Magic of Cape Sauvignon Blanc Origins through the ‘Weerstasie’ Clone

Commercially, South African Sauvignon Blanc began with a couple of vine-cuttings from a block in Stellenbosch, out by the Nietvoorbij Institute. Research centre, like. Early 1970s.

Danie de Wet, better-known for Chardonnay, was visiting his old chum. This be the Hungarian count Desiderius Pongrácz who had hot-footed it from the homeland on account of some trouble with the Russians, setting himself up quite nicely as one of the Cape’s main viticulture honchos.

De Wet was looking to add lustre and classic wine of the premium kind to the Cape, which back then was basically a gigantic wine factory making all kinds of innocuous stuff from, predominantly, Chenin Blanc, Palomino and Cinsaut. And he wanted white wine, the likes of Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc that, back then, had not yet been bottled in South Africa.

Desiderius Pongrácz

Pongrácz handed De Wet some contraband cuttings from Nietvoorbij’s experimental, research vineyards, the plant-stuff comprising Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc. Back on De Wetshof in Robertson, the Chardonnay didn’t cut it, material being fraught with mediocrity. But the purloined Sauvignon Blanc, another story. Like wow. Great vines, good vino.

And the source of that material became known as the weerstasie (weather station) clone, seeing as the Nietvoorbij experimental Sauvignon Blanc vineyard happened to be situated next to a weather station. For monitoring those somewhat important climatic conditions wine farmers might find interesting.

De Wetshof Sauvignon Blanc hit it in 1980, three years after the first Cape Sauvignon Blanc was made in 1977 at Verdun farm, today known as Asara outside Stellenbosch.

But man, did Sauvignon Blanc South Africa take-off after De Wet began propagating and forwarding this weerstasie clone. In 1981, some 409ha of the stuff was planted at the Cape. By 1985, over 2 200ha had found its way to various parcels of local wineland turf, 1 800ha of planting done in four years being quite frenetic and keen in any one’s lingo. For, Sauvignon Blanc was coming a thing down south, although back then the folks could hardly have predicted it becoming the country’s best-sold white variety, a situation it’s been in for quite a while now.

Circle back to 1985. I was donning a George Michael earring and tossing projectiles at apartheid police, while my mate Francois Botha was planting a vineyard. Out on his family spread named Wangenheim in the Breedekloof. It was a Sauvignon Blanc vineyard, the original weerstasie clone. Planting this for Du Toitskloof Wines, the winery his old man Hennie had helped establish in 1962. The Bothas, they thought big and they thought ahead. Check out today where Du Toitskloof is major Tom on the South African Sauvignon Blanc scene.

Du Toitskloof Old Vine Sauvignon Blanc. Weerstasie clone.

So, the scene today has changed. Lotsa different Sauvignon Blanc clones around, what with winemakers getting all the wiser, travelling the world and stuff. But the original weerstasie clone…man does it still cut it. As affirmed ‘positive’ by the Old Vine Sauvignon Blanc from said Du Toitskloof, made from – better believe it – the very 2.8ha block Francois had planted in 1985, and what the guy still be farming today. Like a rock.

The old weerstasie block is rooted to those sandy loam soils, alluvial to the max, with a gritty spread of river stones and broken rock. Irrigation only been done for the past 10 years, as the old lady needs moisturising-up, at veraison and just before harvest.

Gotta hand it to the folk at Du Toitskloof for getting a wine specifically made from this single vineyard. Shows the legacy, the story of Cape Sauvignon Blanc through the weerstasie clone. Shows that a frigid maritime climate not be needed to make primo Sauvignon Blanc wine in South Africa. Shows that, like the land’s Chardonnay and Chenin Blanc and Sémillon offerings, Sauvignon Blanc is right up there in the stratospheric spectrum of ultimate quality.

Harvest comes, the grapes are handled reductive, full-on, with dry-ice. In the winery, 24 hours’ skin-contact allows the juice to draw, deeply, taste and feel and that invigorating, expressive Sauvignon Blanc heart. Fermented in barrel and aged in wood on lees for 100 days.

I drank the first bottle with such keen wonder, I’ve just opened the second to try to tell a story about how the experience is nailed. Kind of not necessary, as it is the sort of wine deserves speaking for itself.

But what I’m gathering, is that the Sauvignon Blanc green, cut-grass pyrazine attributes have been overpowered. As be the case with those tropical, beach-thong clad thiols.

It’s texture first, coaxing and caressing with a presence longer than an eulogy by a bunch of pot-smoking hippies at a Kris Kristofferson memorial. This is a Sauvignon Blanc that wants you to love it, and has you not wanting to let go.

Plenty of honey-suckle here, with a scoop of Key Lime pie, though any tendency to the overtly sweet is washed off by a gush of mountain stream and cracked rock. A slight, coy nuttiness has found its way into the wine, somehow, as has a slice of cool golden melon. Sun-dried, pear as well. A touch of salt-lick blends into all this, making things sort-of umami, only that term dit not exist when the weerstasie clone was born and began spreading the gospel of Cape Sauvignon Blanc to legions of those thinking that white wine deserves a special place on earth.

Well, this legacy number from Du Toitskloof hits that spot. Weathering no storm, sailing ahead into territory charted and true, where amazement and awe await, yet expectations exceeded. Now that’s a wonderful world.

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Back to Brandy

A litany of youthful indiscretions resulted in my decade-long aversion to brandy which, fortunately, over time rose gently like the mists from a broad, cool river and dissipated until all was clear again. The memories of nights filled with debauchery fuelled by many a tall glass of Klipdrift brandy mixed with Coke in a one-to-three ratio, and the gut-strumming nausea of those painfully hung-over mornings, are buried in the past, like scribbly teenage love-letters and the questionable fashion tastes of a forgotten youth.

Today I adore brandy, albeit the poetic refined spirits of Cognac, the robust, earthy yearnings from Armagnac or the treacly dense Gran Soleras distilled in Jerez. It is, all, the pure spirit from wine, bearing the essence, the heart of the grape held in an angelically handed cusp.

The history of South African brandy is as rich and colourful as the country’s wine legacy, beginning with the raw offerings first distilled in the Cape in 1672 for numbing the minds of locals, disinfecting flesh wounds caused by disharmonious daggers and curing evil rashes accrued during wonton sexual activity. From the 19th century the brandy became smoother, barrel-aged and soul elevating and tasty, distilled from the Chenin Blanc and Sémillon vineyards the pioneering farmers patched around the winelands, like verdant throws of freshly dyed silk rugs.

Brandy distillation and aging became the work of craftsmen blessed with fastidious sensorial faculties, and just like the Cape grew into a realm of good and great and distinctive wines, so too it developed into a part of the world where fine, excellent brandy is made.

Sydney Back from the Backsberg Estate in Simondium was one of the early pioneers of South African estate brandies, a sector that came into being in 1990 after the dropping of legislative restrictions allowed him, and his pursuers of further refinement in the country’s brandy offering, to do so. Produce the spirit from grapes growing on an estate. To milder alcohol levels, down to 38%.

