AND A DIGRESSION CONCERNING BIODYNAMICS TO FUEL THE DEBATE

Doug Wregg, Les Caves de Pyrene’s eloquent Sales Director, travelled to the North of Italy (after a petit sojourn in the Savoie) a couple of months ago and came back with some truly interesting and entertaining observations about obscure grape varieties (be prepared to meet the likes of Gringet, Mayolet and fumin), local dishes and viticultural practices that go back to age old practices based on experience, the latter which I think is as much a determining factor in the notion of “terroir” as grape, climate and soil.

Not only are we introduced to wines that sound idiosyncratic to say the least, but Doug also devotes some thoughts on biodynamics.
Critical readers may want to accuse me of using this space to promote the wines of this supplier, but while the contents of this travel journal go way beyond the selling of wines, I consider it a true virtue to present and defend Gringet et al and hope Doug’s musings will help turn the spotlights on Italy’s great ampelographic portfolio.

DAY ONE: Haute-Savoie-Valle d’Aosta

Savoie is one of those offbeat wine regions that even many French people only seem to have a vague idea of its location. Viticulture here seems like opportunism and local demand sucks up the thin, often acidic wines without discernment. Amongst the patchwork scattering of scrawny vineyards and tiny wineries there are but a few gems and serendipity alone would lead you to the ramshackle village of Ayze and Domaine Belluard.

The vineyards of Domaine Belluard are situated in Ayze in the Haute-Savoie as Dominique Belluard was at pains to point out when we finally arrived at the winery. They rise to about 450m above sea level and from them you can see the spur of the Alps. Some of the vines are planted on the flat grounds near the winery, others terraced on the steep inclination of the exposed south-facing hills behind – including some on Terre Feu, a red scarred, mineral-rich subsoil composed of glacial sediments and moraines (continuous linear deposits of rock and gravel). The Alpine climate ensures a big temperature difference between day and night, ensuring both physiological maturity in the grapes as well as good acidity.

Dominique Belluard, who enjoys hang-gliding (this would be a novel method of harvesting grapes), has a restless, questing demeanour. Like many vignerons you sense he would rather be walking or puttering off in his tractor than talking. He has long grimy tapering fingers and constantly makes roll-ups one-handed – without looking. Occasionally, only occasionally, a half-smile will crack his features.

We learn about the Gringet grape, that previously it was thought to be Savagnin, the famous grape of Jura, but ampelographical testing suggests that it is, in fact, an older variety. Now the grape has virtually disappeared from Savoie with only Belluard holding any significant quantities: a mere 8ha. Most Gringet goes into the production of sparkling wines which are a local speciality and likely to remain so.

Dominique is a serious proponent of biodynamic viticulture. He speaks all of the time of “balance” with regard to the vine and its environment, the relationship of the plant and the cosmos and that the preparations given to the plant are to enable it to find this balance. When he mentioned the alignment of the planets and telluric forces a few eyes rolled, but I suppose that if you don’t work the land you’re not in tune with the rhythms of nature and all such talk must seem like arrant poppycock. The notion of achieving balance derives from holistic aspect of biodynamics that sets out the idea that all life is trying to achieve internal harmony and that we can create the preconditions for this state by observing and understanding how the natural world (or the world of natural forces and energies) works.

In his not hugely prepossessing paint-flaking winery which seems to be held together by masking tape Dominique expounds on his dislike of oak (“it deadens the flavour”) whilst pouring us some Gringet from the tank. He’s not a fan of stainless steel either, believing that it doesn’t allow the wine to breathe properly. As a result he has installed oval cement betons. All the wines we tasted were fantastically pure, especially the mineral Gringet from the Terre de Feu terroir. No malolactic fermentation here – the fruit is beacon-bright, crystalline and the acidity sings. The wine conveys initial aromas of white flowers and jasmine, is citrus-edged with a hint of white peach, jasmine and violet and a twist of aniseed to finish. The latest Gringet cuvées from the egg-shaped tanks were more emollient and slight more textural as if the lees contact had smoothed some of the stony aggression.

I left thinking that Belluard’s beton was metaphorically half empty. Below in the valley lorries rumble and the pollution festers; meanwhile, in his redoubt on the slopes, Dominique is searching for purity and perfection. His slightly hangdog expression suggests that he is fighting a battle not just against the perennial forces of nature, but against the depredations of Man. Whatever you think about his endeavours or his wine he is the archivist of a nearly-vanished grape variety and should the Gringet ultimately disappeared, well, we are all ultimately diminished by that fact. Uniformity can be endless replicated making individuality all the more precious.

The Mont Blanc tunnel is not for the claustrophobic and it was rather wonderful to eventually shoot out the other side into the soft evening light of the Aosta Valley. We stop at the luxury spa hotel in Prés Saint Didier where we are met by the youthful Gianluca Telloli, winemaker at Cave du Vin Blanc. Down the stairs, get changed, then cavort through numerous rooms of warm waterfalls, sultry steam baths and assorted thermal geysers, then into the blood temperature outdoor pool where we sat on marble shelves each with a glass of sparkling Cave de Vin Blanc (from the Prié Blanc grape) and toasted the resplendently snow-skirted Mont Blanc, its muscular massif locking in the northern horizon. A bubbly mood ensued, lots of splashing and diving, before our second glass of something, a frivolous, effervescent Gamay. As Goethe might quoth as he might quaff: “Wie herrlich leuchtet mir die Natur”.

The Cave de Morgex may be the biggest wheel in town but is in reality a tiny co-operative of many dozen of members some of whom own a mere row or two of vines. The total vineyard area amounts to around 20 hectares, fragmented over many sites. The sheer beauty of these soaring mountain vineyards is made even more arresting by a time-honoured system called pergola bassa, or low pergola, where the vines are trained near the ground in trellised arbours with stone columns surrounded by stone walls. According to La Cave’s winemaker Gianluca Telloli, “The low pergola has been used for centuries here because it protects the vines from wind and heavy snowfall, while allowing them to benefit from heat accumulated in the ground during the daytime.” Yet the low pergola presents many difficulties, too. Harvesters must pick the grapes on their knees and, in some cases, while laying flat on their backs.

The vineyards, famously, are amongst the highest in Europe, with some vines at 1300m above sea level. They are old as well; some of these gnarled veterans have been knocking around for over 100 years. As I gazed towards Mont Blanc fading into the gloaming I thought we were in some kind of wine version of Shangri-La, a womb-like forgotten valley where traditions hold as strong as ever and where amongst the extremes there was a humble approach to growing and winemaking.

Telloli explains that the stone walls surrounding individual plots and the enormous piles of rocks heaped in a seemingly haphazard manner among the terraces have a function beyond aesthetics. “Centuries ago, the peasants realized how important the heat conducting capabilities of the stones were. We’ve kept the ancient stone walls and rocks because they really help retain heat during the cool nights, which is crucial for the grapes’ maturation.”

To that end he took us on a magical mystery diversion in his car haring round the zigzags to the base of a vineyard that sheered into the tenebrous sky. By now it was dark, the first stars were blinking and we staggered uncertainly up the slope marvelling at the stone walls that buttressed the terraces. The vines seemed to be clinging on for dear life; occasionally you could see where the roots had twisted around and poked through gaps in the wall to re-emerge on the surface. This was, we were told, the vineyard of Enfer d’Arvier, an amphitheatre of a couple of hectares, which through a chimney-effect was considerably hotter at the top than the bottom. We were enjoined to place our hands on the stones and feel that they were still warm, mini night storage heaters.

