The Wines of Utiel-Requena

Somewhere near Darlington, as the 'quieter coach' began to fill up with youngsters who used the word like a lot, I asked myself if the train journey south was really worth it. It ultimately took six hours and two changes to reach Kings Cross. When I arrived I hit the nearest pub and drained a bottle of Fuller's London Porter as if my life depended on it.

 

London, on a fine day in March

I'm very interested in Spanish wine, though, so the prospect of learning about Utiel-Requena, a little-known region, appealed to me. I have a number of people and businesses to thank for this enthusiasm: my uncle, for introducing me to sherry; Majestic Wine, for sending me to Rioja; Ramón Bilbao, for holding its Spanish Wine Master competition two years ago.

 

Utiel-Requena is inland from Valencia in eastern Spain. Rather incredibly, it turns out that the United Kingdom is the top export market for this D.O.'s wines. In my experience it's rare to find a customer who's heard of Jumilla, let alone Utiel-Requena. As a speaker at the tasting in London pointed out, however, a supermarket here stocks a dirt-cheap wine from the area, which no doubt goes some way to explaining this apparent anomaly. Patricia Álvarez of Coviñas, the biggest cooperative in the region, remarked that many drinkers will be 'unaware' that they are consuming a wine from this part of Spain.

 

It's somewhat more likely that wine drinkers will have heard of the grape Bobal, which accounts for about two thirds of plantings in Utiel-Requena. Still, it's not exactly a household name. Bobal is used to make reds and trendy rosados which have very little colour. The reds might be blended with Tempranillo, Garnacha or French varietals like Merlot, Syrah and Cabernet Sauvignon, but it's often bottled on its own. The classic flavour of Bobal, I was told, is raspberry, and wines made from very old vines can have a liquorice character.

 

Bobal and Cabernet Sauvignon seem like odd bedfellows to me. Its thick skins give Bobal plenty of tannin, and it has a nice streak of acidity and plenty of body as well. Like Cabernet, then, it's not lacking structure, so why blend them? Tempranillo, the Spanish superstar grape, is a more logical partner because of its low acidity, and it has the advantage of being easy to grow. 

 

Given the heat and arid nature of the climate (less than 300mm of rain fell in 2024), it's a little surprising that about a quarter of the wine sold from the D.O. is white. The white grapes in Utiel-Requena benefit from elevation, with vineyards planted between about 650 and 900 metres above sea level. Aromatic whites are made from a grape called Tardana, which is indigenous to the area. Remarkably, it is the last grape to be picked at Coviñas, at the end of October or even in November. It has lovely aromas of tropical fruit and citrus.

 

The principal white grape is Macabeo. Best known for its role in Cava and white Rioja, I discovered that it is originally from the vast area of La Mancha, to the west. As Sébastien Richard of Sierra Norte observed, Macabeo is often considered to be 'quite neutral'. Some skin contact makes a big difference, he continued, resulting in more floral wines. Disappointingly, that's a tasting note I can almost never pick up, unless it's a Gewurztraminer.

 

Curiously, Albariño and Godello have migrated south from Galicia and are present in Utiel-Requena, where they seem thoroughly out of place, at least to me. Apparently, Godello suffers more than its fellow Galician varietal from the lack of rain. Albariño manages to retain its high acidity, which was also true of the Sauvignon Blancs I sampled. Chardonnay is also present, in fact it's the second most prevalent white grape. Needless to say, it's useful in the local Cavas, adding a creamy texture.

 

Utiel-Requena has some things going for it. The wines are good and shockingly cheap, and it's a hotbed of organic viticulture. It may sound laughable, but I think the main challenge it faces is not drought, but its name. Utiel-Requena really is a bit of a mouthful. That said, if Montepulciano can achieve name recognition among Brits, there's hope for this this Spanish D.O. too.

