Bolney Dark Harvest – English red wine

We English like to pit ourselves against the odds. Plucky little islanders, rising to a challenge, us against the world, etc etc. And if the odds aren’t quite steep enough, we like to introduce some additional difficulties; like running a marathon, but in a diving suit. So something about the perversity of producing not just a wine, but a red wine, in the English village winery of Bolney, appeals to Sediment's similarly English mentality.

Southern England is now on the cusp of a grape-growing climate, and there have been particular compliments paid recently to English sparkling white wine. But black grapes require greater heat over greater time than white; English red wine is therefore a climatic curiosity like, say, English olives.

Still, overcoming the weather is a national habit; to be quintessentially English, ambitions must have a few further obstacles placed in the way of their possible success. Most of those which follow appear to have been placed there by Bolney themselves. Most raise questions...

First, a little label confusion to baffle the potential customer. I found Dark Harvest amongst the world’s wines on my Waitrose shelf; but side by side were two completely different labels, from the same vintage. The label at the top of this page is rather stylish and elegant in a quiet, classic, serif-font English way – whereas this one  

shrieks amateur craft fair. Did they want a label to dissuade potential purchasers? Why are the two side-by-side on the shelf? I do not know – but only one is fit to grace my dining table. (CJ probably bought the other one…)

Next, I discover that Dark Harvest is not actually on the Bolney website. They offer instead another red wine – similar grapes, similar label – called Lychgate Red.  I e-mailed to ask if they were the same wine, and their PR (!) replied, “the Dark Harvest wine is not available from the vineyard, it is however available from Waitrose stores and online at Waitrose Wine Direct”. Which is not really an answer. But okay, Dark Harvest is the one in Waitrose. Oh, and, I find, in the Eight Bells Village Pub & Restaurant, in… Bolney. Perhaps, in a second vain attempt to hinder wider tasting of Bolney’s produce, they have been hijacking the departing Waitrose lorries.

Now, on the Waitrose back label, it’s suggested that the wine goes well with roast beef. This is a shrewd marketing move for an English red. Unfortunately, that's in complete contrast to Bolney’s own website pairing suggestion for its red wine: serve with salt marsh lamb, quince aioli and wild broccoli.

Are they mad? I could count the number of Englishmen eating quince aioli this Sunday on the fingers of one… finger.

And not even roast lamb, an immensely popular English dish, but salt marsh lamb, an exclusive, seasonal speciality. Narrow the market, why don’t you? (And none of that tame broccoli…)

So they’ve stubbed their English meta-tarsals against climate, naming, labelling and food matching. Finally, like many wineries, Bolney make a little marketing statement about their wines. “Our wines are of slightly lower alcohol content than most other countries,” they say, “and this makes them especially attractive to women and to our younger drinkers – but of course, men enjoy them too!”

Presumably English is the language in Bolney? The statement should either employ an apostrophe, or read “than those of most other countries”; as it stands, we’re comparing wines with countries. 

But anyway, do women find wines of lower alcohol content especially attractive? Why? Why younger drinkers? And what about younger women drinkers, who I see on the streets of Northern England in Police, Action programmes, wearing what appear to be pelmets, and falling off the pavement from alcohol content?

In any case, it is plain wrong – Dark Harvest is 12.5%, an average strength among wines.

Still, at least “men enjoy them too!” Well…

Not this man. Dark Harvest is indeed Dark, almost purple in colour. It has a pungent bouquet, bordering on the urinal, above what I can only describe as farmyard base notes. Is that the Harvest? Rotting in the rain?

I felt it was, strangely, very slightly petillant on the tip of the tongue; and then it flattens out over the mouth. It has a raw, actually slightly bitter flavour, like Biro ink, above flabby fruit. And it leaves behind it, not so much an aftertaste as a residue. I’m sorry – it is really very unpleasant. I actually had to take the taste away, with a glass of proper English red wine – claret.

So, the final obstacle to success. It’s horrible. The amateur craft fair label would have been more appropriate after all. The Eight Bells supportively describes it as "a real stunner" - frankly, only if you were coshed with the bottle.

Why did I go through all that bother? Why bother drinking it? Why bother making it? The only answer is: because we're all English.

I am left with the thought of a greater Englishman, Dr Johnson, who would no doubt lump this stuff in with women preachers and dogs who walk on their hind legs. English red wine: it is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.