All this alpen-traipsing sharpened the appetite no end and it was a hungry group of travellers indeed that dumped their luggage with alacrity in the hallway of the hotel and thundered into the dining room in the mood for some serious bibbing and tuckering. The coach, after a dizzying drive à la Italian Job, had decanted us at the beautifully reconstructed Inn/Restaurant of “La Clusaz” which stands in the village of Gignod, in the Aosta Valley, just a few miles from the Great St. Bernard Pass.

The Valley of the Great St. Bernard is a fascinating area, of great historical interest, a grandiose natural setting of woodland and countryside that changes with the seasons. In the surrounding villages, characterized by rascards (wooden chalet-style farmhouses) and other historic buildings, time seems magically to have stood still, preserving the area’s ancient rural way of life rumbled only by the bloody pantechnicons that roar perpetually through the valley.

Around 1050, Bernardo di Mentone, vicar general of Aosta diocese, built a hospice at the pass that now bears his name to offer refuge and assistance to pilgrims and travellers. The hospice was run by Augustine monks, who have faithfully continued to perform this task right up to the present day. The hospice has been altered and extended many times over the centuries, but is still a place of peace and prayer for travellers wanting to benefit from its atmosphere of quiet contemplation.

In their work of succouring travellers, the monks had a great ally in the St. Bernard dog, the very symbol of loyalty and faithfulness. A powerfully built animal, hardy and of excellent temperament, the St. Bernard was trained to seek out travellers who had lost their way or been buried in snow as a result of avalanches. Although modern rescue methods are now used, including helicopters, and lighter-built dogs are preferred, the monks continue to raise St. Bernards, following a rigorous breeding programme. The dogs spend the winter at Martigny but are brought up to the pass in the summer months, to the delight of the many tourists who come to see them each year.

This ancient tradition of hospitality in the Valley of the Great St. Bernard is reflected in the history of “La Clusaz”. It is first mentioned in the 12th century and there are documents dating from 1140 which refer to the inn as a place of refuge and refreshment for travellers and pilgrims crossing the Great St. Bernard Pass.

Whilst in the restaurant the food was perhaps primped and prettified, it was nevertheless a fascinating insight into the quality of local ingredients. Behind this labour lies a passion for organic produce and genuine flavours. The perpetuation of traditional production methods over many years has evidently become a time-honoured rite and every dish has its particular story. For example, we were told about the pane di segale, a nuggety hard bread made from the harvest festival loaves that are baked annually. Traditional cooking here means that nothing is wasted.

Observing the philosophy of Slow Food La Clusaz understands that the seasons dictate the pattern of production throughout the year. When the hotel’s pigs are butchered, they produce the salami, dry-cured ham and local black puddings which feature on the traditional menu. La Clusaz also makes its own butter and a number of traditional local cheeses: fontina, the main ingredient in local soups, vapellenentse, cognentse and rebleque, a soft cheese which is also served as a dessert with cinnamon, rum and cane sugar.

The amusette to our feast was a little goat paté, followed by a selection of meats (Prosciutto crudo e salumi). I recall some melt-in-the-mouth lardo and various hams including one made from the udders of a cow (which elicited the predictable “udderly delicious” from one wag). Another course featured a golden yellow quenelle of roughly- milled corn-meal polenta in a pool of melted fontina; and another was a classic of fatty ham-wrapped chestnuts with cabbage (Tortino di castagne, pancetta e lardo con pane de segale). This dish should have been served warm so that the lard could melt into the chestnuts and release the sweet flavours therein – in the end it didn’t fit together. Gran piatto del Maiale con cavolo viola al miele was also about the big pig-ture (sic) and contained – artfully arranged - pancia a cottura confit, cotechino (boiled sausage), costina and the splendidly named Stinco disossato (deboned shank) with some honey-drizzled red cabbage. As the rather elegant plate was put in front of us, Christian, on my left, whose expression had become increasingly glazed throughout the evening – it had been a long day – looked as if he wanted to bury his face in the meat selection and go to sleep. Eric was critical: the dishes weren’t rustic enough, the magic was missing, but I think our collective appetite was more suited to gnashing the flesh off spare ribs and tucking into an earthy stew than playing pat-a-cake with the deconstructed concoctions on our plates.

We drank the Morgex wines throughout the meal beginning with the Estremi made with wild yeast ferment. The 2006 was a mere 11.5% was yellow with pale greenish tints, a citrus-edged nose and an irrepressible minerality. This wine is still writing a Mont Blanc cheque to my taste-buds. I loved it, but then I seem to have a penchant for wines produced by the thimbleful. The Rayon, by contrast, which I had formerly associated in my mind’s palate with all things ethereal and mountain-peaky and gingham-skirted damsels cavorting through alpine meadows (I must stay off the cheap grappa), suddenly seemed less linear and stone-inflected and instead rather ripe and full-bodied with palpable flavours of orchard fruits. At the end of the meal we tried the off-beat Chaude Lune, an eiswein (or vin de glacière) that uses (according to tradition) several different types of wood to act as a conduit for flavour – in this case chestnut, oak, cherry-wood and juniper. Remarkably, one could isolate the various fugitive wood essences. This thoroughly distinctive wine harvested with snow literally clinging to the grapes (the Prié Blanc is a hardy soul) might be described as the classic grain de folie or pour ma guele (for my gob) showcasing the art of the possible in a wine. Commercialism doesn’t come into it; passion and a fierce sense of tradition do.

Finishing the meal with a cheeky grappa before collapsing into bed. Tomorrow morning, two more vineyards in Valle d’Aosta: Cantina di Barro and Les Cretes, run by ahem… the exuberant Costantino Charrère, before driving down to Piedmont and visiting the cellars of Giacomo Borgogno. Finally, to beautiful rolling Asti and the biodynamic vineyards of Vittorio Bera. A long day indeed.

DAY TWO: Valle d’Aosta-Barolo-Asti
What you really want to wake up to is a refreshed blue sky and dazzling mountain vistas. This is the classic shortbread tin box scenery that you could just crunch forever.

Valle d’Aosta, to pinpoint the pinprick on the map, is a tiny autonomous region bordered by France to the west, Switzerland to the north and Piedmont to the south and east. It is divided into 74 communes. The population measuring around 120,000 is swelled in the winter by ski-folk who flock to the resorts and in the summer by hikers and other tourists.

First stop was Andrea and Elvira di Barro’s tiny winery. We stood on the south facing hill of Torrette from which the cru of Torrette is named. The vineyards are between 500m-900m (the Mayolet grape grows at the highest altitude). As usual when you are in Italy or France you receive a short historical lesson about the region. Understanding wine, it seems, is not about simply tasting the product (reductive word!) in the bottle. It starts with the geography, the geology, the peculiarities of the micro-climate, the soil, the sub-soil, the health of the soil, the plant diversity, the insect life, the way the vineyards are laid out, the training and trellising. The people who live in the region and have given their lives to viticulture are an essential part of the dynamic and it is not beyond fancy, when you taste the wines, to experience something of the personality of the growers. Scientists would scoff at these whimsical notions, because all wine flavours to them are about bottled molecular exchange and transformation.

The valley was originally inhabited by Celts and Ligurians before being conquered by the Romans who founded Augusta Praetoria (from which derives the name Aosta) to secure the mountain passes and to fortify the region. After the fall of Rome it was loosely held by a succession of Goths, Lombards, then the Burgundian kings, but was essentially a series of independent fiefs. In the late 12th century Thomas of Savoy granted a charter of liberties that preserved the autonomy, and though this was revoked centuries later that energy towards independence was never far from the surface. It was during the Middle Ages, however, that the wines of the Aosta Valley established a widespread reputation. And they acquired something of a “sacral” character as well because, according to numerous reports, they were used in the rite of exorcism.

