He Who noses wine, Knows Life itself

The sense of smell is well-known as the one that evokes the most emotion, and there are a few scents that never fail to affect me. The salty breeze from the cold Cape ocean, with its hints of mussel shells and seagrass. A dusty Karoo dirt road just receiving the first few drops of a downpour. A dachshund puppy with its moist breath of sweet coffee. Sight may lead to belief, but smell draws forth a complete awareness of the beauty of life.

And with the harvest season now in full swing in the Cape winelands, as I write this, the air in this Boland region, with its unearthly blue hue, is filled with the distinct aroma of dying grapes. The fruit, born in September with the vines’ green shoots, has drawn sap, sugar, and ripeness from the warmth of summer and the earth, and is now harvested. The berries are severed from their stems, and with the death of one, the path to another life begins.

It is here that the birth of wine starts, the sugary sweet juice that flows into tanks and barrels – nowadays, clay and cement as well. Where nature’s wondrous magic devours the sugar to replace it with alcohol, the innocence of cultivated, pampered vines transformed into wine.

The perfume is lovely and magnetic – when my car window is open on the road between Stellenbosch and Wellington, and the wafts of fermenting grape juice flow through the open space, you not only see the enchanting Cape vineyard landscape but also experience it from deep within. As a wine lover, you become aware of a shared soul, between yours and that of the wine.

People who make wine are among my favourites on earth. Not only for the camaraderie and the ever-hospitable nature they share, but because they are, for me, wizards. Wizards with the intuition, ability, and understanding of wine to transform the gifts from the vineyards and the earth into the bottles and glasses of liquid that millions consider one of life’s great blessings.

Now, for winemakers, it may seem routine and straightforward, but there are certain aspects of their work that I as a wine enthusiast find endlessly fascinating. It must always be so, for wine and the work of winemakers should never be regarded as a mere everyday commodity.

There is the matter of skin contact and cap management which is so critical in making red wine. I can sit for days by the open concrete tanks at Kanonkop, watching the mass of dark purplish Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinotage skins lying there, dark and mysterious and brooding, with tiny bubbles of fermenting juice piercing through the crust. Then, every two hours, staff members come with poles attached to a flat plank and push the skins down, replacing the pressed layers with ink-dark juice, and when the skins rise back up, they are glistening wet and sparkle like black stars.

Needless to say, the smell is deep and overwhelming, that sweet fruit and sourly pungent aroma that suddenly rises and hangs in broad, heavy pools in the cellar air. And then you realise this is the process during which red wines come into being. The skins that impart colour to the fermentation, along with tannins, which will let the final wine linger further on the palate. Together with the unfathomable complexities of mouthfeel, palate weight, and structure. That this seemingly simple process of pressing skins through juice can have such a decisive effect on something, this remains a wonder.

Then there is the mystery of the wine barrel. The oak tree that is felled at 180 years of age in the forests of France. Staves are cut from the wood, and the staves lie in the open air for two years, baking in the warm summers and shivering in the icy winter months. The green scents of the wood disappear, and then the staves are crafted by skilled artisans into barrels – beautiful objects with flat tops and pleasing curves.

In the Cape, the barrels are filled with Chardonnay juice, and fermentation occurs behind closed doors in the dark, invisible spaces of French oak. Then, for a year, the young, restless, and eager wine rests in its wooden home. The product of the vineyard and the French oak may initially feel somewhat restless in one another’s company, somewhat rigid. Yet they find each other.

The wood jealously preserves the fresh elegant aromas of citrus, nut, and flower from the Chardonnay – those elements of the terroir that the grapes and the wine convey. And together with this protection, the oak barrel graciously imparts texture to the wine, a depth along with nature’s secrets.

All of this occurs under the watchful eye of the winemaker, and their sensory beings. To appreciate this is nothing less than a privilege, and it is enduring. And we thank you.