It is green country, the green of long grass, wild brush and, in season, the verdant foliage of old oak trees and expansive vineyards upon which all kinds of grapes ripen to make the wines of Bairrada in Portugal. There are pigs here too, and when the pigs have given birth to the little pigs, energetic farmers ferry the piglets to the nearby village of Mealhada, where – once killed – the small pigs are lovingly roasted to a golden crisp and served with a sauce made from wine and garlic, and white pepper. It is very good.

This is the region where the Palacio Buçaco is found, a former palace and a lavish design of rural gothic that now serves as a hotel. And since 1917, wine has been made at the palace, only two wines, of which one is red and one is white.

I have visited this piece of Portuguese country, and it is indeed fine. North-east of Lisbon, it nears the mountains of the east but is still influenced by the Atlantic Ocean on the west, making this place of Bairrada cold and wet, and because it is very wet, it is very green. Especially when the sky is blue and sunny, then it looks greener still, and the pigs appear very white as they nurse their little piglets among the green grass waiting for the pig-farmers to arrive to take the small critters to the house of animal killing.

It is a place that is imprinted on memory, and once all the fine things of Portugal are imprinted on memory, there is not much room for anything else, because it is as good and as fine a part of the world as any. Especially, when it is green and the sky is blue, and you walk up the gravel path and your feet crunch on the small stones as you present yourself to the Palacio Buçaco to drink the wine.

Of all the wine of Buçaco and of Portugal, and of most of the world, it is the white wine from Buçaco that I love so very much, and will continue to do so. As it is imprinted on memory, ensuring that I can never forget it. Which I do not do, as when nights are long and I hear the mountain springs of Bairrada and see the green, all that green, I taste the white wine of Buçaco, for which I long.

The wine is made at the Palacio, and from three grape varieties originating from two regions, both which – incidentally – are green.

Bical and Maria Gomes grapes grow on the vines in the Bairrada region, with its deep mushy clay soils and hard chunks of rock. These two grapes are used to compose the Buçaco white, along with another grape called Encruzado. This variety, which reflects the layered fruit complexity of Chardonnay, grows well in the region of Dão, which neighbours Bairrada, yet is country of a lesser green and fewer pigs, but with good stony, rocky soils, fine for viticulture.

And it is this Encruzado from Dão that is taken to the Palace, where it is blended with Maria Gomes and Bical to make the Buçaco white wine. The juice is fermented and then it flows to new barrels of French oak, where it ages beneath the palace in a space that is dark and cool, until the wine is ready for bottling.

The bottle, clear glass, has worn the same label since 1920, each vintage simply specified with a coin-shaped white sticker.

Since my first engagement with this wine, I can state that it is a superb white wine, one to be appreciated with a feeling of being blessed to have the opportunity to taste and drink it. It is a blessing I felt recently when accessing the Buçaco from the 2017 vintage, an eight-year-old wine of magnificence and stature, beautiful and pristine in its current form, but a wine that will age to greater heights over the next two decades.

The beauty lies in the wine’s completeness, its delivering of everything a lover of white wine can wish for. Like a Chet Baker trumpet-solo, a Sydney Sweeny advertisement or a Michelangelo carving from Carrara marble, everything is in synch, in place and tuning-fork precise.

Smell it, and there is green and wet rock and heavy ocean fog slowly reaching landfall. It is crisp, and salty and smells like the crack of dawn on a fine autumn day.

Heavenly as the aroma is, the taste does not disappoint. A tang of clean steel and sharp lemon – characters of the Bica grape – ensures the wine enters the palate with an honest vigour, sustaining the other features throughout the experience of drinking. Maria Gomes brings a confident presence with dollops of loquat, persimmon peel and a sliver of salted guava.

And then, on the mouth, the Encruzado arrives bringing sun and warmth, precocious with nuts and Key Lime and, interesting this, a perfumed taint of ultra virgin olive oil.

All these tastes are cloaked in a regal, monumental presence making for an accurate, sublime expression of white wine bearing memories of time and place, of a broad green country and its sound of rocks and gravel, all older than us, which – like the memory of Buçaco – will be things of foreverness.  

Cider may be made from apples, but not all ciders are created equal. Traditional cider in countries such as England, France, Australia, and even parts of South Africa is made by fermenting pure apple juice, usually bottled with natural sparkle. Just as wine must come from grapes, cider has always been seen as an apple-driven drink.

Unlike wine, however, cider is not tightly regulated. In many countries, ciders are produced with only a fraction of real apple juice, diluted with other fruit juices or sugar syrups.

South Africa has quietly become one of the world’s largest cider producers over the past three decades, largely thanks to the success of Savanna and Hunters, both owned by Heineken Beverages. Savanna, launched in 1996, is today the world’s biggest cider brand. Heineken now produces around three million hectolitres of cider annually.