Back to the Di Barros. Andrea told us the appellation of Torrette was effectively founded on this hill in 1837 and the wine made always comprised the indigenous grape varieties of Petite Rouge, Gros Rouge, Mayolet and Fumin. Originally, the grapes used to be harvested and left in small boxes for a few days to increase flavour concentration. He explained that this was an area of very little rainfall; add to this the sandy soils and great heat and you have vines which are extremely stressed and resultant natural low yields (30-35hl/ha). No chemicals are used in the vineyard.

Once again the vineyard was composed of numerous minuscule plots. Some plunged straight into the valley towards the Dora Baltea river, others clung to the mountain precariously further up the slopes held in check by stone walls and rock faces. The sun beat down bouncing off the white rocks. According to Andrea the local almond harvest takes place here at the same time as in Sicily; this is essentially a Mediterranean climate with bells on.

For all that people discuss airily extreme viticulture it really reaches its literal and metaphorical peak in Valle d’Aosta. Extreme in the disposition of the vines, a row here a row there, on steep gradients, virtually impossible to tackle with machinery, extreme in the temperature variations and lack of rainfall, extreme(ly) small in the size of the operations and extreme in the cherishing of traditions and local varieties.

We descended to the winery which was surrounded by lilac, cherry-blossom and almond trees. Andrea glanced at the row of tanks. “We don’t do much in here”, he said, “no filtration, a little bit of bentonite for fining and a touch of sulphur at bottling”. We could make about 25,000 bottles, but we would rather accept the low yields and stick around 18,000. A quick calculation suggested he would be earning all of £8,000 per year for his wine (before tax!)

That winery tours could all be so mercifully brief. A tank is a tank is a tank for a’ that.

And so to the tasting. Cantina di Barro only produces red wines and a token sweetie for fun. The wines are lip-smacking.

Petite Rouge 2005 – Bright, limpid red. Cranberry-sharp, bright juicy attack, hint of bitter cherry and raspberry pip, easy medium-length almondy finish.

Mayolet 2005 – (This grape has virtually disappeared off the oenological map.) Lovely ruby red colour, deep cherry, rosehip and blueberry fruits on the nose, appealingly fresh in the mouth with good development, lively finish. Imagine a Fleurie with more grip and personality.

Torrette Superiore, Clos de Chateau Feuillet 2005 – This wine undergoes a short period in old barrels. A traditional blend of Petite Rouge (80%), Gros Rouge, Mayolet and Pr’metta, this wine reveals more complexity. The fruit is reminiscent of wild berries and hedgerow fruits, the aromas are verging towards the gamey, almost meaty and the extra palate-weight lifts it to another dimension.

Fumin 2004 – This unoaked cuvee was specially made for Les Caves de Pyrene. Really distinctive with herby-spicy flavours and a rip-snorting fresh fruit finish. Lovely
Fumin 2005 – A blend of oaked and unoaked wine. Dry woody smell and sawdusty fruit. Disappointing

Torrette Vigni di Torrette 2004 – This wine can reach a blockbusting 15% in certain vintages, but nevertheless has superb balance. This wine is homage to the original Torrette grown on Monte Torrette. Opaque crimson-red, it delivers a rich, unctuous nose of strawberries and liquorice with chunky, meaty notes (seasoned by herbs). This wine exhibits a wild Rhone-like feel. The tannins are powerful, but beautifully integrated, and the wood is a just one part of the whole.

Lo Flapi 2004 – an oddity made from the local Moscato grape which is harvested late (between September and November) with several passes through the vineyard selecting only the ripest grapes. After pressing in December the wine ferments slowly for a year reaching 15% with 55-60 g/l residual. Flapi, by the way, is dialect for “skin shrink”.

The wines, like the Di Barros themselves, are natural, generous and true to the locality. I am reminded that complexity is a false god to admire and that purity or typicity of flavour is achieved with less intervention and less conscious extraction. The greatest wines will inevitably appeal both to our intellect and emotion; otherwise I will always favour the wines that appeal to my emotion, that I feel “on the pulses” over the glitteringly insincere, meretriciously vacuous, carefully constructed, highly wrought wines designed to win competitions and appeal to critics. The wines that attract me most have the quality of gratia placendia, a mouth-watering drinkability that slakes thirst and gets the gastric juices bubbling.

Poets, like painters, thus unskilled to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover every part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art

It was only a ten minute trundle to Les Crêtes, Costantino Charrère’s winery across the valley. If the di Barros were laid-back, Charrère was a one-man oompah band brassily booming for Valle d’Aosta itself in general and his wines in particular. A former ski instructor he hurtled up the slopes in a blur, a windmill of gesticulation. I kept expecting him to say “beep-beep” and disappear in puff of dust like road-runner and although I trotted after him with my notebook like some winded faithful recording angel endeavouring to gather the philosophical pearls as they tumbled from his lips, he always seemed ten steps ahead. One word that cropped up even from a distance was “biodiversity” and certainly there seemed a welter of bug life inhabiting the vineyard. I ended up with my jeans covered in sticky spider-webs from where I had gingerly picked my path between the vines.

We all climbed, at varying pace, the famous Coteau de la Tour, named after the tower that stands sentinel at the top of the first ridge. Whilst elucidating the various training systems of the vines Charrère would throw in a sotto voce observation about Australians (or was it Australia in general?) which had us scrambling in his wake to find out whether he would expound further. Were there an Aussie present you sense he would gorgonize them from head to foot with his proud contumely. Whatever the reason for his unbridled scorn I couldn’t ascertain but many thousands of miles away a bunch of wine-growers couldn’t give a four x.

Charrère reeled off a litany of climatic facts and vineyard practices that determined the nature of his wines: the microclimate (less rain than Sicily), the glacial soils, the completely manual work in the vineyard, the benign neglect (allowing grass to grow between the vines to maintain biodiversity). At one stage during his yomp he exhorted us to lie down between the vines and feel the earth beneath our bodies – like Antaeus. Finally, a true peroration, forza aosta if you like, wherein he fixed each of us with the glittering eye of the Ancient Mariner and let rip politically about the true origins of wine. “Let the territory, the men, the passion, the culture be translated through the grapes into the wine.” “Only here (in Europe) is this understood.” It is interesting how all the growers are defenders of the faith – some more evangelical than others – their objective to capture in their wines some of the essence of the extraordinary Alpine valley. The continuing commercialisation of wine has necessarily created a uniformity of style, a reduction of numbers of grape varieties and a general orientation towards branding. The future, I believe, lies in reacquainting ourselves with “real wines”, seeking out and preserving the unusual, the distinctive and the avowedly individual.

Charrère led us back to the winery (spotlessly clean) for lunch and a tasting of a small selection wines. We enjoyed a local speciality and mainstay of the Valle d’Aostan diet: slow-cooked carbonade made with beef, polenta, sausage, onions, white wine, laurel and juniper. Some of the polenta had stuck to the bottom of the pan and Charrère went among us distributing the crispy burnt bits like so many communion wafers. My travelling companions had seconds, thirds and fourths of the delicious stew.

An impressive tasting featured the following wines:

Chardonnay Frissonnière 2006 – This is an unoaked version (their other Chardonnay is called Cuvée Bois) and what a wine! Green-gold with fine citrus aromas of mandarin, orange zest and lime, excellent acidity ricocheting around the palate keeping the flavours coming, but also a suggestion of smoke and flinty minerality at the end to indicate ageing potential.

Petite Arvine 2006 – A variety seen predominantly in Switzerland, this version sings of meadow-blossom with its fragrant notes of broom and white flowers. Classic palate of apple-skin and grapefruit, medium finish with refreshing acidity.

Fumin 2005 – More colour than the wine tasted at Di Barro. Unfiltered red bursting with purple fruits, peppery spices and vanilla. Excellent structure and lovely balance (only 12.5%)

Coteau de la Tour – Made from 100% Syrah with an opaque purple-red colour this wine from the hot south-facing slopes has a tremendous bouquet of sweet blackberries and rich, smoky-velvety fruit. Superb.

