A translated extract from Krummels in my Koffer (Protea Books)

From Porto I take the night train to Madrid. Now I am a wanderer once more, backpack slung over my shoulders as I navigate the wide boulevards of Madrid, guided by my Let’s Go Europe guide to the youth hostel. Here in Spain, everything is larger, more bustling than in Portugal. Vast markets brim with fish and any other edible ocean creature, in shell and with tentacles. I see and smell vegetables, and fruits; cheeses and flowers and thirty different kinds of olives. And the flesh of the pig that Spain so dearly loves: the reddish-brown jamón, those hams that are salted and air-dried, cured for years in Spanish mountain caves. The red chourico sausages, coloured and flavoured with paprika.

But it is the Spanish countryside that calls to me. After a few days in Madrid, experiencing the splendours of the Prado Museum and drinking beer and eating ham and cheese sandwiches in bars with other wanderers from America, Canada, Australia, Germany, and Denmark, I head southward.

It was the beginning of summer, and the Spanish landscape reminds me of trips to the Karoo and Namaqualand with my parents. Red earth stretches across open plains, the rolling hills dotted with olive trees and endless green vineyards. The air is still, windless, dry, and warm. I hitchhike, catching rides with taciturn truck drivers and chatty holidaymakers on their way to the coast. Here and there, I take the train. I have a complete freedom, with no idea where I’m ultimately headed, except that I’m aiming for Seville. There’s work at Amorim’s Spanish cork factory.

Late one afternoon, I find myself on a train that stops at a station in the middle of absolutely nowhere. It’s just me and a handful of other passengers on the train; one dishevelled man in a loose-fitting cheap suit speak English and tells me the train stops here for the night and won’t continue until tomorrow. There is no reason, no alternative plan. Mañana is always another day. The  passengers disembark, I am alone.

At the isolated station there is, as at all Spanish train stations, a café. It’s cool inside, and the bartender and a few other men, who look like local farmers, are glued to a bullfight taking place on a large television-set. I order a beer and watch for a while as a large black bull is taunted and killed by a nimble matador in his tight golden suit. The bar counter is made of zinc, and the metal feels cool against my bare elbow.

After a while, that goes slowly, it is dusk outside, and the farmers leave one by one, the roars of their vehicles slicing through the silence. Now it’s just me and the bartender, and the bulls. And the stationary train by the platform. The bartender, a short, dark man in his sixties, asks me something I don’t understand. Seeing my puzzlement, he makes the universal eating gesture: moving his fists toward his mouth. I say “sí” and “por favor,” realising how hungry I am.

He disappears into a doorway behind the bar, and as another dead bull is dragged out of the dust of the bullfighting arena by two horses, I hear the sound of pots and pans and the sizzling sound of something frying in hot oil. And there is the smell of garlic, as is always the case when cooking is done in southern Europe.

About ten minutes later, the bartender emerges from the hidden kitchen. I turn away from the television to watch him place a plate on the zinc counter. On the plate lies a golden-yellow omelette, with pieces of golden-brown potato set in the egg. Beside the omelette lies a strip of meat with a slightly charred surface from which a watery red-pink juice oozes, too red to be pork. I thank the bartender and ask, in my rudimentary Spanish, for a glass of red wine: “vino tinto.” Mom and Dad would have enjoyed red wine with meat and eggs.

It is a thin beef steak, perfectly medium-rare, that has been fried in oil. Together with the robust, raw Spanish red wine, it is the best meat I have had since the Karoo lamb chops Dad grilled for Peter and me the day before we left South Africa to fly to Portugal. And I’m not surprised by the deliciousness of the omelette alongside the steak. Already in Madrid I had noticed that the Spaniards are friends of the egg, serving baked eggs under paprika and omelettes – called tortilla – everywhere. But out here in the sticks, this simple egg dish is simply heavenly to eat. The omelette is light in texture yet rich on the palate due to the orange farm eggs it has been cooked with. The cubes of potato break the richness slightly, bearing the flavours of earth and water, with a salty fried crust.

I eat everything and wash it down with two glasses of wine. Wipe my plate clean with a chunk of crusty bread. The bartender takes my plate away and returns with a cup of coffee and a small glass of brandy.

After the last bull has died and the television is turned off, I thank the bartender and pay. He closes the café and rides off on a noisy motorbike that sends plumes of white smoke and the hollow clatter of the engine into the still night air of Spain.

The station platform is now bathed in a dim yellow light, and the night cools slightly so that the scent of plants and earth rises, covering me in the cool and the fresh. I unroll my sleeping bag and lay it out on one of the benches. Far away in a strange land and alone, I close my eyes.

And I dream of bulls.

Despite an all-consuming personal and professional association with wine, there are times when only a beer will – and can – do. Ice-cold and necked straight out of the easy-to-grasp 375ml bottle. No habitual sniffing of the surface to assess its aromatic complexity. No tentative analysing of the first small initial sip from which to make sensorial deductions for further pondering.

It is a bottle of beer to be drunk in huge non-plussed draughts. The dry cold liquid of easy and familiar malted hoppy flavour, perked up with the titillation of sparkle and bubble and foam, all going down like a cheerleader on Florida Spring Break. Refreshing, sating and hitting all spots requiring momentous satisfaction.

My personal beer of choice is Castle Light, and that’s the other cool thing about beer. Upon entering the liquor store it is, unlike with wine, a non-debatable choice. No deciding on what cultivar, style or terroir-driven product one is in the mood for, or should sample so as to keep up with current vinous modes. Just head to the walk-in fridge, grab two six-packs, done. You know what you want, and you know that those green bottles of Castle will guarantee you getting it.