Local law requires South African cider to contain at least 80% apple juice. This rule means a significant volume of apples – about 280 000 tons per year, or 30% of the national crop – is pressed into juice and concentrate, much of it for Heineken. Most comes from the Elgin and Ceres regions, although the company also imports concentrate from China.

But this supply chain may be under pressure. Heineken is preparing to approach the Department of Agriculture with a proposal to reduce the minimum apple content in South African cider from 80% to 60%.

Such a move would have two major consequences: it would cut a vital market for apple growers, and it could damage cider’s image as a genuinely apple-based drink.

That image is central to Heineken’s marketing. Savanna is sold as being “made from crushed apples from the fertile Elgin Valley” and “rooted deep in the orchards.” Lowering the apple content risks undermining that story – and hurting farmers in the process.

Anton Rabe, head of fruit industry body Hortgro, says the proposal makes little sense.
“We really don’t understand Heineken’s reasoning,” he says. “From the perspective of the apple industry, it’s a no-brainer – reducing apple content will harm the integrity of cider as well as the livelihoods of growers. We will oppose any attempt to lower the percentage. In fact, there’s a strong case to increase it – in Australia and New Zealand, cider is 100% apple.”

Rabe believes the real motive is cost-cutting by replacing fruit with cheaper sugar syrups such as maize syrup, and by reducing reliance on imported concentrate. Hortgro plans to model and quantify the potential impact before responding formally. “The last thing we need is instability, job losses, and reduced investor confidence,” he warns.

South African apple concentrate exports to the US are already under pressure, with the Trump administration having imposed a 30% tariff. “If cider content is diluted at the same time, it would be a double blow for the apple industry,” Rabe says.

Heineken, however, says it is simply reviewing regulatory proposals. Johan van Zyl, supply chain director at Heineken Beverages, says: “This process is about understanding the implications and contributing meaningfully to public consultations. Updating technical standards and legislation is part of normal regulatory development, and we welcome the chance to participate.”

Van Zyl adds that Heineken is exploring ways to align with industry developments to allow more flexibility for growth and innovation in the cider sector. The company remains committed to sourcing apples locally wherever possible: “For the South African market alone, we produce more than three million hectolitres of cider. The success of our brands is built on locally sourced apples, making us proud contributors to the country’s agricultural economy and a true local success story.”

For now, the debate remains unresolved. On one side, farmers and industry bodies warn against weakening cider’s apple core; on the other, Heineken argues for regulatory flexibility. Ultimately, consumers may have the final say – and those who love their cider will hope the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

(Translated from Afrikaans, as published in Die Burger newspaper.)

The world of wine writing and wine-speak is filled with much gobbly-gook, much of which would make a Cyril Ramaphosa address to the Disenfranchised Nguni Farmers Veterans Association sound positively scintillating. But I’d rate the vapid, meaningless nature of the feedback sessions from judges who have just judged a specific wine competition as right at the top, slightly behind the copiously worded essays on suggested food and wine pairings.

The occurrence is thus: there is a wine competition where wines are assessed by a panel of experts. Scores are given, debating is done. And somewhere on the horizon lies an awards function or ceremony where the winning wines and their makers are handed trophies, gongs and pats on the back. Which is all good and well.

However, between said judging of the wines and the announcing of the results, PRs and the organisers of these celebratory vinous events deem it relevant to communicate the “judges’ findings and impressions” on the reams of wines that were subjected to the panels’ judicious and acute sensorial faculties.

This is tricky terrain for the respective judges to navigate, as judging is unsighted. Meaning judges don’t know which parcels of earth the wines that were judged originated from. They have not a clue as to the vinous techniques involved. And in many instances, not even the vintages are divulged before their skill is unleashed on the rows of liquid-bearing glasses before them.

Yet, due to the organisers’ wish for gravitas and communication air-time, opinions have to be delivered in the form of a communique sent out onto the world which is, hopefully, struggling to contain its excitement in discovering the results of said competition.

Thus, the meaningless commentary comes in when press releases and social media posts are sent out into the world.

“Judges were impressed by the extraordinary display of quality and nuance in this year’s line-up, a lot of accurate fruit forwardness being present, with the right degree of intuitive restraint assisting winemakers in maximising optimal ripeness to a degree of unconvoluted clarity and charm.”

“Overall, wines of deep and meaningful complexity underscoring the fact that the cultivar and its makers are both in a good space, and were right to enter the competition, and they should continue doing so next year. Lees contact and rigorous commitment to cellar hygiene has delivered extraordinary results in pursuing wines presenting flavour, structure and finesse in an overall display of excellence.”

“Judging this line-up shows winemakers are definitely understanding the grape variety better than ever, thus employing thoughtful cellar-techniques to honour their terroir, which is the key to winemaking relevance, something producers not only understand, but show true commitment to, something that can only bold well for the future and when they enter next year.”