We said our goodbyes and piled on to the bus for a three hour drive to Piedmont.

A Digression Concerning Biodynamics

All the growers in Valle d’Aosta seemed to be practising a form of “biological agriculture” and I’m aware with our forthcoming tasting called “Real Wine” and a recent blogathon in The World of Fine Wine anatomising biodynamics that I had better define my terminology a bit more clearly. The notion of organic viticulture seems to me mainly proscriptive: it tells growers that, in order to achieve certified status, they must not do x,y and z in their vineyards. There is no clear set of guiding principles with organic viticulture and too many bodies with their separate political agendas administering the certification. Biodynamics is more proactive; it is a mixture of intuition, logic, ethics and sustainable farming practice. It is founded on respect for the environment.

Biodynamics is regarded by its most fervent adherents as the saviour of the planet, a spiritual Gaian link with earth, or as hippy-trippy nonsense by so-called scientists and professional sceptics. Most of the arguments have taken Rudolph Steiner’s philosophy and subjected it to the kind of analytical exegesis reserved for Old Testament prophets by fundamentalists. Certainly, he had many far-out ideas that don’t bear much critical scrutiny. The real world, however, is the one where the farmers work and take decisions and not the one where one’s knowledge of life is gleaned through reading scientific journals. (There are more things in heaven and earth etc.) I read post after post on The World of Fine Wine web-blog which seemed to posit an adversarial domaine of the slick dispassionate scientist versus the ignorant peasant who believes in a voodoo religion called biodynamics. The scientist is determined in a typically contrarian pseudo-academic fashion to create a “straw man” of the biodynamic philosophy and thump it to bits. As well as being couched in depressing jargon many of the posts and articles were just intellectually lazy. Science, as Wordsworth would say, murders to dissect; it exists to disprove and what it can’t disprove, it ignores. Science, as we know, derives from the Latin scientia (knowledge) and knowledge exists in many forms and can be reached by many paths (I sound like a Chinese fortune cookie). Not all experiments can be conducted in Petri dishes nor all life reduced to mathematical equations. “The road from methodological reductionism (we study only what we happen to have the appropriate measuring instruments to see) to ontological reductionism (the only things that exist are what we are able to measure) is dangerously short.” (Granstedt, Kumlander, Schiotz, Skaftnesmo)

I did agree with Beverley Blanning’s following observation: “Biodynamics encourages open-mindedness, curiosity, willingness to learn, and an acceptance that there are still elements of nature that go beyond the scope of conventional science. To use the example of the moon, how relevant is it for winemakers to know that the moon’s gravity exerts a force of less than a hundredth of a gram on a human body, when they can clearly see the effects of racking wine at different phases of the moon? André Ostertag is typical in his view when he says: “There are many things in biodynamics I can’t explain, but I believe it because I see the effects. I can’t explain why the preparations have such an impact, but they do—you can see it in one plant against another.” Olivier Humbrecht MW has been convinced by similar personal experiences. He relates how he discovered the importance of ploughing according to the biodynamic calendar. He ploughed one row at the recommended time, and the next a few days later. In the second, the weeds grew back right away. Of course, this has no scientific validity whatsoever. And of course, Humbrecht, an intelligent chap, knows this very well.”

Anything which goes against the scientific grain is quickly labelled as a cult. Although wine growers exchange ideas freely they are not in the thrall to a single governing notion of biodynamics. Didier Barral said: “I am not biodynamic. The earth and the moon existed before I did and will do so after I die”. Luc de Conti who nourishes his vines with herbal tisanes is sceptical about the influence of the moon and the planets. For him it is the health of the soil that is paramount. In a sense they and other organic growers are mainly kicking against the nastier products of scientific research, the same science, which in the name of efficiency and progress has embraced technology for technology’s sake, encouraging the industrialization of farming with the consequent virtual rape of the soil and destruction of natural habitat and biodiversity, which has created the chemicals that pollute the water table, which has weakened the plant’s natural resistance… one could go on. Science has its own quack nostrums and scientists are more than happy to advertise them (until something new supersedes them).

Biodynamics, stripped of all the persiflage, is simply about understanding and helping to create balance in the vineyard using only natural remedies. The ultimate objective of biodynamics is to achieve typicity, the notion being that the ultimate product (in this case wine) should taste of the place that it came from.

Which leads us to real wine. What is real wine? In one sense it is the antithesis or antidote to mass-produced, branded wines and the prevalent pretentious modern style of over-manipulated, over-flavoured, over-acidified, over-harvested, over-filtered and over-oaked wines that seem to dominate the shelves of the supermarkets and high streets.

Real wine, however, is not simply a broad counter-blast; it is set of ideas underpinned by certain strong ethical principles. Although the practices in the vines and the cellars could never be codified in a strict charter, there is a rational attempt to tie together essential common practice. The priorities are: the life of the soil; a search for terroir; selection massale; the attachment to historic grape varieties and the refusal of the increasing trend to plant standard varieties; the use of organic treatments; the search for good vine health through natural balance; the refusal of GMOs; the prudent use of chemical plant treatments; the search for full maturity; manual harvests; the respect for the variability of vintages; the refusal to chaptalize systematically; natural fermentations; a sparing or zero use of SO2; minimum or no filtration; the refusal of standard definition of taste of wines by certain enological or market trends; the possibility of experimenting and questioning different aspects of work; respect of history, of roots…

Various movements such as Slow Food, La Renaissance des Appellations and the Soil Association are pushing the political agenda. Meanwhile, by understanding and promoting typicity and by espousing natural or organic practices in the vineyard, a new wave of growers is creating a sensible foundation for a renewed appellation controllée system, one that rewards richness of diversity and complexity.

I am conscious throughout this debate of the abundance of what politicians describe as terminological inexactitudes. Proponents of Steiner and the biodynamic philosophy use quasi-religious language: they talk about spirit, energy, dynamism, balance and cosmos. Winemakers are engaged in trying to make the best wine they can and the health of the vines determines that path. Many great vignerons have arrived at biodynamics by trial and error; for others it is a tenet of their holistic philosophy. Instead of worrying about the linguistic niceties let’s look at one rather encouraging fact: that a large proportion of the producers making the greatest wines in the world are self-styled biodynamic producers.

Historic Barolo

The three hour drive from Valle d’Aosta can properly be described as dreary. You bowl along through flaccid countryside under smog-ridden skies. The pollution in northern Italy taints everything. We finally arrive and are met by the gregarious Giorgio in his Sheffield Wednesday sweatshirt (!) and stand on one of the highest points looking down at the famous landmarks. It was like examining a map; the terrain was splintered with innumerable vineyards, very like Burgundy. Dario is an admirable guide giving me a potted geography lesson.

Barolo, like Chablis for example, is a tiny village. The Borgogno family has been in residence for nine generations and the estate now comprises some 20 hectares of south facing Nebbiolo disposed amongst the vineyards of Cannubi, Cannubi Boschis, Liste, Brunate e S. Pieter) exclusively from the Barolo district. Bartolomeo Borgogno founded his winery in 1761; upon his death in 1794 his three sons took over control of the business, though only one, the youngest, Giacomo, persevered. When he was little more than a boy, Eugenio Giuseppe, born in 1827, took over from his father and signed a contract to provide wine to a boarding school for the sons of army officers (Esercito Sabaudo di Racconigi) in 1848. This was the first legal document in which the firm is cited, and, it turned out to play a fundamental role in the company’s more recent history, for in 1955, the French Institute of Appellations filed a lawsuit filed seeking to block the further use of the name Borgogno because of its similarity to the French word Bourgogne. Those crazy French. The house was in grave danger, but the case was quashed thanks to Eugenio Giuseppe’s foresight. In 1861 Borgogno Barolo was served at an official banquet presided over by Garibaldi celebrating the unification of Italy. More recently the wine appeared in one of the Godfather movies!