Drinking beer is easy. Unlike with wine, you are free of making notes on what you are drinking, filing them for further use in articles or as topics of conversation with wine industry people. There is also no need to style a photograph of a bottle of Castle Light, beaded with condensation, and post it on Instagram for impressing the followers. For they, too, don’t need influencing or persuasion or opinion, because everybody knows that beer is good.

Beer is why pubs are better and more popular places than wine bars. Because in pubs, beer in hand, there is conversation and talk to be had on life in all its greater, as well as trivial splendours. Go to a wine-bar, and it’s boring. Punters gazing at the minute words chalked on the blackboard listing tens-upon-tens of wine marques, cultivars, geographical origins and styles. And once the wading through the list has been done and the smidgen-portion of liquid poured into the glass, wine bar frequenters are obliged to limit themselves to discussing, commenting and debating the contents of their glasses.

Back at the, pub we just take another slug of draught beer to replenish the vocal cords before continuing to ponder the merits of the TMO in international rugby or debate world politics. Such as whether Donald Trump, now and again, gives Melania one.

If criticism on beer must be made, then it is the general poor quality of draught beer to be had in South Africa. Without the generational beer culture of the UK, Germany and Belgium, local pubs tend to mistreat their kegs, allowing for the beer not being cold enough and – equally offensive – lacking the correct degree of energetic foaminess.

And that’s the other great thing about beer, in that there are only two types: Good, and flat and warm. Easy choices rule the world, and here beer is king.

And then, not a word. The mountains still echo with the bewildered murmurs over the demise of Afrikaans newspapers, yet not a single voice in that or any other community makes mention of another South African treasure that has quietly disappeared over the past year or so, namely the once proud Cape wine known as sherry.

Where the country was in years past globally regarded as the only one whose sherry quality could be spoken of in the same breath as those from the wine’s birthplace, namely in the vicinity of Jerez de la Frontera in Spain’s warm south, the local wine industry has silently turned off the sherry tap. Now the Cape has lost a once proud part of its wine history. The shelves where sherry once stood are bare, the reason being – just like with the decline of newspapers – that its production is no longer deemed financially viable.

South Africa produced this magnificent wine for the first time in 1933, though it had been adored worldwide for hundreds of years due to its captivating combination of flavours, including nuts, dried fruit, and salt, presented in various styles from syrupy sweet to bone-dry. The secret lies in the flor yeast that must rest like a dense mouldy blanket on the wine to impart those complex flavours and lingering mouthfeel. It was not until the aforementioned 1933 that KWV’s legendary wine genius Charlie Niehaus discovered this yeast in a vineyard in Stellenbosch. Vergenoegd, no less.

The success was immediate. The Cape’s soil types and climate, especially the warm areas of Worcester, Swartland, and Robertson, create ideal conditions for producing grapes as close to those of Spanish character as a Breedekloof drum majorette is to a flamenco dancer. Suddenly, Cape sherry was in high demand internationally, especially in England where the delightful consumption of a few glasses of dry sherry before noon was considered mandatory in whetting the appetite.

There are still British television segments showing how hundreds of millions of litres of sherry were exported from South Africa to England in the 1960s and 1970s, with experts at the time suggesting that the Spaniards should watch out because, in terms of quality, the Cape sherries were breathing down their necks.

Local sherry lovers could still experience the splendour until a few years ago through the quality wines that KWV and Monis continued to bottle. But then, like mist before the sun, everything disappeared. Monis stopped filling its well-known translucent sherry bottles – the good stuff being blended away with that innocuous faecal coloured liquor known as Old Brown. Any reference to sherry vanished from KWV’s extensive wine list.

And so, a chapter of the country’s wine industry is hereby closed. To those who had the foresight to fill their cellars with bottles full of these offerings from the Cape’s vineyard treasure, may you be blessed. Enjoy every drop to the end of days, yet do raise the occasional glass to the rest of us who sit with dry mouths. Droëbek being the operative word.

The history of the Chardonnay-Pinot Noir still wine that catapulted Franschhoek ‘s Cabrière Estate to uncharted commercial success began with a fish soup called bouillabaisse. And, of course, with the role of Cabrière’s founder, the legendary Achim von Arnim.

It was sometime in the early 1990’s and Achim had been invited by Freda van der Merwe, then owner of the famous Freda’s Restaurant in Kloof Street, Cape Town, to join a few winemakers and foodies to lunch on her famous bouillabaisse. The only proviso being that each guest bring a bottle of wine to best match her dish. And the winning wine was to be selected as the perfect Bouillabaisse Brother.

The day arrived, and Achim had gotten waylaid at the cellar. Upon realising he had better hot-foot it to Cape Town from Franschhoek – if a journey in a clapped-out Citroën could be called hot-footing – he realised he had not planned a wine to take along. So, in typical Achim fashion, he found a few empty bottles and filled them from the tanks of fermented Chardonnay and Pinot Noir that yet to be sent for secondary bottle-fermentation, as per the way of Cap Classique. For which he and Cabrière were, at the time, most famous.

The rest is predictable, and is history. Achim’s instinctive unlabelled, unbottled blend of lusty young Chardonnay and Pinot Noir trounced the other wines lined-up next to Freda’s bouillabaisse, beating Chablis, Riesling, Sancerre, Provençal rosé and the other assembled numbers to be announced the winning wine.

And thus, the wine’s history as a singular Cabrière offering began, going on to become an ubiquitous Cape wine with a huge following.