(To be repeated when asked to comment after next year’s judging.)

The gushing generalised diatribes of these “judges’ findings” always causes one to wonder how on earth there are to be winners, lesser winners and losers by the time the results roll around. It is akin to announcing to the world that Cape Town is a city exclusively inhabited by warm-hearted, generous and embracing people, and then having to discover two mates were mugged while hiking on Table Mountain.

I mean, what would one truly expect the judges to say when prodded for comment by the organisers in search of publicity and desire to increase the number of entrants for the next year?

“Yes, some nice wines, but Christ, there were some so full of alcohol and over-ripeness I needed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after the first flight.”

“Obviously, some wines are created more equal than others, and man, it sure showed in the line-up. Unlike the pay-cheque for judging, it was all pretty inconsistent.”

The Trophy Wine Show at least has its judges facing the audience of journalists and winemakers in person, which generally leads to greater detail from the assembled panel, as well as allowing the audience to raise questions should vacuous comments and answers arise.

Generally, though, judges feedback PR puff is something competitions can do without. Jump straight to results, as this is all that counts.

The last time I saw Chas Beebe was when we said goodbye after a day’s fishing for barramundi on the Fitzroy River in Queensland, Australia. She had been my fishing-guide for the session, advising and watching and chirping as I fly-casted into the wide river’s slow runs, and being somewhat surprised as this Saffer hooked and landed seven barramundi on the day, including two lunkers of over 18kgs apiece.

What impressed Chase even more, was when – as we packed up – I produced a bottle of De Wetshof Finesse Chardonnay from the ice-box. “Thought you were more of a beer bloke,” she said, “but fill me a dollop will you, wine’s my thing.”

We sipped cold Cape Chardonnay next to the river, which the setting sun had turned the colour of a sliced yellow peach, and the calls of some tropical birds rang through the silence, and the air began so smell of wet wood and mango and dry clay.

When I saw Chas this time, she was wearing an Australian rugby jersey and sitting in the Nelson’s Eye steak-house in Cape Town and lamenting the loss her home-team had suffered – just – at the hands of the Springboks.

Despite it being winter in Australia, too, Chas’s face and hands were nut-brown from the sun, her green eyes sparkling and her teeth as white as polar ice-caps. This being winter in the Cape, a fierce one, we were not going to do any fishing, but were going to get together around some beef and some wine.

Meeting her in Australia, Chas had spoken about Queensland beef in revered tones, and I told her back in South Africa we were also keen on dead cow, cooked fired-wise. Before our hook-up she’d done some wine tours, loving the Stellenbosch Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinotage and Cabernet Franc, as well as some Chardonnays that were sipped out Paul Clüver way in Elgin. Unfortunately, other commitments kept me from joining her, so here we were in the steakhouse, talking fishing and rugby, just general catching-up on life and things.

Australians do this kind of thing well, like South Africans being able to open-up about the general happenings of life with persons one scarcely knows.

However, I did not expect things to get so emotional, and so soon. And it was over a bottle of wine.

Chas, having ascertained that the Nelson’s Eye permitted the bringing of one’s own wine “unlike most of the wanker snooty joints in Brisbane” (her words), sat down in one of the restaurant’s booths donning a cream-leather bottle-bag. I’d forgotten about the bottle bag as we talked and drank cold beers, and she thumbed her phone to show me recent catches she’d made back home. Huge fish in her wrinkled hands. From the Fitzroy, as well as a few hefty game species she’d whacked on trips to the Queensland coast, off Cairns.

It was when we ordered the steaks that Chas removed the bottle from the leather holder and placed it on the table. A Grange. Penfolds Grange. Vintage 2005.

“Guiding fishermen pays well, it seems,” I said.

“Or just hook-up with a bloke who leaves bots like this lying around after he’s gone-up and left you,” she said with a peculiar sad look in her eyes.

A cork-screw was procured from the waitress and, without much fanfare, Chas opened the Grange. The cork slid out with a sensual sigh.

I have always been enchanted by the Grange, the enchantment increasing over the years to the limited opportunities of getting a mouthfeel. So, sitting here in the Nelson’s Eye steakhouse in Cape Town, with the prospect of partaking in at least a half-bottle of the stuff was, truly, surreal.

This wine had its first commercial release in 1952 and was a result of legendary Penfolds winemaker Max Schubert wishing to create an Australian wine to the grand, statuesque nature of the Bordeaux First Growths. This despite the fact that the best grapes Schubert had to work with were Barossa Valley Shiraz, with a few kernels of Cabernet Sauvignon.

Well, he did it and 73 years on, Grange is one of the world’s great red wines. Usually over 90% Shiraz, with a dose of Cabernet. And the gap between Grange and its Bordeaux inspirers gets wider when one considers that its aging is done in new American oak barrels. For 18 months.