We discovered that they are proud to work organically; no herbicides are used, only natural products. To do this you have to understand the weather, the local conditions and analyse the risks, but ultimately the way to achieve quality and to protect the environment for future generations is to ensure that you don’t pollute the ground with chemicals.

We walked through the capacious cool cellars and marvelled at the enormous old Slavonian botti. We also saw the old vintages stored against the thick walls, the bottles caked with dust. Since the 1950s the winery has made it a policy to keep aside a few thousand bottles of each vintage for collectors and sommeliers. They taste the wines frequently to ensure that they are in good condition and when an order is placed they decant the wine into a fresh bottle very carefully and recork it.

During the tasting we assayed the 2001 Barolo which was showing very well, the 1999 which was out of kilter and the 1961 which was so fresh it pinched your cheeks like a fairy-tale grandmother. It grew even bolder after about ten minutes in the glass. We also tried a Freisa, a pale rosehip scented wine of tongue-tingling acidity – this would be perfect in the summer after a five minute sojourn in an ice bucket – and a Chinato, which if you like that sort of thing is the sort of thing you like.

2001 Barolo Classico
Classic by name and classic in style. Restrained nose of ground spice (cumin, nutmeg) and dried fruits (prunes, figs). Savoury-tarry attack on the palate, grainy tannins, which begin to melt as the wine warms in the glass. The acidity comes into play giving the wine a purer, more linear composition and adding length to the finish. 2010 – 2030

1961 Barolo Riserva
Medium ruby, with a hint of brick at the rim but otherwise showing very little signs of its age. The aromatic nose displays menthol, anise, and delicate, sweet flavours of dried cherries, finishing with tremendous freshness and a seamless, long and fresh finish. The wine is very lively, the grainy tannins giving grip and definition. Now - 2015

I think I’m having a belated love affair with the Nebbiolo grape. The older wines unveil big, gamey aromas, tobacco, tanned leather, fruitcake and vanilla with a whiff of earth and often reveal a palate with savoury raspberry flavours bolstered by fresh acidity and powdered tannins; the younger example have that classic nose of dried rose, tea, tobacco and nutmeg. The wines are pleasingly shot through with contradiction: virile yet feminine, austere yet aromatic, tannic yet fine, powerful yet delicate. Whenever I taste a good Barolo or Barbaresco I have this strange reverie wherein I imagine all wines are comic book heroes and villains from a camp 1960s TV series. Barolo and Barbaresco are Batman and Robin; Bordeaux is the Joker (naturally) and Burgundy is the Riddler. In my dreamy scenario the latter two are having seven bells knocked out of them by the former.

As per usual we were running a couple of hours late and still we still had to reach Canelli in Asti and Bera where Alessandra Bera was awaiting our arrival.

The drive through the Langhe hills reveals a rolling landscape of orchards and almond trees and green fields and copse-clustered slopes. The Bera farm wears its organic credentials proudly. The vineyards are beautiful: 10 hectares in total with five on steep south-facing slopes (these are the Moscato vines). They are verdant with grass and weeds in abundance, fava beans (beanz meanz wines) are sown between the rows as they absorb oxygen and pass it into the soil. Plus they can be consumed with a ham actor and a bottle of good Barolo (not Chianti as the film had it). The soils are limestone-clay and deep and not compact. Alessandra pointed towards her neighbour’s vineyards which looked like a dustbowl in comparison.

You can smell the air here. It is breezy in the hills with refreshing wafts of wild mint from the fields (it grows freely amongst the vines). Alessandra says you can taste it in the wine and I do remember thinking that the Moscato and Barbera had this delicious fresh herbal inflection.

Call that a vineyard (over there); this is a vineyard!

Everything is done painstakingly by hand; the excess foliage is plucked, the fruit selected and placed in small cagettes. Viticulture can be high maintenance.

We had dinner in the winery on a massive oak refectory table. The quality of the produce was exceptional: highlights included thick rounds of squidgy sausage and herbal goat’s cheese, followed by pasta and bean broth of wondrous refined rusticity and an apple pie to go to bed in. This is what I dreamed Italian food would be like – made with enormous care and love for the ingredients.

With the dinner we had the full range of wines from Bera. We have always admired them for their naturalness and authenticity; these are unfiltered wines with native yeasts. The reds, especially the Barberas, seem alive, being rasping, prickly and darting across the tongue. They don’t always taste exactly the same from day to day, but that is part of the charm of being a natural product. I have experienced variance in so many of our best growers’ wines. I can imagine that for some people this might constitute a fault: supermarkets, for example, demand rigorous consistency. To me that is a sterile philosophy. If wine is truly a living thing we must allow for occasional variability. Nevertheless, when you taste, you need to adjust your expectations and try to understand where the wine is coming from. Submitting a wine to analysis is like looking at a human being through a microscope; yes, you can see every flaw in the skin, but such flaws make up who and what we are. We live in a pseudo-scientific culture wherein we dissect so precisely and demand so much that we lose sight of the essential truth: enjoyment! As Ralph Waldo Emerson says: “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

A neat summary of the difference between real wines and branded products.

My comments on Bera’s two Barberas are filched from our wine catalogue (excuse me for quoting myself!)

The unfiltered Barbera “Le Verrane”, fermented in cement tank, is true to type with varietal notes of mulberry, cherry-soda, balsam and mint and faint traces of liquorice on a palate that drives all the way. The wine undergoes its malolactic in the bottle; do not be surprised to get a Lambrusco-style tongue-prickling epiphany. This unpredictable red is a party in glass, vinous space dust. It is frivolously serious with a charming bitter-sour contrariness guaranteed to offend the techno-squeakers, nit-pickers and fault-fetishists. The vivid Ronco Malo is classic Barbera cherry-amour; it brilliantly grips tongue, throat and attention.

The Ronco Malo seems to capture the philosophy of Bera and of Asti in general. I am reminded of an occasion when a wine buyer called me and asked whether we listed a Barbera d’Alba. “Only wines from Asti”, I said (proudly). “Oh”, she said, “not my style – too rustic”. “That’s why I like them”, I replied. The Ronco Malo is intense, but utterly pure, displaying what the French called nerve or tension. It tastes like a terroir wine through-and-through: wild yeastiness crunched together with cherries, earth, stones and herbs and it properly insists on food: that slightly astringent rasp calls for any part of the pig that’s in the pot.

Le Verrane, as the above note implies, is beyond left field. I have previously enjoyed the wine served directly from the fridge where the cool acidity sharpens the morello cherry fruit. It’s the classic charcuterie wine, although I don’t believe in Italy you need an excuse to bring out an array of delicious ham and sausage!

Moscato d’Asti can be drunk either as an aperitif or at the end of the meal. Many Moscatos are slightly sickly cheap confections; the delicious Bera version is from old vines and has a touch of minerality and lovely herbal quality behind the customary orange peel and grapefruit notes. Moscato/Muscat is a guilty pleasure – I can’t analyse a flavour that I like so much. I think the English palate needs to understand that a wine can be enjoyed and admired at the same time!

The hospitality of the Beras was a highlight of our visit to this part of Italy. My one regret is that we arrived late and somewhat exhausted after a rigorous schedule of running around vineyards, tasting and driving. I think I was suffering from botti-fatigue! There were many questions to be asked about the wines and the philosophical values of biodynamics. Next time – I’m sure we will come back soon.

