘studded with…red-faced vignerons offering a free taste of their wines’.

        For someone with such a famous palate, I found some of Parker’s comments about grapes and wines puzzling. The white grape Bourboulenc, he wrote, ‘offers plenty of body’. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that. On the contrary, I thought it was more famous for having acidity, making it a rarity in the southern Rhône. I’d always believed that Grenache Blanc, another white grape, was rather neutral. ‘Deeply fruity’ was Parker’s assessment, however. As for the rosés of Gigondas, these were ‘light, vibrant, fresh, underrated’, in his view. Admittedly, my tasting experience is limited, but the ones I tried were flabby and alcoholic.

        Parker’s tasting notes were surprising, to say the least. One of the aromas of the white grape Roussanne was ‘coffee’, in his estimation. I did a double-take when I read that. Likewise, I raised my eyebrows when I saw that one of the ‘telltale aromas’ of the red grape Mourvèdre was ‘tree bark’. His assertion that the ‘best’ examples of Grenache had an aroma of ‘roasted peanuts’ also had me scratching my head. Either I haven’t tasted enough or Robert Parker had an eccentric palate.

        I didn’t read all of it, but I enjoyed Robert Parker’s book very much. I’d say that he was a far more gifted and entertaining writer than the vast majority of people writing about wine now. Nor was he afraid of acknowledging his limitations. ‘Frankly, I have no idea what this grape tastes like’, he wrote of Picpoul. Now that’s hard to imagine.

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.

       

       Published in The Wine Merchant, October 2025.

White Wines of the Rhône Valley

    I visited the Rhône Valley in the summer of 2016, staying in Orange and Rasteau. I wandered around deserted stony vineyards, drank carafes of wine in restaurants that served indigestible cuts of meat, and experienced the terror of a giant bee flying up my shorts on a train platform. I love the region and, inspired by a recent book by Matt Walls, decided to do a spot of tasting. In this post I'm going to concentrate on whites, and will turn to reds another time.

A vineyard in Rasteau

    The 2018 E. Guigal Côtes du Rhône (£12, Tesco) has a lovely aroma of pear, peach and melon. It has plenty of body, befitting a wine that contains 60% Viognier plus sizeable doses of Roussanne, Marsanne and Clairette, and a noticeable bitterness on the palate. Like most whites from this warm and sunny area, there's not a lot of acidity, but it's not flabby, probably owing to the Roussanne and a splash of the acidic Bourboulenc grape. The alcohol is high at 14 percent, but it doesn't stick out. It's excellent value. 

 At £40 a bottle, the 2016 Jean-Luc Colombo Condrieu (Oddbins) certainly isn't cheap. Nor is it very good. I had this wine over two years ago and felt that the oak wasn't in harmony with the Viognier grape. The issue this time around was different: the wine is past its best. The aromas are elusive, and I was obliged to plunge my nose into the glass for a good sniff. The initial smoky Burgundian note proves fleeting and gives way to a very light tropical fruit aroma and a hint of petrol. The palate is rather watery, offering a suggestion of pineapple; the most interesting aspect of the wine is the kiss of tannin which you can sense on your front teeth.

    Guigal's 2017 Condrieu (£39.99, Majestic) is in a different league. It smells fabulous, like a super rich peach and apricot yoghurt overlaid with new oak. The wine has a wonderfully lush mouthfeel which, combined with the heady alcohol and stony/tropical flavours of the Viognier, brings to mind a Sauternes, albeit one with no sugar! There's enough acidity to make your mouth water, taking the edge off the booze. It's an immensely satisfying drink, and I kept thinking it would be the perfect wine to drink with a roast chicken. 

    In my opinion, whites from the south of the Rhône Valley can suffer from having too little Viognier in the blend, or perhaps none at all. The 2017 Chante Cigale Châteauneuf-du-Pape (£26, Woodwinters), is a case in point, Viognier being forbidden in this legendary appelation. The wine has many good points: it really fills the mouth and has a voluptuous texture, thanks to partial barrel fermentation. Despite the elevated alcohol, there's a notable freshness on the palate, courtesy of the 60 percent of Bourboulenc, Roussanne and Picpoul in the blend. It also has a distinct mineral touch. Still, I felt it lacked something. The fruit leans towards the tropical but the flavours are a little hard to pin down, and it doesn't have the explosive aromatic lift of a fine Viognier. 