To honour its three decades in being, Cabrière last year released a limited-volume bottling Chardonnay Pinot Noir from vintage 2024 of which only 696 bottles were made. The make-up is 78% Chardonnay and 22% Pinot Noir from the property’s own vineyards, both of the mature kind – the Chardonnay sticks were planted in 1983 and the Pinot Noir took root in 1991. The wine was fermented and aged in a single clay amphorae and bottled in a piece of glass heavy enough to cause cramp in Eben Etzebeth’s pouring finger.

The wine is a delight in having breadth and depth, and a truly unique flavour-profile for a white wine. It has a full, generous and cool entry on the palate bearing instant agreeability. Ruby grape-fruit comes to the fore, as well as kumquat and slivers of chilled persimmon laced with lime-juice. There is a shard of stoniness, too, all white and gleaming, ensuring that despite its wallowing expanse of flavour, there is a perky lift of sunny energy.

Due to professional duties, I did not allow this wine to mature, but it is a collector’s item for sure, and an honour to one of the many mark’s Achim and Cabrière have made on the Cape wine industry. And a fine fishing story, to boot.

There is a green forest atop the slope, which faces south-east and runs steep, up to 350m above sea-level, and it is a beautiful piece of country, the forest’s wilderness looking down on vineyards that have been making some of the very best wines on earth for a very long time. It is Corton, and it is in Burgundy, this part of the region probably best known for the tight bind its Chardonnay wines tie to the hearts of those who drink it, but for me it makes the best red wine in the world.

The Pinot Noir from these red Corton vines are wines that could by some, even knowledgeable wine people, be termed as being very “unlike” Pinot Noir. For they are the kind of red wines with which Burgundy was associated before the region’s boom times, pre-1980, days when the area’s wines were associated with intensity and force and strength. Then, power dominated, as money and price does today.

Auberon Waugh, son of the great British novelist Evelyn and a wine writer of ferocious honesty and rigid conviction, said that from the 1980s red Burgundy changed, as the producers suddenly became chasing cherry and floral flavours.

But Corton runs true to its legacy and origins and reputation. And I love the sterner, more dramatic and bigger reds made there, as I was reminded at the end of last year when I chanced upon a wine, the having of which going down as one of my most memorable.

The wine was from Burgundy producer Faively, the Clos de Cortons Faively vineyard, theirs exclusive, and it was from the 1999 vintage, making it 25 years old at the time of the experience. I found this age a disheartening factor, as this means that if I was going to truly experience their true potential, the couple of young Burgundies I still have stashed away would have to remain unopened for an uncomfortably long time.

To say the 25-year-old Clos de Cortons Faively was sublime is like saying Sandra Bullock is well-built or that Maria Callas had been quite a good singer. For this wine’s ability to harness one’s sensorial experience with the deep-rooted inner workings of emotional cords able to create emotion and love, made it an experience, one branded into the current consciousness with a red-hot poker. Leaving an impression that I would have been so much poorer, as a man, if I had not been blessed to partake therein.

The cork was long and ochre and slid from the bottleneck with the sigh of a nun seeing Michelangelo’s David for the first time. I poured the wine into a decanter, as I was showing it unsighted to friends, and it ran black and red into the glass vessel, leaving wet rivulets the colour of rose-petals on the glass walls. An aroma filled the room, not a perfume, but a chilly breeze scented by cracked apple-wood, haybales and organic earth tilled by a slightly sweaty Frenchman eating saucisson sec.

It lay moody, dark and troubled in the wineglass, the wine wondering who had dared to stir its quarter-century’s slumbering and, what’s more, had ripped it from the hills where the Emperor Charlemagne first planted vines 1200 years ago, daring to transport it to the southern land of South Africa.

Closer to the nose, the wine is monumental, two sniffs and the tears pricked with the aroma of life and time; earth and history; thunder and sun; wilderness and the genius of civilisation. Considering the decision of allowing the liquid to enter the mouth was one of apprehension and thrill.

Then it exploded.

Everything I had thought and talked, told and wrote and bragged and – on grappa-fuelled occasions – had sung about wine, all this came true in one sip and one swallow. It was taste and flavour and presence I could hear and see, as well as – most importantly – feel.

The tannic thrust was resounding, like an axe cleaving the steel-helmeted skull of a Saracen warrior, and it was sheer beauty as the tannins collected the flavours and tastes, scooping them up and planting them into the senses of he was having the wine.

Bramble-berries, wet with the blood drawn from the fingers pricked by the plants’ thorns. Ripe, warm wild strawberries salted by fat dripping from a raw goose liver. And this Pinot Noir was not showing forest-floor, it had dug down, going deep and drawing flavour from the thousands of roots probing the mysterious regions of earth ancient and damp and dark, and indeterminably deep.

Structure? Palate-weight? Mouth-feel? Quite frankly, I could not give a flying Faively fuck. It was a wine transcending the need for such peculiar and petty analyses, for like I who was drinking it, these are too small to be considered in the immensity of what it was offering.

I am haunted by Corton.

The late South African rugby legend Boy Louw had a famous saying when his team’s narrow victory was questioned by the opposition: “ag man, well just looks at the scoreboard.” As the South African wine industry wraps up 2024 and reflects on the year’s achievements, those who look at the scoreboard will see another Louw at the top: Thys, owner and winemaker at Diemersdal Estate in Durbanville.

When it comes to awards and honours, Diemersdal indisputably stood out as the top performer in the South African wine industry this year. Anyone doubting, just look at the scoreboard.

The names Louw and Diemersdal are especially renowned for their Sauvignon Blanc wines, and they indeed excelled in that category this year. However, the standout performance is how well the estate’s other wine varieties performed.