Chas insisted on handling the pouring, and as it cascaded into the glass, Grange made its presence known. I swear I could hear an elegant roar as it splashed into the drinking vessel. The restaurant’s interior soft light made the wine’s colour appear like the blood spilling from the neck of a black-hearted dragon.

Aroma, this was transcendental. The wine wielded a perfume of deep forests scented by lilies and fallen autumnal fruit, with a slight hint of cured beef. One smells the world in all its deliciousness.

Chas was already two sips deep into her glass by the time I tasted mine, stating that the wine “was a bit of alright”. If I was going to get my half-bottle of Grange, it was time to go in.

The attack on the palate is immediate and rich, a chunk of sap-laded overripe Georgian plum. This leads to a more complex rumbling of things on the mid-palate: dried wild strawberries laced with oak-aged soya sauce; slivers of eland biltong and cooled Guatemala coffee; crunchy and seedy figs that had dried and drawn nectar, and earthly scents under a bright Mediterranean sun; a cedar Havana cigar box that had been immersed in vintage Port, leaving it soaked to a degree of pleasurable wetness.

Flavours were cloaked in layers of ripped silk, allowing a subtly perspiring fleshiness to add to the wine’s allure. The finish was unending in its dogged persistence, wishing one to interrupt it to say, yes, we know this about you, Grange, you are a truly incredible wine and this shall be known forever.

Embrace it or detest it, but one reality can’t be ignored: the entire approach to wine must be disrupted if the industry is to in future stand on a solid commercial footing. Anyone with even slight interest in the noble fermented juice of the vineyard knows that worldwide wine consumption is decreasing.

This isn’t due to overproduction or tariff nightmares caused by Donald Trump. It’s not about challenging sustainable farming methods, glass bottles considered too heavy, or the rise in the number of abstainers. It is about how consumers and potential consumers see wine as something that can satisfy their craving for the type of pleasure a drink can offer.

One issue with wine is temperature, particularly with red wine. What other beverage has a “rule” that it must be consumed at room temperature? Alcoholic drinks that compete with wine and have eroded the wine market in recent decades are enjoyed cold – not cool, but cold. Beers and ciders, ready-to-drink cocktails, hard seltzers, G&Ts, and a multitude of cocktails are all served at temperatures that could freeze the balls off a polar bear.

Even the most aged whiskies and cognacs are more often than not enjoyed with an ice cube or two in the glass. You don’t need to be a future predictor or an MBA PhD to realise that the global market for cold drinks far outnumbers that for room-temperature, piss tepid red wine. Yet, red wine producers make little effort to change this status quo and remain attached to the convention that red wine should be consumed at a temperature the new generations of consumer find bland, leaving drinkers’ wanting of it as lukewarm as the wine in their half-drunk glass of Shiraz.

Good red wine can certainly be marketed as providing the same pleasure when enjoyed at a cool 13°C to 15°C as for conventional drinkers at around 18°C to 20°C. If the wine isn’t refreshing enough, consumers should be encouraged to add an ice cube or two without the fear of being slowly pelted to death with moth-balls or wet dentures.

Promoting a more flexible approach to enjoying red wine can transform the wine industry’s image into a modern entity that connects with younger consumers. It’s about pushing boundaries. Dare to do it with wine.

White wine is typically served cool, but that isn’t enough to compete with its aforementioned rivals. Adding ice is more accepted today, though producers rarely encourage the adding of ice to a glass of Sauvignon Blanc or Chardonnay. More than chill, however, is needed to make wine more enticing: enhancing wine’s flavour poses a challenge.

For purists who see terroir, vintage, and origin as defining a wine’s identity, altering the product’s taste by adding something else is a nightmare. Yet, they must understand that wine’s future is determined by an eager new unconventional market, and the existing rules must be broken.

On a warm day, I prefer a half-glass of Sauvignon Blanc mixed with sparkling water and some ice cubes over a beer. This drink, a spritzer, should be part of the wine future. As should the delightful Sangria, the Spanish refreshment with red wine, sparkling water, slices of orange and apple, and a splash of brandy. Despite these enhancements, Sangria still tastes like wine, just in a delicious, moreish disguise.

This imaginative approach to wine is, thankfully, gradually gaining traction. I was pleased to see KWV promoting their Cathedral Cellar wines with wine cocktails, and Leopard’s Leap is innovating with Chardonnay Margaritas and Merlot Milkshakes. It’s an exploratory phase, but doors are opening to the realisation that wine’s future will look drastically different from its past.

Those deeply invested in the industry must embrace this new direction, as it’s the only way to make disruption work for you.

(Translated from the Afrikaans version, as published in Wineland Magazine.)