Cairanne

    During a tasting in the wine village of Cairanne five years ago, I asked what flavours Grenache Blanc, the mainstay of white wines in the southern Rhône, brings to the table. 'Rien (nothing)', was the answer. The grape makes up half of the 2019 Boutinot La Fleur Solitaire Côtes du Rhône (£10.50, Woodwinters), and you can see where the man was coming from, for it's somewhat hollow on the palate. There's a nice pear character on the nose, though, which returns on the finish. A quarter of the wine is fermented and aged in used oak, giving it a touch of creaminess. The acidity is decidedly low, maybe due to the crazy heat of 2019, and you can sense the alcohol in your throat. 

    

   My last tasting sample was the 2019 Le Plan des Moines Les Silènes Cotes du Rhone (£10, Villeneuve), which has higher acidity than the average white from the southern Rhône. More typical are the abundant body and intoxicating alcohol. The stone fruit aroma is reticent, while the palate is more stony and salty than fruity. 

 The nature of the blend had me scratching my head. According to the wine merchant, it's 50% Grenache Blanc, with the other half Clairette. It seems too fresh to be a blend of these low acid grapes though. I think it's likely to contain some, perhaps a lot of, Roussanne, which has more acid and might account for the stony, mineral note. Evidence to support this comes from the back label, which reveals that Grenache (the red kind, I suppose) and Roussanne are the principal grapes used in the producer's wines. One thing's (almost) certain: there's no Viognier in this one.  

Note: Like the 'Emperor of Wine', Robert Parker, I purchased my own samples. In my case, of course, there was no alternative. 

Winner of Letter of the Month in Decanter Magazine

Rasteau

        I wasn’t struck by the impact on France of the recent terror attacks until I got to Chambéry. It’s a lovely city: the Alps provide a majestic backdrop, and the handsome shuttered buildings in the old town are draped with the red and white flag of Savoie. Such were my thoughts as I sat in the Place du Théâtre drinking a strong coffee. Then three soldiers in fatigues and berets who looked as hard as nails walked past bearing automatic weapons. It was a jarring reminder of France’s troubles.

        Perhaps I should have been prepared, though. While I was staying in a guesthouse in the Provençal wine village of Rasteau, a few hours south of Chambéry, the owner told me that the number of foreign guests had gone through the floor. They were afraid, she said. It was a shame, I agreed. And it really is, for Rasteau is a wonderful place.

It’s hard to believe that Rasteau belongs to the same country as Paris and Nice. It feels isolated from the stresses of the outside world. Very little happens, and the chimes of the bell tower every half hour seem designed to rouse the locals from their reveries. In the late afternoon, when the baking August heat has slackened off a little, old men take over the dusty square for games of pétanque. Other wizened figures sit on benches to observe them.

Off the square is a no-frills bar, the inside of which is likewise the preserve of elderly gentlemen. The drinks list is eccentric. I wanted a glass of Rasteau’s Vin Doux Naturel (a delicious and sweet local specialty similar to Port). They didn’t have any. The nearby post office only does business in the morning and the grocery shop has irregular opening hours. The bakery was shut because the owners had gone on holiday. You wonder how the owners and employees of these establishments can possibly make a living.

I went to Rasteau because of its wine. Its reds are concentrated and spicy. I spent hours wandering around the arid and empty vineyards (the farmers were all on holiday, like the bakers). The soil was dark brown, becoming lighter the nearer you got to the village. Pudding stones, or galets, were spread over the surface, in some cases covering whole rows. Massive bunches of Grenache and Syrah grapes drooped from the vines, looking ripe enough to harvest even at this early stage of the growing season.

 At night the vineyards were so peaceful; nothing was audible except for the relentless croaking of cicadas. On a ridge across the flat and deserted plain I could see the orange lights of the wine villages of Séguret, Sablet and Gigondas. They stood out like beacons in the darkness, and I could almost imagine I had stepped back into the past. For surely this night view has enthralled moonlight walkers for centuries.