Back imported a glorious russet alembic still from Cognac, using the sharp, low-alcohol base wine made from his mountainous Chenin Blanc vines for distilling a brandy of character, heart and singular beauty.

Although Back has passed and the original Backsberg wines and brandies are no longer in their original place, having been transposed to Franschhoek under the guidance of liquor company DGB, the song of Sydney Back brandy remains the same, as elegant and heart-felt, as charming and engaging as ever.

I was recently gifted a bottle of Sydney Back 10 yr old Potstill Brandy by local brandy expert and lover Winnie Bowman CWM, and although the bottle’s level is falling, I am partaking of a snort each and every night. And when the bottle dies, it will be replaced, oh yes it shall.

The colour is of old gold and a long, slow sunset upon a land where desert meets the ocean, the thick sea air causing the rays to bleed as the sun’s light sighs in its ending the day, and meeting the night. On the nose, the spirit offers a scent that is both fierce and seductive, alerting the senses in a manner that is precocious and vivid, lined with nuts, marzipan and a whiff of saddle-leather freshly coated with dubbin. It is the perfume of anticipation, prelude to an encounter that only promises pleasure.

And this comes with the taste, where the liquid rolls through the keenly awaiting lips, tumbling into the mouth and dancing on the senses with flavours both vigorous in their prying and gloriously satisfying in their offering of a broad, all-encompassing decadent warmth.

Dried Turkish apricot with a touch of cut sultana raisin lead the fruit symphony, a charmingly bright aspect, one elevating the deeper, mysterious allure of mocha, black chocolate and burnt orange-rind. There is, too, a whisper of dry hay laying on stripped wheat-field baking in the sun, as well as a slight hotness of smouldering fynbos edged on by the warm tug from a dry, coarse north-easterly berg wine.

The senses open to these flavours and tastes, seduced into doing so by the strike of the spirit that is, as ever, the backbone of the liquor that is brandy. For it is power and presence, force and might that anchor a fine brandy to the heart and body, now ensuring the memories are nothing but an endless delight.

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A Stellenbosch Cabernet Problem

Any organisation purporting to be a successful collective striving towards a shared objective should surely be as open and inclusive as possible in order to ensure a successful path to said objective. So, to put it bluntly, why is the Stellenbosch Cabernet Collective so short-sighted?

The goal of this organisation is important and warrants its existence. Cabernet Sauvignon is the world’s best-known red wine variety, the premium offerings from Bordeaux, Napa, Australia and Chile, commanding attention and excellent price-points, as well as helping bolster these nations’ respective images as top-tier wine countries. South Africa, and specifically the Stellenbosch appellation, has proven itself more then worthy of inclusion on this list of countries with a plethora of Cabernet Sauvignon producers committed to excellence with the variety, and having the track-record to back it all up.

Thus the formation of the Stellenbosch Cabernet Collective, introducing itself as “a collective of Stellenbosch producers, curating the expression of Stellenbosch through Cabernet Sauvignon, joined together in sharing passion, discovery and knowledge. Together we are Stellenbosch Cabernet.”

And the list of 36 members is impressive, as can be found here.

Perusing the list, however, followers of Cabernet Sauvignon wines will note a few famous marques not being present. Tokara, surely one of the New World’s best Cabernet Sauvignon crafters, did not make the cut, nor is it on the bench. Likewise, Rustenberg, which deserves a spot purely on grounds of what this estate has historically done for the reputation of Stellenbosch Cabernet Sauvignon as a whole.

Boekenhoutskloof has performed major things with it its Stellenbosch Cabernet Sauvignon label, and as one of the country’s leading brands would bolster the current Collective line-up. And let’s not forget about Leeu Passant.

I mean, what wine organisation would not like to see Andrea Mullineux, Leeu Passant partner and winemaker, on its membership list? DGB,’s Boschendal has done a smart turn with Stellenbosch Cabernet Sauvignon, too, yet does crack the nod – despite the international gravitas and support somebody of the stature of DGB chairman Tim Hutchinson would bring to the party.

The reason for these and other Cabernet Sauvignon stalwarts – let’s not forget about David Finlayson – not being included in Stellenbosch Cabernet, is that they are not members of the Stellenbosch Wine Routes. Just that.

Now, I have a tremendous tender spot for Stellenbosch Wine Routes. In fact, it got me into the wine game as I assisted then-chairman Johann Krige draft the constitution for a new Stellenbosch Wine Routes 24 years back.

And guess why a new constitution was needed? Because the wards and members of Stellenbosch Wine Routes had become too disparate and independent, and it was deemed necessary to restructure the organisation. So as to be more inclusive and welcoming and open to all wineries making Wine of Origin Stellenbosch product. Because the more united the membership of WO Stellenbosch, the better for brand Stellenbosch.

This is hugely ironic. Stellenbosch Cabernet Collective was started by a team of able wine minds, a blend of old and new showing innovation and vision in providing a platform for the showcasing of the great Cabernet Sauvignon wines made from vineyards set in South Africa’s best-known wine region. Yet, by forgetting the very reason for the existence of Stellenbosch Wine Routes – namely inclusivity among producers making WO Stellenbosch – the organisation has cut of its stem to spite its berries.

It is all so very logical that the pedantic reasoning for excluding certain producers, namely because they are not members of a wine routes organisation, makes me wonder if the South African wine industry will ever get out of its divide-and-rule mindset and obsession with structural limitations.  The logic is: if you make fine Cabernet Sauvignon from grapes originating from Stellenbosch and bottle it as such, one is eligible to be a part of an organisation calling itself a Stellenbosch Collective themed around Cabernet.

As we say in my mother-tongue: Finis en klaar, en hou op om so donners kleinlik te wees.

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The Day of the Jackal’s Muscadel Affliction

During a recent visit to Cape Town from some grape farmers from the Northern Cape, I was treated to this story involving the power of Muscadel wine. Names and places have been changed to protect those involved.

Malan Dreyer was at his wits’ end – more so than any other farmer in the Northern Cape district of Onseepkans. But this time, it wasn’t because of land reform, shortened credit terms from the co-op, or his wife’s insistence on a pricey 35th-anniversary trip to Thailand.

No, Malan’s trouble came down to a jackal. Or as it is called in these parts of the world, a “jakkals”.

Since Easter, the jackal had developed a taste for the sheep on Kiewietlaagte, although fiercely religious as he was, Malan could not be convinced that the jackal’s fondness for the lambs of Onseepkans had a link to Christianity. For it had been a massacre: Over thirty ewes and three times as many lambs had been killed from April to June, so much so that Malan’s only farm-related insight for 2024 thus far was how many lamb carcasses could fit onto the back of a Toyota Hi-Lux bakkie. And there’s nothing like desperation to make a man believe in strange ideas, and Malan had tried everything to catch that jackal.