PK

Quaffing and glugging – Tsantali Cabernet Sauvignon

Am I a fool to want wine drinking to be something of a sophisticated activity? Was I naive to aspire, for all of those years, to a cellar, a carafe, a smidgen of knowledge and an appreciative sip? I only ask, because it seems that, even in relatively upmarket UK publications, drinking wine is now frequently described using two verbs – “quaff” and “glug” – which are redolent of frankly oafish consumption.

The Telegraph recommend “a glug of vino”. In the Independent, you can “glug” some natural wine, while a  Cape blend is described as “an affordable glugger”. The FT called respected winemaker Michel Chapoutier “quaffable and quotable”. The Spectator, usually a bastion of tradition, refers to a Chardonnay as “a real glugger”.  And the Guardian says that “Sometimes all you want is something light, crisp and quaffable” – well, speak for yourself.

(There is even an ugly misspelling of a wine site called Kwoff, edited by the Kwoff Boys. But they are Australian.)

There are other equally distasteful terms around; Sediment had to take the saintly Victoria Moore to task, for “swilling” and “sluicing” her summer wines in the Telegraph, which hardly makes them sound desirable. But “quaff” and “glug” are particularly widespread.

And now Waitrose, perhaps England’s most upmarket supermarket chain, have trumped the lot. In the May issue of their Waitrose Kitchen print magazine, Olly Smith manages both. In a single issue, he directs us to “glug” one wine, and to “quaff” another.

What would be the food writing equivalent? “Wolf this down for lunch”? “Scoff this one for supper”? One really can't see The Blessed Nigel  ending a recipe with “Great to guzzle with friends”. But are the guests eating food any less oafish than the guests drinking wine?

Presumably these writers want to convey some kind of Falstaffian, Merrie Men bonhomie, with everyone waving goblets and tankards – but this is not the raucous scenario I believe Mrs K (as My Affianced has now become) has in her mind’s eye when we invite people round for dinner. Would you welcome a guest, and ask, “Are you quaffing tonight?” Or pour a glass and say, “Fancy a glug?” Our guests neither quaff nor glug; they sip and savour their wine, as they discuss high-minded matters and exchange witty repartee. (Although sometimes CJ does visit…)

Perhaps “glugging” is also supposed to echo the sound of carefree pouring, like an arsonist waving a bottle of petrol about a room? Not in our house, I’m afraid, where guests tend to prefer their wine in their glass rather than their lap.

Easy drinking, that’s what these writers want to suggest – and I’m afraid that’s another of my bêtes noires. When is drinking not easy, for goodness sake? It’s a reflex action! If you’re finding that a wine is “difficult” drinking, frankly you don’t need a wine critic, you need a doctor.

“Quaffing” often has a critical tone; celebrities or rich bastards always “quaff” champagne, while proles like us simply drink it. Deconstruct that, Mr Waitrose. But I thought, in the interests of research, I should at least try to “glug” a wine.

I therefore took a large mouthful of air in with my wine, and swallowed the lot with a kind of reverse belch. It certainly made an unattractive noise which could be described as “glug”, rather like the final emptying of a sink.

However, the result was also that a painful bolus of air descended my oesophagus with agonising slowness. This is what I imagine it must be like to swallow a golf ball. If any wine critic seriously thinks such “glugging” is to be encouraged, I suggest they try this painful activity for themselves, and then think again.

So what happens when, instead of quaffing or glugging, you simply drink one of these wines? In a civilised manner, slowly and considerately, without sonic accompaniment from either bottle or digestive system.

One of Waitrose’s vulgarly described offerings is the Tsantali Cabernet Sauvignon. This comes from the Greek region of Halkidiki, which I can’t help thinking sounds like something R2D2 would say. A Greek Cabernet Sauvignon – when CJ heard what I was drinking, he said “I admire your moxie, kid.”

Whereas Olly Smith said, “Quaff it with steak, chops and top-quality bangers,”. Not sausages, you note, or even loukaniki; but “bangers”...

Well, it’s a competent, straightforward Cabernet Sauvignon; that slightly burnt aroma, but a bit flat in the mouth; a little brief resonance on the palate… but then gone. No richness, no complexity, no grip. Perfectly OK, and with a hefty 14.5% alcohol, which will assist the goblet-waving; but for £9, I’m afraid I expect something a little more memorable.