Back on to the coach and a drive to a small town whose name escapes me and fall into a nondescript hotel. Tomorrow is an early start. We have a five hour drive across northern Italy to Trentino to visit Foradori and then right up into the Isarco in the South Tyrol to see the Cantina Valle Isarco.

Day 3 – The Story of Foradori – Up A Mount In the Dolomites – Bed in Bolzano

Five hours even on a comfortable coach is stupefaction guaranteed, but all our ears, eyes and antennae perked up when we slid into the valley linking Trentino wth Alto-Adige. The huge dolomitic rock seems hewn out of the texture of time itself. Compared to other mountains they seem brighter, more shimmeringly colourful, more monumental, and almost architecturally inspired. Formed 200 million years ago out of the primeval ocean, today they reach 3,000 metres into the sky. Déodat de Dolomieu (1750-1801) discovered and defined the unique composition of the stone, giving the mountains their name.

I found this rather sweet flight of poesy on a web-site

Imagine mountains which have the shape of gothic cathedrals, castles in ruins, belfries, immense walls, high towers, steeples and pinnacles, pietrified thunderbolts…
Mountains made of rocks which change their colour as the day goes on: sunrise, morning, noon, sunset, evening, night… they could be white like the snow, yellow like the sun, grey like the clouds, pink like a rose, black like a burnt wood, red like the blood…
Which is the colour of the Dolomites? Is it white? yellow? grey? pearly? Is it the colour of the ash? Is it the reflex of silver? Is it the paleness of the dead? Is it the shade of the roses? Are they rocks or clouds? Are they real or are they a dream?

Campo Rotaliano, for that is where we are, comprising the contiguous towns of Mezzolombardo and Mezzocorona, has seen tribes and rulers come and go – Rhaeto-Etruscan settlers, the Romans, Celts, Longobards, Franks, Tyroleans, Austrians, Bavarians and Italians. Whether conquerors or settlers, traders or mercenaries, all have left their mark at this crossroads where valleys, rivers and mountain ranges converge and diverge.

This region also offers the opportunity of discovering a grape variety that has been cultivated for centuries in a context rich in contrasts and history. Always exceptional, Teroldego has for long been considered a grape of unique character giving wines with “the body and robustness of a Bordeaux”, being “somewhat rougher” and possessing “strong varietal attributes” and “a little acidity”. These are words used to describe it by a 19th-century wine connoisseur. The Teroldego grape is medium-sized and deep in colour. Its vigorous vines need rigorous pruning. Depending on the year and the weather, the grapes ripen relatively early.

The first written document in which Teroldego is mentioned by name is dated 1383, when one Nicolò da Povo undertook to give a certain Agnes, who lent him money, a ‘tun’ (around 250 gallons) of Teroldego by way of interest. Between the 14th and 17th centuries, Teroldego was grown between Campo Rotaliano and Rovereto. It is spoken of in 16th-century Mezzolombardo when it gained a foothold in Campo Rotaliano. Elsewhere its use has waned.

We are met in the blindingly light courtyard by Titiana, export manager of Foradori who pours us a cooling glass of Myrto, a white wine.

The Foradori vineyards, she explains, lie mainly on alluvial soils from the Noce river and are a mix of stone and sand. Elisabetta is certainly the doyenne of the Teroldego and has done a selection massale to create fifteen biotypes which are the qualitative backbone of her wines. The vineyards are harvested separately and vinified separately, and, after eighteen months of ageing the final blends are made.

Recently, Foradori have started converting the vineyards to biodynamic viticulture, working according to the Maria Thun calendar and creating composts to allow the vine to receive more energy from the sun, as well as cutting the roots near the surface, thereby encouraging the plant to push deeper in search of water and mineral nourishment.

Foradori make two wines: the eponymous Foradori and Granato. The former is distinctive for the purity of fruit and the elegant weave of acidity whilst the Granato a wine of greater strength, harmony, depth and nobility. Deep, almost shy on the first nose, it reveals itself as the aromas come into focus: wild berries and candied fruit make way for roasted hazelnuts, baked bread, leather, eucalyptus and pomegranate (from which it derives its name), then the full robust palate shows plenty of temptingly chewy flesh.

I asked Jancis Robinson recently whether she believed that a wine could be feminine or express that quality. The resultant sceptical pshaw! fairly rocked the room. However, the Foradori operation exemplifies a smiling gracefulness and a cool efficiency that I associate with that word. Firstly, it is entirely manned (!) by women – don’t you love the felicities of language – bar one seemingly lobotomised bloke who drove round in circles on a tractor. The cellar is neat yet characterful; you could eat off the floor. The whole winery exudes elegance. Elisabetta herself is forthcoming, charming, passionate and precise and, at the risk of being anthropomorphic, her wines demonstrate similar qualities.

After a brief tasting or “Degustazione” of various vintages of Foradori and Teroldego and special bottlings of the biodynamic vineyard we strolled through the delightful town of Mezzolombardo to Per Bacco a sweet restaurant located in some former stables. I guess you would describe it as refined rusticity with fresh seasonal ingredients imaginatively presented. I can’t remember what I had to eat, but I do recall oohs and ahs and an atmosphere of smiling satisfaction. We repaired to the sun-baked courtyard for an espresso and a gentle bask – all was definitely right with the world and getting righter!

Time’s winged charioteer, however, was brandishing his ticking Swiss watch so it was all aboard the mystery bus to our next destination – the co-operative of Valle Isarco. More quaffable scenery on the way, a veritable granite manifesto of lowering blocks of stone which resembled giant teeth. On arrival at the very modern winery we were led up the hill by the director of the co-op to get the full panoramic.

South Tyrol is regarded as one of the oldest-established wine-growing countries in the German language area. In the climatically sheltered countryside grapevines found excellent conditions thousands of years ago. The wine-growing tradition in the Eisacktal valley goes back to 500 BC. In the Middle Ages poets and minnesingers such as Walther von der Vogelweide and Oswald von Wolkenstein apparently praised the wine from Klausen and Brixen in their poems and songs. If you’re ever seeking credibility for the wines of your region, find a historically-misty local minstrel or two to give an endorsement, or, failing that, namecheck Pliny The Elder for the hell of it.

The Eisacktal wines were predominantly cellared in small wineries and by autonomous vintners. The actual upswing of wine-growing in Eisacktal occurred with the founding of the Eisacktal Kellerei Klausen EKK in 1961. The first headquarters were housed in the old Reinthalerhof in Klausen, until 1978, when the management decided to move to the present building.

The climate and countryside lend the Eisacktal wines their unique and distinctive character. Vines flourish at altitudes of 800-900 metres on the sun-drenched slopes (known locally as Leitn) of the Eisacktal valley and white grapes ripen particularly well due to the reddish-brown nutrient-rich soils, the aforementioned sunshine and the even distribution of precipitation.

The grape varieties have a Germanic flavour: Sylvaner, Kerner, Muller-Thurgau as well as some Italian sounding staples (Pinot Bianco or Weissburgunder) and Pinot Grigio (called Rülander). How I wish we could convert all Pinot Grigio labels on bottles to an indecipherable gothic script with the word “Rülander” blazoned on them. I’d like to see those who default/wimp out on a bottle of PG - aka flaccid grape water - curling their tongues around a few Teutonic consonants. Fancy a bottle of Rülander, meine kleine Strüdelchen? Genauso, meines liebchen. Or words to that effect.

But I digress.

Back amongst the vines under the beating sun. It is very important to breathe the air of the vineyards, to pick up the rocks in your hands and touch the vines. For all that winemaking is biology and chemistry what goes in the vineyard is very much about human judgement, which itself is a mixture of observation, intuition and guesswork. Humans have roots too, those who have lived and worked in a region for some length of time become part of the landscape. The true vigneron works with both his heart and his head.