Take, for example, Cabernet Sauvignon. This year, Diemersdal won its third General Smuts Trophy at the National Young Wine Show. With this king of red grapes, Diemersdal also excelled at the Veritas Awards, where The Journal Cabernet Sauvignon 2020 earned double gold. The Journal Cabernet Sauvignon 2022 received a five-star rating in the Platter’s Guide, placing it in esteemed Cabernet company.

Then there’s the Diemersdal Pinotage. The Journal Pinotage wines from 2020 and 2022 each received double gold at Veritas, with the 2022 Pinotage Reserve reining in an Absa Top 10 Trophy. The Platter’s Guide also named The Journal Pinotage 2022 as the top Pinotage in the country.

For another red variety, Shiraz, Diemersdal achieved a Veritas double gold, and their Syrah 2023 shone with five stars in Platter’s.

Diemersdal’s Sauvignon Blanc wines maintained their prominence despite their reds’ success. Wild Horseshoe 2023 was named Platter’s Sauvignon Blanc of the Year, while The Journal Sauvignon Blanc 2023 earned five stars. Diemersdal Winter Ferment Sauvignon Blanc 2024 was also among the FNB Sauvignon Blanc SA Top 10 winners this year.

Reflecting on these achievements at year-end, Thys remains characteristically humble, despite frequently being asked about the reasons behind Diemersdal’s competition successes. While 2024 may be their most successful year yet in terms of wine accolades, Diemersdal consistently features on the awards stage year after year.

Thys feels blessed to farm in the Durbanville region. “It’s a cool climate influenced by the Atlantic Ocean, combined with soils of weathered granite and clay that just create good terroir for the varieties we grow here,” he explains.

Certainly, where you farm is crucial, but so is how you farm. Although my own relationship with plants and soil is mostly unsuccessful, I can see that Diemersdal’s vineyards are managed with precision and skill. Recently, I toured some of Thys’s Sauvignon Blanc blocks, the vines verdant and lush, with small green clusters ripening. The foliage is uniform, each vine’s arms neatly tied to the wires, and the dry, expired cover-crops between the rows rolled flat. Not a weed in sight.

While Thys is now at the helm, the influence of his father Tienie is evident in this precise, organised wine farming operation. Tienie is a man of detail and of discipline. He still reprimands Thys if the kid’s bakkie is left outside of a farm garage at night, and pity any team-member who during harvest time allows juice or grapes to spill from the trucks without cleaning up the werf, pronto.

It’s values, and family. Thys believes it is family that underlies Diemersdal’s current success. The estate was established in 1698 and has been owned by the Louw family since 1885, with Thys as the sixth generation in the roles of owner and winemaker.

Winemaking runs generations deep in the Louw family’s veins, even before their time at Diemersdal: Thys is a direct descendant of Jan Pietersz Louw, better known as Broertjie, who was tasked by Jan van Riebeeck in 1660 to plant vineyards and make wine along the Liesbeek River in Cape Town’s southern suburbs. Broertjie did this successfully, even before Simon van der Stel’s famed involvement in winemaking at Constantia.

“When we talk about terroir in the wine industry, it’s usually about the soil, location, and climate that influence the vineyards and wine character,” says Thys. “But I believe that the impact of people and generations of farmers plays an equally significant role in shaping a vineyard’s wine.

“What we do today at Diemersdal is simply a continuation of what was initiated in 1698: planting these Durbanville soils with vineyards and ripening the grapes to make wines that reflect the terrain and sites. A value that crosses generations. What my team and I do in the vineyards today is influenced by my father’s farming methods, which he learned from his father and his ancestors.

“While each generation adapts to its circumstances and plants according to market demand, the roots of vineyard farming here run deep into the past. Without this, Diemersdal and its wines would not be what they are today.”

One practice that has remained unchanged since the estate’s beginnings is dryland vineyard farming. “The 190 hectares of vineyards here have never been irrigated,” says Thys. “All of the world’s great wines come from dryland vineyards; it simply makes better wine.”

Thys’s involvement with Diemersdal began in 2005, after completing his studies and gaining experience at other wineries, when he joined Tienie. Sauvignon Blanc wasn’t the primary grape variety at the time, but with his predilection for this wine and recognising a rapid market growth, Thys ensured that Diemersdal and Durbanville became synonymous with Sauvignon Blanc.

“I suppose I’ve been somewhat lucky,” Thys admits. “Even though Diemersdal has a history of producing good red wines, my sheer love of Sauvignon Blanc – and the estate’s ideal cool location for the grape – led to an increase in plantings of this variety and a focus on its diversity in styles. This focus coincided with the phenomenal growth of the Sauvignon Blanc market over the last 20 years, making it today’s most popular single-variety wine in South Africa.

“However, I’m just the current custodian. The next generation might choose to focus on something completely different. The impact of history is, after all, fluid.”

The saying goes that wine is made in the vineyard. As the late wine legend Duimpie Bayly used to say, “you don’t win the Durban July without a jockey.” The role of the winemaker is crucial, especially when you’re processing over 2 000 tons of grapes to create a variety of wines from Sauvignon Blanc and Chardonnay to Pinotage, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Shiraz.

With top winemakers like Mari Branders and Juandré Bruwer by his side, Thys leads the team, but his word is final. I can attest to the importance of a head winemaker with a discerning palate and the intuition for wine. Tasting through the tanks and barrels with Thys, he confidently discusses aspects like the nuances of oak influence on Pinotage or how the lees contact affects his single-vineyard Sauvignon Blanc, and what further steps are needed to prepare a wine for the market to get it “just right”.

I recall asking Thys one year, just before the Easter weekend, if he was heading to his beloved West Coast for a getaway after a busy harvest period. “No,” he replied, “I’m staying on the farm for the weekend. All alone – just me and the wines.”