He hired the professional hunter from Springbok with his camo gear and oversized ears. This over-talkative burly young man had set up a stainless-steel trap baited with smoked mutton. He would spend nights in the veld hoping to entice the jackal with shrill haunting jackal calls played from a CD player. Nothing worked. The jackal wouldn’t show.

Then Briek Stegmann mentioned the muscadel.

Malan had been at the winery in Upington, buying his wife’s sweet rosé – profoundly cheaper than a holiday in Thailand – when Briek overheard him mention the jackal problem to a fellow-customer, a saddle-horse breeder from Kanoneiland.

“A jackal’s love for muscadel is enough to turn it into a vegetarian,” Briek, the wine salesman, said. “A male jackal would take a glass of sweet muscadel over the tenderest lamb any day.” Malan looked at the wine salesman who had an honest and stern and knowing look in his eyes, the kind of look a man like Malan had learnt as that of someone who drank deep from the pools of concern and honesty and brotherhood. The look that evoked trust.

Lifting the box of rosé, Malan asked for two bottles of red muscadel. This was on a whim – if the jackal plan did not work out, he could always make good use of the sweet wine while sitting on the stoep and staring across the veld, trying to figure out what might really lure that jackal, while his wife paged across her phone looking at pictures of Thailand.

The morning Malan found 12 dead lambs on the far side of the concrete dam, he wasn’t even shocked anymore. The jackal’s trail of destruction had not just worn him down – it had now left him numb.

How long before he realised that numbness was far worse than despair; despair was at least a reaction towards something one cared about. Numbness was the evil of not-caring anymore. It was the worst. He had to get out of it.

That’s how Malan found himself in the veld that night, on the flat hill overlooking the pasture, a spread of land of the remaining winter dry grass growing between the sharp rocks. The moon was full, and fifty paces ahead sat an enamel soup bowl, filled with a generous splash of red muscadel Malan had poured.

Malan stroked the stock of his .243 rifle and lifted it, sighting the bowl through the scope. There was just enough light to make out the bowl clearly. If that jackal – or any creature – came near the bowl, there’d be one shot, and it’d be the death shot.

Everyone from Onseepkans to Grootdrink knew: Malan Dreyer never missed. He felt a swell of pride as he sat there, thinking about this reputation he had earned. But what would people say if they knew Malan the Sharpshooter was sitting in the middle of the night, waiting for a jackal to drink wine? There would surely be strange looks, some of the taunt, and some of the concern, and both of the humour.

He was still thinking that, gazing up at the stars, when… well, a cold gust of wind raked his back and woke him.

How long had he slept?

An hour, his watch showed. He wiped his eyes, switched on the big hunting torch pointed in the direction of the enamel bowl and looked through the scope.

No way.

Malan stood, stretched his stiff back, and walked over to the bowl. It was lying flipped over and obviously empty.

“Must’ve been one of the ewes,” Malan thought, muttering under his breath – cursing the jackal, the dead sheep, Briek’s nonsense about the vermin-attracting powers of muscadel, and his wife’s obsession with Bangkok.

But a desperate man’s mind turns stubborn. The next night, Malan was back on the hill. The bowl, fifty paces out again, was this time three-quarters full of the fragrant sweet wine.

So fragrant with the scent of sweet grapes that Malan took a deep swig from the bottle before sitting against a flat rock, rifle at his side. The moon was brighter, fuller than last night and there were no clouds, and he could clearly make out the bowl. Anything that came near it would be within his sights. He’d raise the rifle, line up the target, and – well, he was Malan the Sharpshooter.

When he woke this time, the wind was strangely warm. The moon had crossed the sky, and the night was dark and real and true, and held no lies. Getting to his feet, Malan didn’t even stretch, just quickly walked over to the bowl. It was flipped over again. Probably one of the springboks this time – he could see them grazing by the windpomp.

He sighed and packed up and ticked off another fruitless attempt at getting the jackal, not even wanting to consider what other crazy methods of vermin eradication were left for him, but knowing – at the back of his mind – that he was going to be having to consider another one soon. The sheep were disappearing, and they were disappearing fast.

The next night, Malan slept in his own bed, luxuriating in the comforting embrace of the soft mattress which he had missed so much in those two nights spent in the veld. It was all so warm and soft that he fell asleep before he could say goodnight to his wife in the guest room.

He woke rested, even though it was still pitch dark outside. The clock read 4:12.

As he climbed out of bed, reaching for his robe, he heard it: a faint clinking sound from the back porch. Something tapping, something scraping. The grating of metal against concrete.

Malan pulled his robe over his shoulders and felt his way toward the back door, the scrapping metallic sound growing sharper in his ears.

Just as he neared the door, the noise stopped. He flung the unlocked door open, greeted by moonlight and a warm wind from the east.

And to this day, no one knows who was more shocked – Malan Dreyer, or the male jackal standing there, enamel bowl in its mouth, waiting for the sweet taste of muscadel it had come to love over the past two nights.

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Cape Winemakers Guild Reflections

The Cape Winemakers Guild (CWG) were in town to pour members’ wines selected for this year’s Auction in October. It was all magnificence, but the following wines left fond memories.

Bartho Eksteen Wine Estate Vloekskoot Sauvignon Blanc – Wooded 2020

If fynbos could grow beneath the icy waves of the Atlantic Ocean there would be an earthly reference for this wine. For it is alive, a rush, wet and wild and awash with just about each and every Sauvignon Blanc flavour that has been noted in the annals of wine writing. Gooseberry gasps, before a lush run of grenadilla goops across the page, the thiol-notes hitting brittle clips of freshly cut Buffalo grass. On the mid-palate the wine flows and here comes winter fynbos on soaked soils, the earth drying out under an unseasonal sun to reveal stony, salty notes. A totally awesome Sauvignon Blanc, and truly South African in the assured, confident ease it displays a side of this variety most mortals and vineyard sites can only aspire to.

David Finlayson Wines “Naja Nivea” Chardonnay 2023

The regal, cultured chimes of the Chardonnay tune ring calm and true in a thoroughbred wine made by a jockey who knows a thing or two about the white beast of Burgundy. A delicate, fragile and waif-like entrance on the palate, more a peak than an attack, opens to whispers and the delighted chuckling of children that have found something wonderous. Fragrant white flowers buckle in an unseasonal warm breeze as touches of densely skinned Cape lemon move forward to lead one onto a path of taste and sensation. Heated oatmeal laced with heather honey coats the palate without hindering the purity and freshness of citrus and cut pear, with a slow, ponderous finish creating dreams that best be put inside a pocket for cherishing at another time.