We stopped at a lovely church with an ochre-hued spire that gazed over the valley. The graves were interesting; they were tiny little gardens of colourful mixed flowers and each stone had a miniature photograph as a memorial to the one who was buried. The fantastic view revealed vineyards dotted around the hillsides in small pockets in forest clearings, a testament to biodiversity. An attractive picture slightly tainted again by the sight and sound of lorries thundering through the valley.

We descended back to the winery passing by massive houses (many of them holiday “cottages”) for a tasting in the co-op’s sleek wine bar. Herewith my notes. Their brevity is due to the fact that plates of charcuterie appeared in my vicinity at the same time as an attack of munchies. Expect my wurst, so to speak.

Südtirol Eisacktaler Sylvaner DOC 2006
This variety was introduced into South Tyrol around 1900. It favours high altitudes and well ventilated vineyards. Fresh apple-skin nose, surprisingly vinous on the palate with stony apricot fruit and well balanced finish.

Südtirol Eisacktaler Müller Thurgau DOC 2006
This grape variety is a cross between Rheinriesling and Gutedel (otherwise known as Chasselas) and named after its cultivator, Prof. Hermann Müller from Thurgau, Switzerland. Müller Thurgau has been synonymous with the cheap sugary dreck (scheisswein) that came out of Germany in the mid 70s and 80s, but this was no muller-lite wine rather an absolute beaut. The nose is floral, suggestive of muscat and nutmeg, the palate aromatic, fresh and grapefruity. The vines, which grow at nearly 900m, are all hand-harvested. A surprise hit.

Südtirol Eisacktaler Veltliner DOC 2006
Gruner is the terminally trendy grape variety of Austria but this is a peculiarity of the Südtirol, a blend of 75% Grüner Veltliner, 25% Frühröter Veltliner. The latter is being phased out in favour of the more noble former variety. A very dry white with intense minerality.

Südtirol Eisacktaler Gewürztraminer DOC 2006
Originating from the wine village of Tramin in South Tyrol, the grape has spread to wine-growing places all over the world. The Gewürztraminer vine prefers hilly terrain in cooler sites, which have to be sunny and well ventilated. The sunny slopes exposed to the south as well as its limestone soil make the Eisacktal valley a superb vine-growing area. This example is totally unconfected: at its most excessive wine made from Gewurz can smell like Yardley’s lavender talc and taste of tinned lychees in syrup. This wine combines power, delicacy and spice; it is dry, flavoursome and substantial.

Südtirol Eisacktaler Kerner DOC 2006
The Kerner grape is a hybrid, a disease-resistant cross between Riesling and the red grape Trollinger (also known as Schiava Gentile or Edelvernatsch). This example is simply extraordinary with aromas of green apples, melons and cream, before a soft curtain of delicious acidity opens into a full-bodied white wine full of peaches and apples and citrus fruits; the tell-tale distinctions of Riesling are backed by the strong mineral and nutty textures of cool-climate Italian whites. This rich, complex wine can tame most dishes; we had it back in England with pot-roasted partridge with spinach and an array of root veg.

We left the trim co-op, impressed with the wines and bemoaning the fact that they made so little of them. The good things in life are always rationed; that’s what makes them good in the first place.

A quarter of an hour later we were at our hotel on the outskirts of Bolzano. An airy building with sweeping views up and down the valley it was a charming contrast to the dingy place we stayed the previous night. I was impatient to get to my room, open the door, throw open the window, stride onto the balcony and look all the way across… to the houses just opposite. I guess this is karma; on previous wine trips I have tended to draw the favourable bedchamber, most notably in a hotel in the village of Banyuls-sur-Mer in the Roussillon when my colleague virtually had to make do with a cupboard in a corridor whereas I was given a vast room with a balcony overlooking a shingle beach and went to sleep lulled by the susurrus of the Mediterranean.

After a shower met the rest of the gang in front of the hotel and we piled into cabs to go to Bolzano and dinner. The centre of Bolzano is a typical Italian town; there is an exceptional amount of flaning or boulevardiering, a stately parade of people ostentatiously sauntering for the sake of sauntering. They are there because they are there, because towns need their people to occupy the space therein and the inhabitants equally are proud of their towns and cities and want to enjoy them, because the night is always young, because you can order a beer or a glass of wine and drink it over the course of an hour, because it is the most natural thing in the world to sit outside in the middle of the night nursing an espresso chattering animatedly. Maybe that’s the difference, in that when you go into a pub or bar in this country as often as not you will be deafened by music or pinned against the wall by the sheer crush of humanity rushing to the bar to buy another round. In Italy slow drinking is the norm; I can’t recall seeing anyone slugging the booze, whilst on the streets even a late hour families were taking the air, women pushing buggies, men accoutred as if they were about to flaunt themselves on some nocturnal catwalk.

After a couple of beers in a micro-brewery bar we went to an adjacent restaurant that had plainly sacrificed its soul to tourism. I have to admit that the very thought of Italian food gets me slavering to such an extent I’m practically sitting in a pool of drool, but this was not cuisine of the land – it was cuisine of the bland. The menu was lengthy with a wide selection of antipasti, pasta dishes and mainly meat main courses. We ordered a bruschetta, some mixed fish and another dishes. Christian had warned us off the fish and, when it arrived, I could see why: a smear of what resembled defrosted smoked salmon, a couple of limp anchovies and an amorphous denatured grey something-or-other. I passed. The bruschetta was soggy and lacking flavour. This was unforgivable; you come to Italy to eat country bread anointed with the best garlic and rubbed with the sweet tomatoes to the sound of heavenly hosts trumpeting their approval, not to be confronted with something you’d be embarrassed to serve at home – to yourself. The pasta (about a million tiny ravioli) was mediocre. I was thankful I hadn’t ordered what looked like rice pudding, but was a really badly cooked risotto mush. My main was a not quite gruesome-but-plenty-of-chewsome hunk of venison with some assorted veg. The garnish for every single dish was a camp-looking half of cherry tomato which reminded me of the former English vogue for sticking a sprig or bunch of withered curly parsley on every dish regardless of its merits. To see an unripe cherry tomato astride of lump of venison or mingling in the ravioli is to witness a sad juxtaposition.

We left the restaurant and poked our heads into a few bars but they were all closing so it was back to the hotel where I discovered that I had locked the key in my bedroom. Apparently it’s in my genetic programming to do these things.

DAY 4 – Up and Down In the Adige – Blauburgunder Himmel – A Vertical of Pinot Bianco – Let Down in Verona

First stop was Georg Ramoser’s Untermosenhof winery. A huge unkempt hound met us; his intentions were friendly despite a notice on the door of the winery which announced that he was hungry and likely to devour unwary strangers. Georg led us up the hill towards the Sankt Magdalener church which gives its name to the wine made from the Schiava grape. The vineyards (mostly organic) were spectacular, carpeted with poppies, lush with grass with the vines trained in the old pergola fashion. From our vantage point we had the most amazing views, but not as amazing as the cable car that traversed from one side of the mountains to the other. At our feet was Bolzano, behind us a massive ridge covered in forest and vines, to the north the snow capped Dolomites and all around us a sea of wild green foliage. We discovered more almond trees which had shed their bounty on the path and whilst Georg was talking some of us were cracking nuts with rocks. Yes, we were really that hard up for a mid morning snack. Adrian, who last year had had a mildly allergic attack when he had tucked into a bowl of nuts, discovered by trial and subsequent error on this occasion that almonds were his nemesis.

The generous pergola vines seem so much more real than the stunted twigs that are trained up wires. Most of the growers in the region have abandoned them in favour of more modern trellising systems, but their extensive canopies offer shade and respite from the battering sun. As Andrew Marvell wrote: “Annihilating all that’s made/To green thoughts/In a green shade.”