 

The Wines of Washington State

   

          My American stepfather is ninety-three years old. Not surprisingly, he says he has ‘done a lot’ in his lifetime. This includes visiting forty six of the fifty states in the U.S.A., the exceptions being North Dakota (‘boring’), Colorado, and the two states in the Pacific Northwest, Oregon and Washington (‘no reason to go’).

 

          Needless to say, he’s not a wine drinker. Indeed, before I brought up the topic he had no idea that Oregon and Washington even had vineyards. As someone who avoids Pinot Noir, I share his lack of excitement about Oregon. Washington, though, is another matter, which explains why I travelled several hundred miles to attend a tasting in London.

 

          I warmed up for my journey south by drinking several bottles from this unheralded part of America, which I obtained in the Great Wine Co.’s stellar January sale. One was the 2018 Eroica XLC Dry Riesling from Chateau Ste. Michelle, Washington’s leading producer.

 

      The lack of familiarity with Washington hit home when a colleague asked if I knew they grew Riesling there before my purchase. (Yes, I did.) Anyway, the wine was off-dry with a lovely honeyed flavour, an endless finish, and the grape’s trademark crazy acidity.

 

          The vineyards in Washington are planted on a huge swathe of parched land in the east of the state. Rainfall is so low that irrigation from the broad Columbia River is essential. It’s very continental: hot (100 degrees fahrenheit, or about 38 degrees celsius, is common in July) and exceptionally sunny in the summer, but frigid in the long winters. I was told at the London tasting, for example, that in 2022 there was still a foot of snow on the ground in April.

 

        Unusually, Washington is phylloxera-free, owing to the freezing winters and sandy soil, and disease pressure is very low. Still, vintage variation is a real issue. 2011 was so cold that the Cabernet Sauvignon wasn’t harvested until November at l’Ecole No. 41 winery in Walla Walla AVA (American Viticultural Area), which extends across the state line into Oregon.

 

          Two grapes stood out for me at the showcase, Merlot (muh-LOW in American parlance) and Chardonnay. As Ryan Pennington of l’Ecole No. 41 Winery put it, Washington is 'one of the great places in the world to grow Merlot’. The Merlots I tried were indeed outstanding, with a heady aroma of blackcurrants, very soft tannins and ample body.

 

         Horse Heaven Hills AVA, a windy area where the heat is moderated by the Columbia River, is ‘where Merlot kicks ass’, according to a representative of Chateau Ste. Michelle. Throughout the state, the Merlot benefits from the fact that the temperature falls off a cliff when the sun goes down in the summer, helping the grapes to retain acid. In August, the diurnal variation can be as much as 40 degrees fahrenheit.

          Merlot is, I think, superior to Cabernet Sauvignon in Washington, which can be very tannic and austere, at least when young (the oldest vintage I tried was 2020). A lot more Cabernet is present in the vineyards, though, as the sought-after grapes carry a higher price. I can say that Washington Merlot does age very well, for I had Chateau Ste. Michelle's sublime 2016 Canoe Ridge Merlot, from Horse Heaven Hills AVA, before going south. 

 

          Chardonnay, the second most prevalent grape after Cabernet Sauvignon, was the other varietal which really made an impression on me in London. The fruit is grown in cooler AVAs like Yakima Valley and Ancient Lakes (the wine regions in Washington have really evocative names). The latter is both further north than most of the state’s best-known vineyard zones, and the soils have a higher calcium content, making it a good spot for Chardonnay. The ones I sampled had a lovely rich mouthfeel and a delicious pear flavour.

 

          I only had a few wines from Oregon in London, although many were available to try. In my opinion, the most interesting thing about ‘The Beaver State’ is that it’s where D. B. Cooper boarded a plane in 1971. As for the wines, they are expensive and you have to really love Pinot Noir, which occupies about 60 percent of the vineyard area. 