Delaire Graff Estate Banghoek Cabernet Sauvignon 2021

Spilt blood lies on a warm spread of shale, and the smell of fresh tar adds to the intoxicating aroma of this brilliant Cabernet Sauvignon. A miniscule sip commands the entire palate with a swashbuckling, randy presence requiring another mouthful to ascertain the generous abundance of this wine’s gifts. Black-currants the size of golf-balls find their way onto the flavour profile, as does Turkish dried fig and a generous sprinkle of Provençal herbs dried under a sexy Mediterranean sun. On the finish the wine kisses a last goodbye with that delectable string of liquorice before disappearing in a splash of salt-like, rose-petal and raspberry cordial. Tannins are rippling with toned muscles to ensure that structure matches flavour in perfect Cabernet Sauvignon harmony.

Kershaw Wines Ziggurat Chardonnay 2023

Like the fist-fighting abilities of Steve McQueen, this Chardonnay is a model of aggressive refinement, its potential for creating violence only suppressed by an overpowering femininity. The bracing grip of citrus, sea-spray and crushed coral is brought to more land-bound environs by slithers, chunks and rips of Edenesque fruit. Green melon, iced and perked with lime-juice. Sappy kumquat and the peel of an underripe fig. Finely grated mace has immersed itself in the fruit, and there is a golden mound of dry hay rustling in an easy breeze coming in from a glacier lake. But the wine does not find easy resting in the mouth, the flavours cut and run, boundless and free, making every mouthful an event, the timeless combination of nature and he who corrals the vineyard.   

Lismore Estate Vineyards The Sheltering Sky Syrah 2022

Its perfume is of the kind that makes a bishop want to kick a hole in a stained-glass window, the texture in the mouth luxurious and as svelte as a room-temperature oyster fed to you by a geisha girl on the first day of the Tokyo cherry blossoms. Once the lavender and musk and Zanzibar cardamom which the nose offers calms down, the wine teases the mouth with long runs of Yangshao silk flavoured by the juices of paradise and the sweat of heavenly, but tainted, mortals. Honied cranberry offers a semblance of a crunch to this whole-clustered wine, but is assertively covered by layers of fruit of the blue, dark and purple kind. Perfectly dried prune and just-plucked mulberry come to mind, wallowing on a bed of lilacs cooling down under a setting pastoral sun. Emotions of fun and a child-like deliciousness are stirred-up by clods of pounded raw cocoa, while an aged Havana cigar box offers pleasure of a more adult kind.

Leeu Passant Franschhoek Hillside Cabernet Franc 2022

In the low-light of the tasting hall, the wine runs dark and inky, and true into the glass. The nose is attracted by aromas of classic gorgeousness, focussed on showing the heritage of the Cabernet Franc grape that has played such a profound role in creating great Bordeaux wines – for longer than its Cabernet Sauvignon off-spring. You smell graphite and pine-needle, a meaty splinter of spliced pine-tree. Also, a vivid succulent note of liquid and juice, rustled. On the attack, the wine gives a dramatic and showy display, challenging the alertness of the oral senses. There is something steely and shiny in the precise linearity of it all, with flavours presented in sculpted tones of perfected ease. Dark fruit lurks in the forms of blue-berry and black-currant, with an alerting umami slide of cherry. Lingering, as this wine does with its patient presence, further layers are unveiled with anise and fynbos coming to the fore, giving the classic, cultured presence a thrilling feral touch.  

Paul Clüver Wines The Wagon Trail Chardonnay 2023

Upon the first scent of lime-peel and honey-comb you want to bite it. This Chardonnay, a Cape classic perennially presenting the rocky green cold heart of Elgin in one glass. Citrus notes lean towards bright yellow grapefruit, the irresistible bitter edge of which perks-up the palate, evokes juice and crunch. On the mid-palate pecan and walnuts, crushed and grilled, combine with splashes of sea-spray, pillowy butter-cup flowers and grated Packham pear, just on the edge or ripening. The delight of it all is strung together tightly with cords of rock and maritime coast reflecting the work of a true master of his craft who has an intimate knowledge of what Chardonnay is capable of.

Savage Wines Auction Syrah 2022

Sometimes I come across a wine that makes me dab its surface with my finger just to make sure this is real. Then I sip, and no, you are not dreaming. It is the kind of red wine that does everything to the senses you’d ask it to do. Caress the palate tenderly with flirtatious, seeking finger-strokes of playful permissiveness inviting you to taste, to drink, to roll-over without a care in the world. Flavours are opulent, lusty and joyous but without any a hint of the unmannered boisterous . Sappy mulberry and damson gathers depth from nuances found in prunes and dates, and on the back-break I detect a slight savoury edge of wafer-thin Jamón, with a rivulet of olive-brine. No grip to speak of, this wine rolls along with unbridled ease and delight, and it can keep right on coming.

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Chardonnay and an Emergency in the Sky

It loves skies, and it loves to fly, and the sight of a sole Bateleur eagle soaring in an open pale-blue sky inspired Danie de Wet to name his icon De Wetshof Chardonnay after this majestic raptor. Thus, the Bateleur Chardonnay was born in 1991.

My love for the Bateleur, as well as many other Chardonnays, also has a relationship with flying and the open skies, although not as calm as an eagle gliding through the air with graceful, careless ease.

Back in 1986, an airplane trip to America meant an enforced detour via Europe. South Africa was well and truly in the throes of apartheid and therefore being sanctioned, with the Americans disallowing direct commercial flights from South Africa to the Land of the Free. For South Africans, this meant jetting to Europe and from there connecting to the States. A long haul in those days when airline passenger services were more tedious than today.

My parents were living in Washington DC then, and thought a Christmas visit from their Stellenbosch-based student son was called for. Of course, I jumped at the chance and in the second week of December 1986 I began the long-haul: Cape Town to Johannesburg. Johannesburg to Frankfurt. Frankfurt-New York. Then onto DC.

Getting-off at Frankfurt, hazy-eyed after a night of on-plane beer-drinking with two wannabe actresses from East-London setting off to seek fame and fortune in LA, I stumbled to the TWA departure zone, ready for the nine-or-so hour flight to the Big Apple. One pick-me-up Bloody Mary, and we boarded, the adrenaline beginning to flow through my veins along with the vodka and tomato juice: Now, for the first time, I was really getting pumped-up about the prospect of seeing America for the first time.

The interior of the TWA Jumbo smelled of burnt coffee and looked a bit worn, but the air-hostesses were sunny and blonde with brilliant smiles. Had my first American beer – Miller High-Life – just after take-off, and settled down as myself and 300-or-so passengers headed west. The whole aisle-row next to me was open, but I was too excited to sleep.

Now, all of us who have flown have heard the pilot’s voice coming across the speakers announcing a bit of rough air, a possible bumpiness, a calm request to take your seats and fasten seat-belts. And this flight was no different. About five hours in, after a lunch of hash-browns, sausage, gravy and a surprisingly bright and perky tomato salad, the Captain called. “Return so seats”, “belts fastened”…the obligatory signs to buckle-up lit-up.

Thing is, the plane continued flying smooth and straight, and no bumps or shakes from unexpected air-pockets.