Back at the winery we sat down at two large refectory tables and tasted the small range of wines that Ramoser makes. By this time we had been joined by the winemaker from Tenuta Falkenstein (or Frankenstein as we predictably called the winery). Falkenstein means falcon’s rock by the way.

Untermosenhof Sankt Magdalener Klassisch (or Santa Maddalena) 2005
Blend of 97% Schiava and 3% Lagrein.
Schiava or Trollinger originated in the South Tyrol. It probably reached the southern regions of Germany during Roman times. The variety is first mentioned under that name in fourteenth century documents, for example, Martin Luther drank it according to a report of the papal legate Alexander around 1520. Not sure whether any meistersingers have written deathless folk songs about it. During Mussolini’s time, a commission was appointed to judge the country’s best wines and, in 1941, they placed Santa Maddalena in the front rank alongside Barolo and Barbaresco. Considering the high esteem that the latter two wines generally enjoy, and the relative obscurity of Santa Maddalena today, this represents a jarring change in taste. Schiava is a relatively pale-skinned and its high acidity gives the Sankt Magdalener a biting bitter cherry freshness. This would be fun served chilled with a plate of chunky blood sausage.

Lagrein is an altogether bigger beast although it can be produced in a lighter style and make aromatic rosés.

Thanks to artisanal producers like Hofstätter and Georg Ramoser, I’m even becoming masochistically fond of Lagrein, the idiosyncratic indigenous red grape that looks as dark as Petite Sirah in the glass and tastes kind of like bitter zinfandel. Ask for it if you want to impress your wine store owner or your sommelier.

Jay McInerney

Untermosenhof Lagrein 2005
Leather and tobacco on the nose, plum-cake, dark red cherries and bitter chocolate on the finish

Untermosenhof Lagrein Riserva 2004
This style is known as Lagrein Dunkel or Scuro (i.e. dark Lagrein). Dark red, extractive bitter flavours of coffee, plumskin and toasty oak, lashings of pepper and dried spice, abundance of tannin. More impressive than charming.

After lunch it was off to Mazzon on the other side of the valley to meet Bruno Gottardi who carted us up the narrow, winding mountain road in relays to his winery. We were captivated by his palatial residence perched above the vineyards like an eyrie and surrounded by exotic, scent-laden blossom trees (some of which were planted during Napoleon’s era). Pinot Nero, (Pinot Noir) locally known as Blauburgunder, is Gottardi’s passion and the micro-climate in the part of the Adige valley assists the cultivation of that temperamental variety with cool dry air cascading off Lake Garda and funnelling through the mountains before rising. The breezes keep the moisture off the vines which also means that fewer treatments are needed in the vineyard. For these reasons this small zone has acquired the sobriquet “Blauburgunder-Himmel”. Gottardi reminds us that we are on the same latitude as the Cote d’Or and one can certainly see where he draws his inspiration.

The aim is to capture the delicacy, perfume and heady essence of Pinot and to this end Gottardi looks for minimal extraction in the vinification. The beautifully designed winery works on gravity-fed principles. Pressing is pneumatic, gentle and even, so as not to acquire any bitterness or derive colour for the sake of colour.

As usual only thimblefuls of wine are made and everything is on allocation. The straight Blauburgunder is exhilarating, bursting with wild strawberry and rhubarb fruit rounded off with a savoury mint-and-liquorice finish. This is limpid primary Pinot, gratification aplenty, lively, balanced and extremely tasty. How often does Pinot Noir let us down (he asks rhetorically)? As often as not. It enchants us, it infuriates us; its evanescent musky charms seduce us, its stewed or weedy fruit let us down.

The Gottardi Riserva wines with their extra maturity and secondary aromatics were beginning to ease towards notes of leather, truffle and raspberry leaf, but in their lightness of style (and colour) and gentle expressiveness they reminded me of a good Chambolle-Musigny.

I liked the estate and the man himself. Gottardi, born in Austria, is himself a wine merchant with shops in Vienna and Innsbruck. He speaks elegant English in a clipped Germanic way. From what I’ve tasted in the past and what I tasted today these are easily the best Italian Pinots around (I haven’t tasted Hofstätter though).

There comes a point on any wine trip that a mixture of fatigue and sheer over-exposure to wine means that one naturally becomes less than receptive to the blandishments of the grower. I call it “Oh-no-not-another-steel-vat-syndrome”. This hit me when we reached our final destination of Weingut Niklas above Lake Kaltern at the foot of the Mendel mountain range. We were taken on a swift tour of the vineyards which were oddly chaotic, a mixture of trellising systems and with crazed chickens running amok between the vines and all sorts of rubbish and farm detritus scattered hither and thither: from empty paint tins and shards of timber to abandoned corncobs.

Niklas is a winery that makes all sorts of odds and sods but we were mainly there to taste three wines: a Schiava made in the style of a rosé, a Lagrein on the fruit and a run of five vintages of Pinot Bianco.

The Schiava was pleasant enough but slightly confected. Eric was disappointed as he had tasted the wine previously with the winemaker and they had agreed to create a wine in a certain style. The Lagrein was fine: more elegant and less extractive than the equivalent wines from Ramoser.

The Pinot Bianco vertical was interesting. It is not a grape variety that ever expresses a great deal, tending toward the “waxy apple-and-pear” idiom without the compensation of driving acidity or elegant minerality. These examples ranged from 2002 to 2006. The oldest wine was outstanding with smoky, mushroom fruit bolted together by a steely core. It reminded me of very fine Chablis. The ’06 showed potential: at the present the wine is unremittingly dry and granny smith tart with residual carbon dioxide, but once it calms down and settles in the bottle it should fatten and develop a creamier texture. A lot of tasting, particularly tank or cask samples, involves using one’s imagination to see how the coarse raw material will evolve when time and/or winemaking techniques have modified it. Sometimes you taste the wine from the tank – it is cloudy and unrefined and yet so unmediated and of itself that you hope that these flavours will never be obfuscated or made over. Why wear loads of make up when you have a clear complexion?

And that was that. We said our goodbyes, packed our bones onto the coach and headed south to Verona.

It was time to reflect tranquilly on the past few days. When visiting a wine region one suspends judgement to a certain extent. The congeniality and enthusiasm of the growers, being smothered in snuffly doggy embrace by the invariable winery mutts, being plied with gorgeous salamis and cheeses at the pop of the cork, all add to the sense of place, and what places we visited! The meringue-shaped Alps and the monolithic slabby Dolomites, vineyards scarped and etched from forest and rock…

Yet when I return home I am compelled to look at wine in a different way and consider the relationship between the product and the consumer. Part of my job is to translate effectively the vision of the grower; to start from the bottle and go back to the beginning. VS Naipaul had an expression: the naming of things, meaning that once you could give something a name, you would begin to understand it. Wine is just liquid in a bottle, the end of a long story and that story deserves to be told; how else will the wine truly come to life? It begs the question: is wine purely a technical process or is it the accumulation and aggregation of innumerable corroborative details (some more important than others) such as the personality of the grower, the food of the region, the local fauna and flora, the local culture, the festivals and the history of the region? When you discover, for instance, that a grower works a vineyard in a certain fashion as a testament to vineyard practices centuries ago you have a further piece of the jigsaw. I am fascinated by the fuzzy truth in such matters; understanding and appreciating wine is not an exact science and I hope it never will be.

Northern Italy will never produce large commercial volumes of wine. Its strength is wonderful diversity - innumerable grape varieties, myriad micro-climates – allied to a strong cultural identity. For those who seek new taste sensations this region is very rewarding – worth the visit and if you can’t do that, the wines act as a perfect vehicle for imaginative transportation.