Because, scoreboard or not, that’s what truly matters here.

The primary enjoyment of wine, obviously, lies in aroma and in taste, with texture and persistence on the palate becoming discernible as one’s appreciation of the vinous intruder grows. Its visual significance is fleeting, as those who remember judging wines to the 20pt score and having to assign a rating out of 5pts for “colour” can attest to.

Sometimes, however, a wine’s visual relevance becomes as much a part of its complete song as the visceral sensorial aspects due to one’s admiration of the place from whence it comes.

Thus, Sauvignon Blanc from the Fryer’s Cove vineyards lying within splash distance from the Atlantic Ocean at Doringbaai, rooted in russet soils and exposed to the drone of breakers and the shrieks of wayward seabirds, draws an appeal complementing the flavours of white fruit, lime-zest and salt-lick, omnipresent in this wine. So, too, the Cabernet Sauvignon from Kanonkop’s vineyards, looking north-west to Cape Town from its perch on the koppies with the foreboding gunmetal presence of Simonsberg guarding from behind.

So, the memory bank clicked “on” as Chris Williams poured his latest release, a Chardonnay 2023 from the Geographica marque made from vineyards growing out Piekenierskloof way in the Citrusdal Valley, and named “Aletheia”. Before I had picked up the glass, my attention had already been gained, the fascinating dreamlike thoughts on the glorious white grape of Burgundy. The grape originating from the vineyards worked by monks in poor rocky soils of eastern France, having been transported to Africa south, planted in the Piekenierskloof region some two hours drive north of Cape Town and an area straddling man’s desire to tame and to farm on land with a raw wilderness beauty where nature can never truly be conquered.

Tough country, about 260mm of rain in a good year with summers that, as I have experienced on farms in the area, being sun-baked and hellish. Lower down, the soils are sandy, but moving up towards the Citrusdal mountains, loam takes over, making for better, more productive farming of vines and rooibos tea and citrus and nuts.

Wine-wise, Chenin Blanc and Grenache have been the hook for hanging Piekenierskloof and Citrusdal’s hat, aided by the fact that much of the vines are old, thus giving good story. These cultivars make wines of character, the fruits’ inherently scholared European elegance enhanced by a feral, rugged charm.

Meeting a fine Chardonnay in this company is a revelation, although my wonder at the space from whence it comes might just have elevated the appreciation thereof. What are expectations worth, after-all, it they are not to be exceeded?

Chris sourced the Chardonnay from Tierhoek, one of the established wineries out Piekenierskloof way and one of which he knows – Chris vinified the first Tierhoek Chenin Blanc in 2003 before setting off to take the winemaking reigns at Meerlust. And when looking for a Chardonnay to add to his Geographica range – Chenin Blanc and Cabernet Franc – the call of Piekenierskloof came-a-asking.

Here, the Chardonnay grows at 760m above sea level on loam soils, the elevation ensuring stark variation in diurnal temperature. Ripening grapes bask in the sun as it moves over to set west on the Atlantic Ocean, and on those star-speckled nights, the temperature drops, allowing the fruit to rest, drawing reserves in a state of chilled calm, ready for the next day’s solar onslaught.

The fruit is whole-bunch pressed directly into a tripartite of fermentation and aging vessels: seasoned French oak, terracotta egg and clay dolia (basically a breed of amphora). Malolactic fermentation ensued after the primary ferment, and the wines matured in the vessels for 13 months before blending and bottling under the label Geographica Aletheia Chardonnay 2023.

Chris is a scholar of ancient history, and Aletheia refers to the terms “truth” or “unconcealed” in ancient Greek, as per the aphorism “Oinos Kai Aletheia”, which means “from wine emerges truth”. This was first used by the smart Greek philosopher Plato in 370BC, centuries before the Romans began making “in vino veritas” the go-to term for wine promoters.

But what lies in that glass of Aletheia Chardonnay, well, it ain’t Greek to me. It is just a wonderous thing, the wonder being in its delectable class as well as a cursory wondering if Piekenierskloof is not capable of joining the ranks of the Cape’s great Chardonnay regions. If the variety receives the kind of meticulous attention here as shown by Chris’s Geographica and Johan Kruger’s renditions from Kruger Family Wines, then Piekenierskloof and Citrusdal can be riveting additions to the Cape’s Chardonnay palette. The far-flung region’s distinctive natural allure will assure further appeal in terms of garnering attention from media and buyers, raising the reality that this area is not limited to Chenin Blanc and Grenache, but can assert its geography on the world’s finest white grape, too.

One only has to experience Geographica Aletheia to realise this.

It is sculpted to beautiful classic curves, port-side of the mineral austerity and anorexic leanness that is still too often considered the way to go in presenting modern Chardonnay. In this wine, it is about taste and pleasure, of show and of impressing, as the harness is unleashed to permit the grape to run free and give all it wants to give.

Aromas of toffee-apple and garrique are lashed together, fun, decadent, and intoxicating. To the mouth, a sunny butteriness asking to be liked, to give joy. On the mid-palate balance, poise and harmony are found, and all that is so very fine about Chardonnay comes together. A slight tartness, quince-like, ensures freshness and crunch. This invigoration is followed by thick-peel Cape lemon, waxy and dappled with earth-bound tastes of Sandveld Kukumakranka (Gethyllis), marzipan and oatmeal. Brightness lasts throughout the wine, jasmine and mace with splashes of green plum, ebbing as the wine’s initial golden glow has the last word.

Tasting makes you wonder, but seeing is believing.

An article from Die Burger newspaper, translated from Afrikaans.