But perhaps this is what it’s really all about?  Wine for people who don’t want a stimulated palate getting in the way, slowing down the process of swallowing in large draughts (as Dr Johnson defined the verb “to quaff”)? In which case, why not go the whole hog, and provide alcohol via an intravenous drip?

I shall not, in the foreseeable, be filling my guests’ glasses with a hearty “There you go, quaff that!” Nor inviting Olly Smith to demonstrate his glugging technique over our sink. Nor, indeed, purchasing another bottle of the unmemorable...what was it called?

PK

The Whale Caller, Shiraz/Cabernet Sauvignon

Who's responsible for this rubbish? No, not the Sediment blog – sadly, like a guilty schoolboy in a kept-behind class, I am all too aware of who is responsible for this misdemeanour – nor the rubbish on the right (appropriately incorporating this post's subject), but this rubbish:

In the coastal South African town of Hermanus, the Whale Caller waits on the cliffs, calling for the whales to return from the Antarctic waters. 
As you savour this rich red wine, with dark berry fruit and hints of chocolate and spice, you may just catch the strains of the Whale Caller's horn, blowing on the southern wind.

This twaddle is on the label of my latest foray into the disagreeable realms of the sub-£5 wine. And The Whale Caller (Waitrose, £4.29) is a wine with a lot of disagreement.

On the Ocado site – that is, the people who deliver the stuff – there is unanimous approval; six five-star public reviews, only dropping one star in one reviewer’s reckoning for “quality of packaging”, which is pretty odd when you think about it. What exactly is an inferior quality bottle?

The professionals seem ambiguous and, for once, divided. Anthony Rose in the Independent described it as “an affordable glugger” which I found faintly repellent. Do you “glug”? Would you think “glug” an acceptable description of your guests’ drinking manner? Or perhaps those who do “glug” would find this an appealing drink?

Equally, last August, Suzy Atkins in the Telegraph described the 2008 Whale Caller as “ a brill barbie red”. This to me is equally dubious. Does she mean it’s in the territory of potentially poisonous outdoor consumption, inducing stomach cramps and vomiting?

There’s surely more than a whiff of social judgement here. It’s not, you may note, a nice wine to drink at a barbeque, but a brill wine to glug at a barbie. Call me a subtextual post-structuralist, but methinks these are not your average Waitrose customers.

Sipping the wine in my study (he says – judge as ye may) I found it dull and thick. Any shiraz spiciness is flattened out by cabernet sauvignon to leave just a vague, nasal burn. It has a bouquet of diesel before, and a sickly, plastic aftertaste. The whole process of consumption is frankly distasteful.

Fiona Beckett, who also writes in the Guardian, is upfront about the wine (and not its audience) when she blogs that “It's incredibly jammy but not in a nice way with no structure or acidity. The best thing you can say about it is that it's not rubbery. And might be a bit better if you chill it.”

Why did I even buy it? Ah, that I can explain. Every so often, Waitrose offer 25% off all – yes, that’s all – of their wine. Like a mug, I trailed down to my local branch with a rucksack to grab half a dozen bottles of prime plonk. But of course, when I got there, none of the prime plonk was to be seen. Either the local populace had descended on my branch like the wolf on the fold, and stripped it of everything decent; or (as it was carefully phrased to the admirable Victoria Moore, then writing in the Guardian the good stuff had been, to quote the euphemism, “de-emphasised”. Victoria had tried throughout one offer to buy a particular Cornas online, and had been unable to find it. So where do you put them, she asked? "I'm not going to tell you,” replied the manager of Waitrose Wine Direct, “because I don't want you to tell your readers how to find them." So, having found no prime plonk myself, I foolishly settled for some of the cheaper stuff.

Fiona Beckett’s blog attracted a lovely comment from someone who actually lives in Hermanus, SA who says “It doesn't sound like this wine is doing a great job at promoting our little town of Hermanus. We have some wonderful wineries nearby… but I shouldn't think this wine is anything to do with them. 
We also do have a whale crier but his job is to blow his horn to show tourists where the whales are, not to call the whales back from the Antarctic!”

So even the label fails to live up to expectations. Indeed, as I savoured (hem, hem) this rich red wine, I caught the usual sonic background to my household wine consumption: cries of mislaid keys, ringing phones, the thunder of feet and exhortations to turn off lights. I’m afraid I did not catch the strains of the Whale Caller’s horn.

But at least I finally understand the notion of a Barbie wine. It’s like its namesake: malproportioned, badly balanced and tastes of plastic.