I just got the sense that something was not right. The purser walked down the aisles with a sombre face, motioning the stewardesses to the back of the plane. One stewardess bent over an older passenger to tighten the lady’s seat-belt and tapped her on the forearm, some sort of reassurance, the reason for which made me wonder.

After a while the crew returned to the cabin, making their way to the open seats. A TWA stewardess took an one in the row next to me. I wanted to ask, but when I saw her trying to hide the fact that she was crying, I refrained.

The Captain’s voice over the speaker, a broad Midwest drawl. The plane was going to make an unexpected landing in an hour or so. Keep calm. You’ll be updated.

First thought, of course, was a hijack. How much longer before the Arabic-accented voice boomed through the cabin informing us that we infidels were heading to Bagdad or Islamabad?

I had enrolled to study journalism the next year, so was sitting with a story before I even knew how to write it.

The mood among the passengers was, strangely, calm. And I don’t know what is more foreboding: a communal unknowing silence or mass hysteria. Minutes crawled by like slugs on Valium. I just stared out the window, and all I could see was cloud.

The Captain spoke. Due to an unforeseen incident, the plane was having to land at Goose Bay. Canada. And that was all. I knew that this was north, very north. From Europe, the shortest distance to America is to not fly in a straight line, but in a northerly, latitude-broaching curve. So, any place between Frankfurt and New York was going to be north from our destination. Hopefully, not somewhere in the Atlantic.

Then the descent began. Quick and steep. And the Captain told us this was the emergency landing we had, on boarding the plane, been briefed about as a possible occurrence, and that “it is happening now”.

And there it was. A lot of engine noise. A few cries and yelps from passengers and crew. We dropped. Oxygen masks fell from the space above our seats, bobbing on their cords as we set them on our faces. It smelt clean and pure, and fresh. I took a few deep breaths of oxygen in the hope of finding some inner calm.

I mean, what does an emergency landing entail? Slamming into an arctic forest and bursting into flames? Plunging into the icy ocean? Or having the plane skate over a desolate winter wilderness before, eventually, coming to a halt. Us traumatised survivors wondering if we’d ever be found – and how long it would be before we were forced to make steak tartare from each other’s shoulder-flesh.

But it all happened very quickly. Oxygen-mask on, I took one last peak out of the window and saw we were in the middle of dense white clouds. Then there was blue sky, and we were ordered to take the brace position, heads on knees, hand behind necks. I heard myself breathing into the mask, and it sounded like gasps.

The engines roared, like really roared, before we hit the runway. Wheels bounced a few times, and then there was this metallic screech as the brakes were slammed on, full-tilt. The plane was on the ground now, but still thundering ahead, on and on, my face on my Levi’s, hearing the brakes on wheels, the engine wailing.  And then it stopped.

The hostess next to me threw her mask aside, jumped up and joined her colleagues in opening the emergency doors. Tossed the doors outside, onto the snow. The yellow chutes dropped from the plane, falling slowly on the snow-decked runway, and row-by-row we were ordered to get up from the seats and then, one-by-one, we slid down the chutes like kids at a playground into the icy chill of Arctic air.

We stood in circles, watching the others descend, catching them as they reached the ground. The plane was quiet now, its red tail vivid, real against that what was all around us, namely unreal blue sky and endless unfathomable fields of snow, pure and very white.

Military ambulances and fire-trucks had lined-up next to the runway and uniformed men stood and walked and talked, and looked at the plane. A guy next to me from Dakota said Goose Bay is a Canadian military base, and if there was one area you’d want to make an emergency landing, an air-force centre was it.

The TWA air-crew, pilots and stewardesses, were the last to slide down. I saw a man and a few lady passengers being helped to an ambulance. The rest of us were gathering our senses, trying to take it all in, talking as tufts of warm air from our mouths were clouded by the ice-cold air.

I had always wanted to see Canada, although this first experience was not how I expected it to be.

Medical personnel came around, asking us if bodies were in any way harmed. Then some trucks stopped and here I was, three years after my military service once again riding in the back of an olive-green army lorry.

Us 300-or-so passengers were taken to a mighty huge air-force hangar where coffee and bread rolls and slices of dense dark cake had been laid out on long trestle-tables, but few were thinking about food, yet. At that time, reality still had to sink in. What the fuck had just happened?

An airman in a green Canadian military overall handed me a mug of black coffee. “Welcome to Goose Bay,” he said, “you guys sure picked a bum place to stop.”

From there we were driven to some kind of military base, and I looked out of the truck. Snow and military vehicles; jet-fighters in hangars; troops marching through the snow; guard-towers and anti-aircraft guns aimed at the sky. And snow, all that snow. Everywhere.

In the mess-hall I saw a map. Found Goose Bay, some 2 400km north-east of New York. Latitude 53.3N. Greenland lying just north across the sea.

A military voice asked us to sit-down in the mess-hall, and I saw a tall, lean guy in camouflage fatigues and sparkling insignia on his epaulettes. He told us burning material had been detected in the TWA plane while we were flying over the ocean, the cause of this unplanned landing up here in Newfoundland-Labrador Canada. We were to stay at the base and await further instructions, but TWA was sending a plane from New York to collect us, and this should arrive during the night, and we’d leave at daybreak.

In the meantime, “make yourselves at home”.

I found a pool-room and played some racks with three trainee pilots from British Columbia. Some other passengers joined in, our civilian clothing mingling with the olive-green jump-suits and crew-cuts of the air-force guys. There were girls among us, and the recruits strutted before them, throwing low-browed glances.

After a supper of chicken and mash potato and some salads, I headed to the bar with some fellow passengers from Australia. We didn’t discuss the flight. We didn’t mention the fire onboard. No-one talked of being lucky.

’80s pop-music was playing in the officers’ bar, I think I heard Spandau Ballet and Depeche Mode. The officers stood-up and welcomed us, and told us to order drinks, it’s all on them.

The Australians asked for beer and were given perspiring bottles of Molson. I took a long shot and requested some white wine. Wine is sun, it is warmth and it is comfort. This, I needed.

A bottle, half-full, was put on the bar-top alongside a surprisingly fancy-looking glass. I read the label, and saw Paul Masson, and the other word was “Chardonnay”. It was from California, this wine.

This was 1986, Chardonnay had barely arrived in South Africa. And here I was, sub-arctic, getting a glass of it in an air-force bar in northern Canada. I poured the glass half-full, and the pale gold colour made me let out a sigh. The colour in the glass was like a sun, rising on a new day of more life. At the first mouthful I didn’t want it to stop. Sweet and buttery, lying full and dense, almost oily in its heaviness, the weight of which I had never experienced in any white wine before.

So, this is Chardonnay, I thought. And knew that this was going to be a long, lasting love-affair.

And tomorrow, I was going home.

  • A brief report of the incident was reported in the American media here.

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Stellenbosch and the Cabernet DNA

As the increasing number of property developments and the influx of new residents descending upon the town and region show, Stellenbosch has largely become a place of newcomers. The natural beauty, architectural heritage, and the alluring atmosphere created around an old town that associates itself with the culinary arts, hospitality, and the youthful spirit of a university have made Stellenbosch a sought-after brand, both locally and internationally.