One of the Cape Winelands’ greatest attractions is its magnetic pull on people from across the globe. This enchanting region not only draws tourists who return year after year for the stunning landscapes, diverse wine offerings, and Cape hospitality but also captivates individuals to such a profound extent that it places them on a new life trajectory.

Take, for example, Analjit Singh, the enigmatic Indian businessman originally from New Delhi. Singh embodies the transformative charm of the Cape, having put down new roots in Franschhoek. An international traveller in pursuit of business dealings and intriguing destinations, Singh had never set foot in South Africa until 2010. That all changed with a trip to Johannesburg at his daughter’s request to attend the World Cup football final, which incidentally included a visit to Cape Town and the surrounding wine regions.

Fast forward 14 years, and Singh’s Leeu Estates now features a luxurious, stylish rural hotel on the slopes of Franschhoek’s Dassenberg mountains. Complete with its own winery, Leeu Passant Wines caters to the more prestigious segment of the Cape wine offering.

The name “Leeu,” Afrikaans for “lion,” resonates deeply in this context, considering Singh’s surname translates to “Lion” in the Sanskrit language. It serves as a nod to the roots he has established in South Africa, despite his ongoing business interests spread across India and Europe.

“Yes, Franschhoek and the country have truly captivated me, transplanting my roots here,” says Singh. “Before visiting, I had a passing interest in wine, though I’ve always been a keen whisky enthusiast. Yet, since my first visit 14 years ago, the Cape’s wine culture, its history, and the remarkable quality of its wines have made a profound impact on me. The estates I acquired to establish Leeu Estates – complete with restored heritage buildings – are steeped in the country’s wine culture. Naturally, I felt compelled to engage with the industry, marking one of the most rewarding chapters of my time in South Africa thus far.”

Culture, heritage, tradition – these are themes reappearing regularly during any conversation with Singh. His approach is not about replacement and transformation but rather graceful development that preserves heritage while propelling it forward in harmony with established values.

This perspective also explains Singh’s interest in the Afrikaans language. During a discussion involving several South African colleagues, Singh eagerly probes for translations whenever the conversation lapses into Afrikaans.

At one point, I refer to someone as being “sout van die aarde” (salt of the earth). Singh promptly notes the phrase in his phone, along with its meaning. Similarly, the word “gees” (spirit) – used to describe the warmth, amiability and resilience of South Africans – caught his attention.

One such spirited individual is Rosa Kruger, the renowned viticulturist who guided Singh on his path into the Cape wine world. Globally acclaimed for her dedicated efforts to preserve South Africa’s old, historic vineyards, Kruger emphasises their unique quality and character. She introduced Singh to another expatriate with a passion for South African wines: Andrea Mullineux, the celebrated Californian winemaker who, with her husband Chris, heads Mullineux Wines in the Swartland.

Together Singh and the Mullineuxs founded Leeu Passant Wines in 2013. The winery, situated on Leeu Estates, crafts wines from select vineyards around Franschhoek, as well as from fine parcels in other regions, including Stellenbosch and Wellington.

“Leeu Passant aims to produce wines of exceptional quality,” Singh remarks, “but Chris and Andrea have, too, ignited in me a fascination with the Cape’s winemaking heritage, its culture, and the uniqueness of certain old vineyards. These elements resonate with my ethos and philosophy – a connection to this heritage and culture unique to the Cape wine region and its rich history. It’s one of the main reasons I am here today.”

Notably, two wines in the Leeu Passant line-up pay homage to the storied history of the Cape’s established wine industry: a Franschhoek Sémillon from vines over 60 years old, and a Wellington Cinsault from a vineyard nearing 124 years in age. Yes, these venerable vines near Wellington still thrive, annually growing grapes to a plush ripeness.

“I am passionate about nature, gardens, trees, and plants, and just the notion that these vines have stood the test of time, enduring the elements over generations and providing grapes to make wine…” Singh reflects. “It is a tremendous privilege for us as a winemaking team, and if the wine critics are to be believed, the distinctive character of these vineyards is reflected in the wines’ quality.”

Andrea Mullineux, esteemed as one of the New World’s finest winemakers, describes wines from old vines thus: “Coming from a big family, including Italians, I know of hearty, boisterous meals at the table. Wine from an old vineyard is like the elderly aunt at the table’s end – quiet, observant, watching everyone. But when she speaks, it demands attention, for she speaks with authority.”

The Leeu Passant range also includes wines that, while not from such venerable old vineyards, are still among the best in the country: a sublime Chardonnay and a distinguished Cabernet Sauvignon, both sourced from Stellenbosch vineyards. The Chardonnay is truly exceptional, while the Cabernet Sauvignon underscores the fact that this variety is undoubtedly South Africa’s leading red grape.

As a member of the Napa Valley Reserve wine club in California, Singh has a deep appreciation for Cabernet Sauvignon, which he often enjoys blending himself upon visits to Napa.

“So far, my journey into and involvement in the world of wine has been a delightful, enriching, and soul-nourishing part of my life,” he says. “It has reaffirmed for me that one is never too old to learn and that life is an endless journey of discoveries. For this experience, I owe my gratitude to the Cape and to South Africa.”

And thus, he fits the description of being truly “sout van die aarde”.

We hit Quinta de Napoles, home of Dirk Niepoort’s Douro Valley wine operation, with crates of old Cape wine, chunks of freshly butchered meat and a bobbing truckful of warm-hearted South African spirit. All ready for the most recent addition to the Douro Valley’s embedded centuries-old traditions, namely the perennial visit by South Africans to treat local Portuguese winemakers to a real braai, as performed in our home of Africa South.

