I had an old friend — now, sadly, dead — who spent his final years in terror of his wife.
I had an old friend — now, sadly, dead — who spent his final years in terror of his wife. By the time he reached man’s estate, he had developed a taste for good claret. As he became a good lawyer, he was able to indulge it. Jolly expeditions to Bordeaux, long sessions with old-fashioned wine-merchants, his own estimable palate: the outcome was an enviable cellar.
And an increasingly valuable one. My late friend refused to let counting-house considerations deter him from drinking his treasures; that attitude of mind was for billing clients, not opening bottles. Even so, he was astonished by the constant upward pressure on wine prices. He could no longer afford to buy his favourites en primeur, but as he said, that hardly mattered, for two reasons. In the first place — and, alas, he was right — he was unlikely to live to salute their maturity in his glass. Second, he was in a position to trade the odd case of Lafite, itself not yet ready, for up to 50 cases of serious wine. That is where the wife was a potential threat. Suppose she discovered that even one little box of that Lafite would pay a grandchild’s school fees for a year…
Life has graver problems, and this column will address one of them. In the 1980s, Alan Clark complained that decent claret was costing £100 a bottle. For the wines he had in mind, try over £1,000 today, and counting. Empty bottles of Lafite are fetching $150 in Beijing. Most of us will rarely be able to afford the wines that dons used to take for granted at high table. So how can we find substitutes?
Let us start in Roussillon, with the best thing to come out of that province since All’s Well. There is a winemaker called Gérard Gauby, whose commitment, expertise and passion prepare one for the pleasure of his wines. He inherited a family property, Domaine Gauby, where he started exploring the potential of old vines and traditional methods. But he wanted to expand, and improve. In the 1990s, he found some abandoned vines high in the Agly valley: pretty countryside, surrounded by mountains, with the sea just over the horizon. The altitude, 1,500 feet, guarantees a crisp climate. The soil is decayed granite washed with limestone, rather like Hermitage.
Gérard was certain that he had found a most promising location. He persuaded Roy Richards and Mark Walford of Richards Walford, the wine merchants, to come into partnership with him. None of them has regretted the decision. Under the label of Le Soula, they make both red and white wine, with local grape varietals, employing the old methods reinforced by modern viniculture. Early on, they used some Cabernet Sauvignon in the reds. I thought that this gave an additional complexity; no expert agrees with me. But as the vineyard gained in confidence, they discarded the Cab Sauv, which is not a local grape. Gérard has a profound loyalty to his terroir.
Both Le Soulas have structure, fruit, subtlety and a long harmonious finish. They are forward, but also long-lived. Although the whites can be drunk at about four years and the reds at five, there is no hurry. There have been attempts to compare them to Rhônes or Burgundies, yet this is irrelevant, except in terms of quality. They are their own wines, and about as good as any bottle that Provence has to offer. Obviously, we are not talking Lafite, but Le Soula can easily look a classed growth in the eye.
Except, thus far, in price. The wines can still be found for a little over £20 a bottle; not, one fears, for much longer. Le Soula is building a reputation; winning golden opinions. I hate summoning up the shades of the counting-house, but unless the world economy collapses, Le Soula will be an investment. If there is a crash, it will be a consolation. Le Soula is a rare oenophile redoubt, still resisting the march of plutocracy. Enjoy it while you can.
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