However, it must always be remembered that, no matter how diverse and multi-dimensional Stellenbosch’s character and offerings may be today, the most important newcomer and contributor to the town and region’s aura and its status of desirability is the grapevine. Simon van der Stel’s horses had barely cooled off after he crossed the Eerste River in 1679 when plans were already being made about where and how vineyards could be planted in the area.

Today, Stellenbosch is undeniably proven as South Africa’s premier wine region. Some of the country’s top wine estates and brands are found here. The university itself and the Elsenburg Institute are globally recognised institutions for the training of winemakers and viticulturists. And the geographical features of the region offer a treasure trove of soil types, slopes, mountains, and climate zones that make it seem as if the wine god Bacchus himself intervened to create this part of the earth.

These various patches of suitable and ideally located land have, over the past century or so, led to Stellenbosch’s exceptional ability to produce wine from almost every grape variety planted here. Brilliant Chardonnay. The best Pinotage in South Africa. Stately Shiraz wines and pure, bright Sauvignon Blanc. Merlot is magnificent, the Chenin Blanc is the best in the world, and for those who still crave Riesling, Stellenbosch is your place.

Yet, in this abundance of grape varieties in one region, there must be one that stands out, one that repeatedly produces fabulous wines with its own identity and captures the world’s imagination. And that is Cabernet Sauvignon—Stellenbosch Cabernet Sauvignon.

Stellenbosch Cabernet Sauvignon country.

It was Professor Abraham Izak Perold, the father of Cape viticulture who created the Pinotage grape in 1924, who mentioned as early as the 1920s that Cabernet Sauvignon belongs in Stellenbosch. Well-travelled through every vineyard land and with an intuitive sense for grape varieties and their suitable terrains, Perold informed the Stellenbosch farmers that Cabernet Sauvignon could thrive in the region’s soils and climate and that the variety could, therefore, produce world-class red wines.

Now, just over a century later, anyone with a nostalgic inclination would gladly show Professor Perold what has become of his advice. (In fact, his involvement was more than just advice—the professor personally helped establish Cabernet Sauvignon on farms like Alto and Uitkyk.)

Today, Stellenbosch Cabernet Sauvignon wines are regarded by international writers and wine critics as some of the best in the world—wines that show elegance and refinement, along with the muscular robustness for which the cultivar is known. The status of Stellenbosch’s Cabernet Sauvignon is bolstered by the fact that the cultivar appears on the labels of world-famous wine estates such as Kanonkop, Meerlust, Spier, Le Riche, Neil Ellis, Delaire-Graff, Simonsig, Delheim, and Rust en Vrede, to name a few.

“I think Stellenbosch can rightly be considered one of the leading Cabernet Sauvignon regions outside the grape’s traditional home of Bordeaux in France,” says Deidre Taylor, head of marketing and wine sales at the Meerlust estate and newly appointed chairperson of Stellenbosch Cabernet, the organisation of producers that, under one banner, promotes the virtues and magic of the region’s Cabernet Sauvignon wines.

“And I feel it is extremely important that there is a body like Stellenbosch Cabernet that can deliver a unified message to promote Stellenbosch’s unique characteristics as a wine region suitable for phenomenal Cabernet Sauvignon wines,” says Taylor.

“In the wine world, it is a trend for various countries and regions to align themselves with grape varieties that have a proven track record of success, as well as those that can capture the taste and imagination of the world’s wine drinkers: Bordeaux with red blends, largely driven by Cabernet Sauvignon; the Pinot Noir and Chardonnay of Burgundy; and German Riesling, to name a few.

“In the so-called New World, outside Europe, the Napa Valley in California has made ‘Napa Cabernet’ a whole brand, and similarly, Australia with the Margaret River and Coonawarra regions’ Cabernet Sauvignons—although they have not yet reached the stratospheric prices of their Californian counterparts.”

The goal of a body like Stellenbosch Cabernet, which consists of 36 of the region’s producers, is not just that of an ordinary generic marketing body that wants to create awareness of the product and an “I’m also here” presence.

Taylor, an experienced salesperson who deals with buyers and wine enthusiasts around the world, believes the organisation’s goal is “to persuade wine lovers that Stellenbosch Cabernet Sauvignon should simply be a part of their wine selection.”

Deidre Taylor

The international acclaim that the region’s Cabernet Sauvignon wines receive offers Taylor and the organisation plenty to work with. “Stellenbosch stands back for no one when it comes to determining quality,” she says. “For example, last year, Kanonkop Cabernet Sauvignon 2019 was Decanter magazine’s international red wine of 2023. And in the same year, Le Riche’s 2020 vintage wine won Decanter’s Cabernet Sauvignon trophy. And that’s just a few of the international accolades Stellenbosch’s Cabernet Sauvignon wines have achieved.”

As a proven wine expert with a higher WSET 4 diploma, Taylor is aware of the exceptional quality of Stellenbosch’s Cabernet Sauvignon. “The absolute purity with which the fruit flavours shine through the wine is something that few other countries can achieve with Cabernet Sauvignon,” she says. “And then our wines have a hint of fynbos to lift the classic fruit and tannin structure for which Cabernet Sauvignon is known… making the wines distinctive, unique.”

Taylor also points out that Cabernet Sauvignon’s contribution to Stellenbosch’s reputation goes beyond producing sublime single-varietal wines. “It’s important to remember that Cabernet Sauvignon was and is the main component in some of South Africa’s most famous wines, including Kanonkop Paul Sauer, Meerlust’s Rubicon, and Rust en Vrede Estate,” she says. “These iconic red wines largely paved the way for Stellenbosch’s recognition as the country’s leading wine region, and therefore, the role that Cabernet Sauvignon has played—and continues to play—in the reputation of the area and the country should not be forgotten.

Could the region’s Bordeaux-style blends, therefore, in the future, fall under the Stellenbosch Cabernet banner?

“I’ve only been in this position for a few weeks, so give me some time,” she says. “But I am a proponent of an open-minded approach in determining what will be best to further strengthen the words ‘Stellenbosch’ and ‘Cabernet’ in the South African and international wine world.”

Here to stay.

  • This article appeared in Die Burger newspaper in Afrikaans, and has been translated by Gert Bartho Thibault.

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Shiraz: An Enigma Wrapped in a Mystery

My relationship with Shiraz is similar to my penchant for cheeseburgers and Japanese films, ranging from the insultingly forgettable to the heavenly sublime. Some of the most memorable wine experiences, surreal and cosmos-shifting, have involved Shiraz, whereas wines made from the same grape have had me requesting cellar-staff to forgo the spittoon for a puke-bucket.

It truly is a chameleon grape. If, that is, you like your chameleons with an ability to turn into wart-ridden, mutant lizards.

Japanese movie.