Thing was, it had begun raining on the road through the valley, sheets of northern Portuguese precipitation dropping from the dark heavens like paralysed scuba-diving moths, dripping and soaking and splashing. Driver Joaquim Sá pulled over at the Quinta, we opened the doors and spilled into the parking area, the world behind and beyond us unlit and mysterious on this ink-black Douro night.

“Sorry about the weather guys,” said Luís da Silva, Niepoort’s winemaker at De Napoles, as he welcomed us, “not really conditions for a braai.” Like his fellow local winos, Luís had been anticipating this visit for some time and had for the past three days been fasting on two sheep-milk yoghurts, half a grilled sardine and three kale-leaves in expectation of our arrival.

Besides for Joaquim, our van was filled with seven Afrikaners. And in case Luís had not gotten the memo, Afrikaners don’t let some trifle matter such as rain get between us, our hosts and a braai. Not even if that rain is a Douro downpour.

Moving into the Quinta’s dining area, fellow South Africans Bertho van der Westhuizen from Alto Estate, Anri Truter of Beyerskloof fame and KWV’s James Ochse got right down to the task, proceeding to check-out the fireplace, a huge space flanked by gargantuan stumps of wood lumbered from various Douro trees. Logistical lordess Carina Gous of Kleine Zalze commandeered the hauling of provisions into the kitchen adjoining the dining digs, and journalist Daléne Fourie of News 24 and winemaker André Roux (Rupert&Rothschild) did as ordered, while I monitored proceedings.  

New Zealand lamb-chops and boerewors and sirloin steaks had been procured from a South African-Portuguese butcher outside Porto, and on the insistence of Carina and Daléne bread, tomatoes, cheese and onions were sourced for the making of braaibroodjies. To those who do not know, take to google as these fire-charred toasties are an essential part of South African braai DNA.

The fire roared, courtesy of the three pyromaniacs, but before any braaiing could be thought of, Luís led us to the Niepoort cellar for a look, taste and see. Wines were sampled from tanks and concrete and wood. There was sherry-like oxidative stuff, pure reds of garnet hues and savoury taste and fine crisp white wines, of which a blend called Coche was absolutely magnificent, this being Niepoort’s most prized white.

Luís is eloquent and soft-spoken, yet with a determined focus. It’s about vineyards, the Douro Valley soils of slate and granite, driving a sparse pureness in the winemaking approach. The Niepoort set-up for sure won a new set of fans that night, of which I am one.

Back in the dining-room, the fire was blazing. A long table laid out. A vivid painting of men stomping grapes in a traditional lagarge fermenter covered an entire wall.

Daniel Niepoort, the amiable son of Dirk, handed around frosty Portuguese craft-beers as a cute dog with a wiry camel-coloured coat sat at his feet. And then the games started.

Joaquim unveiled out some older South African wines he had lugged from the Cape to Portugal, beginning with Klein Constantia Sauvignon Blanc 1986. Then an 80’s Riesling from the same cellar. Daniel kept getting up and returning with bottles of local white wines of various grapes called Alvarinho and Arinto and Encruzado.

But the boys Bertho and Anri were commanding most of the attention, the crowd getting bigger as Susete Melo and her gang from Douro-winery Kranemann arrived, as did Tiago Mendes from Anselmo Mendes with his Porto restaurateur amigo. Everyone was watching Bertho and Anri as they spread the burned red-hot coals over the floor of the fire-place, set a grid atop the heat and got onto doing what we Afrikaners do best, and that be braaiing.

First-up was the boerewors, as it should be, hastily sizzled over red-hot coals, sealing the casing and allowing the meat to cook in its own fatty juices. The boerewors was removed, cut in stubs and served with fresh Portuguese rolls – daily delivered by the sack to Niepoort. My personal contribution, one that turned out to be rather successful, had been to procure a large jug of Mrs Ball’s Chutney from the butcher in Porto.

The Portuguese hosts gave the glistening dark mixture, interspersed with fine chunks of fruit, a suspicious glance, before apprehensively dipping their pieces of sausage into the stuff. One bite, and they were hooked, slathering the Mrs Ball’s over sausage and bread, eating it with hunger followed by satisfied grunts of pleasure, the kind Portuguese people make when Cristiano Ronaldo swings past two defenders.

Wine side, Joaquim was upping the ante. Opening Rustenberg Cabernet Sauvignon 1982. Then Daniel trumped with a 1955 St Émilion, Clos Jean-Voisin. It was a magnificent wine, uncanny in its expressive oyster-shell profile, memorable with that feather-light palate-weight packed with prunes and herbs. Scintillating.

Back in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of Carina, Daléne and André putting together twenty-some braaibroodjies with the kind of deft skill only found in a group of experts working in perfect, harmonious unison.

Now the lamb-chops were on the fire, Anri and Bertho haunched beside the grill managing the heat of the coals and ensuring the meat cooks true en good. The guys were getting glances of respect and admiration from our hosts, and every turning of a chop was met with a slight gasp of awe and amazement. By the time the final two chops were turned, I was expecting the Mexican wave to break out, or a combined singing of “Sarie Marie” in Portuguese.

Soon it was time to hit the table. The toasted braaibroodjies placed on separate platters and scattered about the hungry guests. Chops and steaks were waiting in hot-dishes by the fire for self-serving.

The Mrs Balls Chutney kept flowing, our hosts piling it over their meat and braaibroodjies, washing the time-proven South African culinary combination down with more-and-more profound wines which Daniel was bringing-up from the cellar. These were becoming impressive, but Joaquim still had a trump to play in his offerings. Namely a KWV Port from 1929.