 

          I imagine that, like my stepfather, I will never set foot in Washington. It’s very far away and I’d be reluctant to subject myself once again to the American airport experience (long ago I spent a night of despair in Newark Airport). There’s something about the place that will probably always appeal, though. It’s not just the excellent wines, it’s also the thought of a daily dose of sixteen or seventeen hours of warm sunshine in the summer. When you live in Scotland, that’s not to be sniffed at.

           Published in The Wine Merchant, April 2025. 

The Craze for Japan

 In a glass cabinet inside a magnificent white room in the centre of London there is a book. It was published over a hundred years ago, to mark the 1910 Japan-British Exhibition in the capital, and it's open at pages 22 and 23. I do not exaggerate when I write that, as I read the text on the left hand page, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. 

   Perhaps I'm particularly susceptible to the written word. One of my few treasured possessions is a book by Nikos Kazantzakis called Zorba the Greek, whose last chapter I have defaced with highlighter. I think it might be the greatest thing I've ever read, and when I open the pages, yellow with the passage of two decades, I feel the same sense of shivery excitement I experienced in London. 

   What set me off at The Craze for Japan exhibition was nothing more than a passage about the temples of Kyoto. The names were as familiar to me as household words: Ginkakuji, the Silver Temple, which is in fact not silver but boasts a wonderful garden; Nanzenji, with its viaduct and rock garden; Heian Jingu, famous for its massive orange torii gate. My mind swelled with the memory of sweat-drenched walks around these places. 

   Two temples, however, were unknown to me. One of these, 'Kurodanin', is in the north of the city, I learned, and is notable (at least it was, a hundred years ago) for 'two curiously trained pine trees'. One of these was called 'fan-shaped pine', while the other was known as 'yoroikake-no-matsu', so-named 'because warrior Naodane is said to have hung up'... who knows? For here, the page ended. 

   Reading that single page, and seeing black and white images of Kinkakuji, the Golden Temple, blanketed in snow, and the wooden temple Byodo-in, filled me on a sudden with the urge to return to that great city.  I hadn't been since 2016, which now felt like an eternity! I would go to Kurodanin and discover if one of those pine trees does indeed look like a fan, and find out who Naodane was and what on earth he hung up. 

   Inspiration comes at unexpected moments. In my case, it came courtesy of a free and low-key exhibition which I only learned about because I happened to be in London, and because I have fond memories of Green Park. If you like Japan, I recommend you go too. 

   The Craze for Japan in Victorian and Edwardian Britain is open from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. from Monday to Friday at the Embassy of Japan on Piccadilly. 

Wine tasting

   We walk down a gloomy staircase. It’s the middle of the afternoon and we’re alone, save for a short and youthful man with a designer beard standing behind a huge glass counter stuffed with cheese and charcuterie. I guess he’s French. The tables are wooden and packed close together, like a Parisian bistro.

          ‘We’re just here for drinks. Is that OK?’ I ask him.

          ‘Of course. Take a seat and I will be with you shortly.’ He is French.

          We’re here for wine tasting practice. In hushed tones I explain this to our Gallic server and order an Austrian Gruner Veltliner for my companion. He seems diverted by our little game.

           He brings the glasses over. They have thick rims and have clearly seen better days. My Italian friend shakes her head and remarks that even at home she uses Riedel glasses. And this is the centre of London!

          We set to the tasting. My wine is white and has a vague nose of apples and pears, with a bit of creaminess and not much body. It’s not up to much and I haven’t a clue what it is. My friend grimaces as she takes a sip of her Austrian white. She is likewise baffled.

          I hazard a couple of wild guesses: Chenin Blanc? Gavi? She again shakes her head, looking disappointed with me. Michael…

          It turns out it was a Chardonnay from the Maconnais. We agree it’s mediocre. I am not impressed with myself. I try her wine, expecting the lovely white pepper character that is the tell-tale sign of Gruner Veltliner. It’s not there.

          We move on to reds. Another grimace from my friend has the waiter sniffing the bottle to check it’s not spoiled. We leave feeling chastened: how are we going to pass tomorrow’s tasting exam?