The energy for exploring the reasons for Shiraz’s inconsistency is just not there, so I prefer keeping this in the file of vinous mysteries I so eagerly gather. But my layman’s opinion ascribes the grape’s inconsistency as something to do with the variety’s chemical and phenolic fragility that needs just a touch of undesirable terroir and the tiniest bit of carelessness in the cellar to send the balance crashing down. Perfumed, layered fruit and spice turns into tarry, acrid fur-ball, like no tomorrow.

Yet, Shiraz’s ascendency in South Africa – in terms of hectares planted – has been mercurial. Back in 1981 a meagre 704ha of the Cape vineyard was planted to Shiraz. Following the birth of South African democracy, plantings shot up from 1030ha in 1996 to 5 630ha in 2000. Do that maths: 4 600ha of Shiraz planted in four years, spurred on by – I wonder – what? And driven by what industry strategy, other than a desire to replicate the Australian Shiraz success story, which has today tanked dramatically.

Gerhard de Villiers of Kleinood.

In 2009, the variety hit the 10 000ha mark, which has eased off to the last available figure of 2023 pegged at 8 713ha.

But preferring taste and experience to statistics, my modest opinion of South African Shiraz is that the cultivar affords little, if no, middle-ground in terms of the quest for quality. It is either extraordinary and intoxicating and very interesting, or it is as dull and forgettable as the last Coldplay album.

I was put in a Shiraz mindset last week upon a visit to Kleinood’s boutique winery on that majestic part of Helderberg, Stellenbosch that runs up to Keermont, De Trafford and the winery made famous by Kevin Arnold. Kleinood owner Gerhard de Villiers, who as an engineer has been responsible for designing some of the leading Cape wineries, bought Kleinood in 2000, initially wishing to focus on Cabernet Sauvignon. Complex and scientific analyses of soil, aspect and temperature, however, told him Shiraz was the way to go, and being an engineer, Gerhard was not going to argue with the science.

The result was the Kleinood Tamboerskloof Syrah brand, which since its first production in 2002 has become a formidable player in the country’s Shiraz/Syrah offering in terms of brand presence and wine quality. And from last week, and this is the reason for my visit, Kleinood is offering a new Shiraz immersion for small groups, where personal tastings, discussions, and general conviviality are offered in a nook of the barrel cellar.

The focus is on Tamboerskloof and Kleinood’s single-site Syrah under the name John Spicer, as well as an international wine thrown in.

Here the Shiraz tune played on-song, needily reminding me of the greatness of the variety.

From the Rhône, a Cornas appellation wine was selected, namely Renaissance 2019 from Domaine A. Clape, while the Kleinood line-up included Syrahs Tamboerskloof 2014 as well as the John Spicer 2017.

The diversity was extraordinary, truly. A multitude of diverse riches from one cultivar.

Cornas Renaissance 2019, while still young, underscored the ability of Shiraz to offer extremely drinkable classic wines while still in their youth, already revealing detailed layers of intricacy with an adventurous, spectacular, edgy, wild side.

The nose was densely perfumed with lavender and salt-marsh and just the slightest touch of used saddle that had just been rubbed with dubbin. And how gorgeous and pulsating in the mouth: olive brine, charcuterie and cassis drifting on a layer of velvety tannins. That’s the other thing I’ve observed about Shiraz, when it is Rhône, it is Rhône and impossible to replicate.

Kleinood winemaker Reinie Oosthuizen uses manual punch-downs during the ferment, but only twice daily to avoid the frequently found menace of over-extraction in Shiraz. The Tamboerskloof Syrah spends eighteen months in 300 litre French oak barrels, of which 15% is new, 35% second and 50% third fill.

At ten years old the Tamboerskloof 2014 was settled and calm without the slightest sign of oxidation or portiness. Dense dark fruit is there, but the surrounds are all powdery tannin and crunch. Time has brought the variety’s characteristic whiff of white pepper into play, but only as a complement, a lift to the still primary flavoured parcel of pure fruit.

Kleinood’s top offering, John Spicer, came from the 2017 vintage, a Cape wine season that is increasingly being highlighted as eclipsing the much-vaunted 2015. John Spicer’s flagship status is solely ascribed to the specific soil parcel on Kleinood, and in making the wine, Reinie employs the exact same cellar methods and oak regime used on Tamboerskloof.

And yes, the flagship it is, full spinnaker to the wind. Flavours are more concentrated and direct than Tamboerskloof, yet the presence is one of clarity and precision. In John Spicer, Shiraz shows a decidedly blue-blooded, regal pedigree, the one that, in the days of yonder, convinced Bordeaux and Burgundy growers that wines from this variety were deemed worthy to slip into their cuvées so as to elevate the region’s fruit profiles in unsatisfactory vintages.

But for me the lasting impression of fine Shiraz is one of absolute deliciousness. Yes, one can analyse the layers, prod at the structure and interrogate pH and sugar and acidity. It is – can be – just such a damn tasty and delicious wine when everything falls into place and every party involved gets it right.

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The 2024 Cape Pie Report

Besides the scenes of nature in its wintry finest, the Cape winelands’ chilly season is an apt time to test the culinary splendours of the hot pies on offer at various farm-stalls and roadside coffee-shops. This I do a lot of during my travels between the wineries of Stellenbosch, Elgin, Robertson and Franschhoek, as a pause in the journey to sample the pastry-clad culinary offerings presents an apt time for reflection, eyeing the winter Boland wonderland and enjoying the sustenance of a baked and meaty culinary masterpiece.

But sharing is caring, thus I present the Cape’s Top 5 rural roadside pies of the year thus far.

Ou Meul (Botrivier) Pepper Steak Pie: A perfect flaky, butter-infused crust yields to unleash the seductive aroma of sauce-coated cow flesh, brioche and a spicy lift of pepper. The tender sheath of pastry offers warm, doughy flavour as it prepares the palate for the savoury wave to follow. This comes in a surge of silky gravy accompanied by tender morsels of cubed beef that upon the bite fall into tasty shreds of meaty joy. The symphony of sauce-coated and accurately cooked steak has one eating with hunger – wolf-like – and is an emotional moment as such glorious sustenance reminds one that mortality is at stake were it not for this food from the gods. 98/100

Peregrine Farm Stall (Elgin) Venison Pie: The pastry might be a tad thin, virginal and fragile, but this is only to enhance the generosity of the filling. And this is shredded, lovingly shot antelope, the primal gamy tang elevated by a rich sauce, well-spiced with an exotic hit of ground clove, a perky prod of vinegar and some rock-salt, all aiding in giving the pie that samurai umami character. The meat-to-crust ratio comprehensively favours the filling, making this the most carnivore-friendly pie on the road. The finish is long and lasting on account of the extraordinary gravy that brings meat and pastry together in one harmonious offering of taste and comfort. 96/100