Now, even if this was a 1929, bearing a South African Port to the Douro is like taking a can of Lucky Star Pilchards to a Portuguese fishing village. But the locals were amazed, stunned at the deeply fruited intensity of the Cape Port, its layers of glowing, iridescent flavours an honour to the wines for which the Douro is most famous and which had, all those years ago, inspired the folks at the KWV to make this wine. It was an emotional moment, as tributes and honours to the legacy of one’s forebears are.

Daniel was, however, not going to be outdone. He opened a Niepoort Port compiled on a slug of base-wine that had been made in 1863. This, too, called for regal admiration and much inspiration, as much as the gratitude for an evening that, like the two Ports, will go down as immortal in the minds of those fortunate enough to have been there.

For the first time since I do not know when, two weeks went by without my imbibing one drop of my beloved Chardonnay wine. The reason being a trip to the Netherlands and Portugal where the former destination saw a laddish immersion in beer, and the second based on the fact that the Land of the Long Sardine does not do much Chardonnay, and it is deemed unmannered not to partake in the joys of the more abundant local wine varieties.

Yet, despite this non-appearance of my favourite white grape of Burgundy, this European jolly saw me having two of the finest white wines I have ever had.

The first was on a chilly autumn evening in The Hague, the frigid temperature elevated by the unexpected warm hospitality of the local Dutch people. They can be a weird bunch, portraying a unique combination of being both anally boring and loafishly brash. But on this night the streets were filled with smiling, friendly Dutch folk, chirping and greeting and giving quaint comments about my attempts to speak to them in my mother tongue of Afrikaans, which is related to Dutch.

“Your language sounds so cute!” the lady-owner of Bouzy wine bar in The Hague enthused. “It sounds like you are talking like a drunk baby who has just crapped in his nappy!” Charming, I know, but perhaps that’s what they teach you at sommelier class in the Netherlands.

However, she – like many Dutch girls easy on the eye – took my order of a white wine from Condrieu with pleasure, as well as the order of 12 Dutch oysters. In Holland, raw oysters are a safe bet foodwise as all the cooked stuff consists of overdone meat battered into croquettes and balls of some kind, limp soggy cabbage and some thing of greyish white sauce resembling the mother’s milk of an oil-clad, dying North Sea whale.  

In any event, I had decided on the Condrieu as the bite in the night air called for a warm-fruited wine and, besides, this northern Rhône wine is a bit of rarity in my homeland down south.

The wine was one from Pierre Gaillard, vintage 2021 and as my hostess poured a sample and I swirled and nosed it, I had that rare feeling of having made the right decision at just the right time.

It was a glorious perfume, warm hay basking under a low late afternoon sun, fried curry leaves and dried mango. Not a mineral, stone or crisp edge in sight. This evocative tropical nose tempted me to assume the Condrieu would be on the sweetish side, as many of these and other wines made from the Viognier grape are. But no, it was all dry, but one that achieves that extraordinary balance between being invigoratingly fresh and sap-laden as well as skirting on the side of an idle and glowing fruit plushness.

In the mouth the wine was extremely forward and precocious, choosing to seduce from the attack on the palate. It slipped and slid and probed, like a fine silk neckerchief that had been soaked in scented palm oil. This sexy presence on the palate elevated the flavours to groin-clinching heights, making this definitely the most exciting experience I had in the Netherlands.

Peach and apricots rode on that glistening coating of Condrieu texture, but the simplicity of these tastes was quickly compounded by other more intriguingly exotic offerings. Fired chestnut smoke lay there, interspersed with nuances of mace and burnt saffron, an edge of wild honey and some golden sultana paste. To close it off, a more refined layer of wild heather and potpourri. It was mesmerising, and dreamlike, so much that I can’t remember getting to the oysters.

Rave wine number two, and this in a cramped noisy restaurant in Porto, Portugal. The place was heaving, aromas of codfish, olive oil and hair-cream hanging in the Douro River air. Tiago Mendes was in town, son of the legendary Anselmo who is one of Portugal’s most famous winemakers, especially of white cultivars.

Tiago got my attention with a Vinho Verde – not hard as I am a sucker for the stuff – but this a single variety made from the Loureiro grape. Loureiro and Alvarinho usually command the blended Vinho Verdes, with Loureiro known for offering broad white fruit to the blend as opposed to Alvarinho’s stone-edged mineral hit.

But here was a Vinho Verde from Anselmo Mendes, 100% Loureiro and only the fourth or fifth time I had ventured into this territory. But by far the best.

Everything the Gaillard Condrieu was, the Mendes Loureiro 2020 ain’t.

Take a Cru Chablis, filter it through an Alpine mountain glacier, and you’ll end-up with something to the tune of the Anselmo Mendes Loureiro. It is icy, frigid, lean…makes an anorexic Franciscan nun seem like a loud plump slut strolling the streets of Lisbon.

On the nose, Mendes Loureiro, bears jagged edges of pine-cone, frost-covered alfalfa and green quince. The smelling of it alone is a rush, clears the head, focusses the mind. It is an in-the-zone wine.

Christ, but the taste is gorgeous. Alive and exhilarating and clean, leading one to wonder at how something like a ripe juicy grape growing in northern Portugal can be honed into such a precise, exact and pure, pure glass of white wine. This is where the wonderous life-cycle of nature is captured by the vineyard, bled into the grape and masterfully reborn by the hands and mind of a blessedly skilled winemaker. It is a miracle.

As far as flavours go, there were green almond and salt-lick running a line, with patches of yellow plum and lime, stardust brought from the heavens and rained upon by wet sheets of pure mountain water. The pulse raced as this wine was consumed in eager draughts, setting one on edge, on the edge of greatness.