Klein Joostenberg Deli (Koelenhof, Stellenbosch) Springbok Pie: The reassurance and relief begins with the weight of the pie in the hand, a significant presence suiting the greedy travelling eater. The pastry is a combination of golden-crusted crunch and a warm, tender inner-layer of dough baked with skill and attention. Filling-wise, the springbok shows an Old World note with more herbs than spice, the saffron-hued flecks of carrot offering brightness to the eye as well as a rich vegetative presence in the mouth. The slivers of Karoo springbok have drawn-in the gravy, making for joyous meaty-eating, the high-protein flesh perfectly complemented by the life-affirming layer of gluten-packed crust. 94/100

Houwhoek Farm Stall (Elgin) Steak-and-Kidney Pie: The lid of dense pastry yields to a dark, mysterious gravy showing a welcoming fatty sheen reflecting from morsels of beef and rounded mounds of kidney. Sauce-to-flesh ratio is absolutely perfect, allowing the steak to show its tender, meaty charm in tandem with the feral sensuality lurking in the dense organic folds of the kidney. The pie offers tidy, splatter-free eating as the density of the pastry serves as a mop, soaking-up the sauced morsels before they can launch stain-causing and hand-burning droplets. 94/100

Potbelly (Klapmuts, Stellenbosch) Lamb Curry Pie: A squared pillow of golden pastry breaks, foreign and exotic scents of spices and sub-continental cookery waft to the nose. The sauce is curried with fruity notes of peach, dry apple and sultana. Fatless cubes of well-cooked lamb are somewhat overpowered by the sauce, which is gelatinous and plenty yet envelopes crust and flesh to create a culinary accord of utmost satisfaction. It is a big pie, cooked with minimum intervention and with the sustaining presence to make one last another 175kms. 93/100

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Bruwer Raats: Owning Cape Cabernet Franc

There might be more to the history of South African Cabernet Franc than records show, although—as in many factual depictions of the origins of Cape wine—the story is fluid. Officially, the first single-label Cabernet Franc was made by Paarl winery Landskroon in 1983, although as a blend, it had found its way into the earlier Bordeaux-style legends of Welgmeend (1979), Meerlust (1980) and Kanonkop (1981).

In 1981, all 35ha were planted to Cabernet Franc, according to Sawis stats, which has grown to a not-too-ubiquitous 796ha today. Despite the media attention the variety has received over the past decade, plantings have dropped – in 2006 they stood at 1022ha.

The fluidity comes in when talking to some of the older hands of Cape wine. Danie de Wet, who employed the famous Desiderius Pongrácz as part-time consultant on De Wetshof in the 1970s and 1980s, tells me that Pongrácz was convinced that a substantial part of the Cape winelands deemed to be under Cabernet Sauvignon at the time was actually hosting Cabernet Franc. This is underscored by the records of George Spies of GS fame, who had noted that the Durbanville vineyards used for his now-iconic GS Cabernet 1966 and 1968 wines were a combination of Franc and Sauvignon, which could be the reason why these wines were labelled “Cabernet” alone.

Desiderius Pongrácz

Whatever the formal and less official records may indicate, the fact is that Cabernet Franc is today a recognised and applauded part of South Africa’s wine offering, whether in stellar Bordeaux-style blends or in single varietal offerings of a mostly premium kind.

My introduction to local varietal bottling Cabernet Franc came, as to many, by ways of the wines from Warwick. These showed easier tannins than Cabernet Sauvignon, but held a sumptuous juicy deliciousness making them extremely approachable, without being fleeting and promiscuous. On many occasions I recommended Warwick Cabernet Franc to persons who were daunted by the tannic breadth of Shiraz, Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinotage, and the replies were of positive delight.

When it comes to Cabernet Franc today, few could argue – and I’d take them on should they prefer to do so – that Bruwer Raats has taken ownership of the category. There are a number of reasons for this, including the man’s commitment to Cabernet Franc, one driven by a palpable conviction that this is the red grape upon which he is willing to stake his life. His honesty and infectious energy in doing so has added gravitas to the category. And having breathtaking wines to back-up his talk with that swaggering walk has made his two-decade crusade for Cabernet Franc an indelible part of the South African wine industry. It will be here forever.

Bruwer Raats, left, and Gavin Bruwer of Bruwer Family Wines.

The majestic quality of the Cabernet Francs from Raats Family Wines, steered by Bruwer and cousin Gavin Bruwer, were on show a while back with the showing of a few new releases. It was a highlight in 2024 thus far.

I have always been a huge fan of Raats Dolomite Cabernet Franc, the more accessibly priced wine in the range and an amicable, welcoming introduction to the variety for those less familiar with it. It is made from grapes grown in Polkadraai, as well as the neighbouring, lower region where Winshaw Vineyards lie. The vinification incorporates a portion of whole-bunch ferment, and a year’s aging in 50% older barrels and the rest in concrete.

Dolomite 2022 shows that Cabernet Franc ascribes to the ‘in youth is pleasure’ leitmotiv, the wine being completely at ease with itself at such an early age. I’ve had plenty of this wine five to six years after vintage. And while maturation adds dimension and a settled comfort, the wine is excellent upon release.

The charm lies in under-stated exuberance. Brightness does not elevate or push flavours, instead it blends with taste – seamlessly so – offering a compote of dark and red fruit with a thread of savoury and petal, stemless potpourri. The balance between freshness and an inner settled deliciousness is pin-point accurate, making the word “complete” an operative one.

With the door opened to experience greatness, I jump into the rarified realm of the Eden High Density Single Vineyard Cabernet Franc 2022 from 0.2ha vineyard planted alongside Bruwer’s house on Polkadraai Hills. A 15% portion is whole-bunch fermented, aging is 10 months in new barrel, with the wine then racked to old wood for another eight.

South-facing, the vines bask in the intense glow of morning sun, a welcoming aspect as Cabernet Franc can suffer from a lettuce-like greenness which, although possibly attractive to vegans and lentil-burger fans, is frowned upon. But well-ripened grapes, in balance and synch, unleashes the extraordinary profile for which the variety is being made more famous.

The new vintage of Raats Eden High Density Cabernet Franc is resoundingly great, but my opinion thereof is reined in upon remembering the words of writer Terry Theise:”Many wines let you taste the noise. But only the very best wines let you taste the silence.”

But there is so much to say.

The wine is the colour of freshly drawn blood lying in a pool on the floor of a Gothic cathedral where spring sunlight pierces the stained-glass window. I smell warm prune, shriveled dates, and the scent of a winter Berg wind blowing through Cape Fynbos. The taste is immense, plunging onto the palate like an Acapulco high-diver, falling beneath the surface and gracefully gliding in the silence of an unknown world.

An irony tinge extends the wine’s connection to blood, pulsating with the soul-enveloping essence of black-currant and warm tar; tomato-leaf lurks, bordering on early-cured Jamón Ibérico; a henna-tattooed hand holds ground spice, cardamom and paprika; tannins run long and true, yet are balletic and shimmering, giving life and joy to the overall experience.

Real history writes itself.

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