Doug does delicious Italy
Douglas Wregg writes about wine with as much accomplishment as he displays in his tasting of it, so we are naturally both delighted and honoured that he is posting details of his recent trip to Northern Italy on our web site. Thanks Doug - you can post here anytime!!
Douglas Wregg writes about wine with as much accomplishment as he displays in his tasting of it, so we are naturally both delighted and honoured that he is posting details of his recent trip to Northern Italy on our web site. Thanks Doug - you can post here anytime!! DAY ONE: Haute-Savoie-Valle d’Aosta
Savoie is such an offbeat wine region that even many French people only seem to have a vague idea of its location. Viticulture here seems like opportunism and local demand sucks up the thin, often acidic wines without discernment. Amongst the patchwork scattering of scrawny vineyards and tiny wineries there are but a few gems and serendipity alone would lead you to the ramshackle village of Ayze and Domaine Belluard.
The vineyards of Domaine Belluard are situated in Ayze in the Haute-Savoie as Dominique Belluard was at pains to point out when we finally arrived at the winery. They rise to about 450m above sea level and from them you can see the spur of the Alps. Some of the vines are planted on the flat grounds near the winery, others terraced on the steep inclination of the exposed south-facing hills behind – including some on Terre Feu, a red scarred, mineral-rich subsoil composed of glacial sediments and moraines (continuous linear deposits of rock and gravel). The Alpine climate ensures a big temperature difference between day and night, ensuring both physiological maturity in the grapes as well as good acidity.
Dominique Belluard, who enjoys hang-gliding (this would be a novel method of harvesting grapes), has a restless, questing demeanour. Like many vignerons you sense he would rather be walking or puttering off in his tractor than talking. He has long grimy tapering fingers and constantly makes roll-ups one-handed – without looking. Occasionally, only occasionally, a half-smile will crack his features.
We learn about the Gringet grape, that previously it was thought to be Savagnin, the famous grape of Jura, but ampelographical testing suggests that it is, in fact, an older variety. Now the grape has virtually disappeared from Savoie with only Belluard holding any significant quantities: a mere 8ha. Most Gringet goes into the production of sparkling wines which are a local speciality and likely to remain so.
Dominique is a serious proponent of biodynamic viticulture. He speaks all of the time of “balance” with regard to the vine and its environment, the relationship of the plant and the cosmos and that the preparations given to the plant are to enable it to find this balance. When he mentioned the alignment of the planets and telluric forces a few eyes rolled, but I suppose that if you don’t work the land you’re not in tune with the rhythms of nature and all such talk must seem like arrant poppycock. The notion of achieving balance derives from holistic aspect of biodynamics that sets out the idea that all life is trying to achieve internal harmony and that we can create the preconditions for this state by observing and understanding how the natural world (or the world of natural forces and energies) works.
In his not hugely prepossessing paint-flaking winery which seems to be held together by masking tape Dominique expounds on his dislike of oak (“it deadens the flavour”) whilst pouring us some Gringet from the tank. He’s not a fan of stainless steel either, believing that it doesn’t allow the wine to breathe properly. As a result he has installed oval cement betons. All the wines we tasted were fantastically pure, especially the mineral Gringet from the Terre de Feu terroir. No malolactic fermentation here – the fruit is beacon-bright, crystalline and the acidity sings. The wine conveys initial aromas of white flowers and jasmine, is citrus-edged with a hint of white peach, jasmine and violet and a twist of aniseed to finish. The latest Gringet cuvées from the egg-shaped tanks were more emollient and slight more textural as if the lees contact had smoothed some of the stony aggression.
The unique cement “eggs” used for fermenting and ageing the wine. Note the primitive artwork on the walls
I left thinking that Belluard’s beton was metaphorically half empty. Below in the valley lorries rumble and the pollution festers; meanwhile, in his redoubt on the slopes, Dominique is searching for purity and perfection. His slightly hangdog expression suggests that he is fighting a battle not just against the perennial forces of nature, but against the depredations of Man. Whatever you think about his endeavours or his wine he is the archivist of a nearly-vanished grape variety and should the Gringet ultimately disappeared, well, we are all ultimately diminished by that fact. Uniformity can be endless replicated making individuality all the more precious.
The Mont Blanc tunnel is not for the claustrophobic and it was rather wonderful to eventually shoot out the other side into the soft evening light of the Aosta Valley. We stop at the luxury spa hotel in Prés Saint Didier where we are met by the youthful Gianluca Telloli, winemaker at Cave du Vin Blanc. Down the stairs, get changed, then cavort through numerous rooms of warm waterfalls, sultry steam baths and assorted thermal geysers, then into the blood temperature outdoor pool where we sat on marble shelves each with a glass of sparkling Cave de Vin Blanc (from the Prié Blanc grape) and toasted the resplendently snow-skirted Mont Blanc, its muscular massif locking in the northern horizon. A bubbly mood ensued, lots of splashing and diving, before our second glass of something, a frivolous, effervescent Gamay. As Goethe might quoth as he might quaff: “Wie herrlich leuchtet mir die Natur”.
The Cave de Morgex may be the biggest wheel in town but is in reality a tiny co-operative of many dozen of members some of whom own a mere row or two of vines. The total vineyard area amounts to around 20 hectares, fragmented over many sites. The sheer beauty of these soaring mountain vineyards is made even more arresting by a time-honoured system called pergola bassa, or low pergola, where the vines are trained near the ground in trellised arbours with stone columns surrounded by stone walls. According to La Cave’s winemaker Gianluca Telloli, “The low pergola has been used for centuries here because it protects the vines from wind and heavy snowfall, while allowing them to benefit from heat accumulated in the ground during the daytime.” Yet the low pergola presents many difficulties, too. Harvesters must pick the grapes on their knees and, in some cases, while laying flat on their backs.
The vineyards, famously, are amongst the highest in Europe, with some vines at 1300m above sea level. They are old as well; some of these gnarled veterans have been knocking around for over 100 years. As I gazed towards Mont Blanc fading into the gloaming I thought we were in some kind of wine version of Shangri-La, a womb-like forgotten valley where traditions hold as strong as ever and where amongst the extremes there was a humble approach to growing and winemaking.
Telloli explains that the stone walls surrounding individual plots and the enormous piles of rocks heaped in a seemingly haphazard manner among the terraces have a function beyond aesthetics. “Centuries ago, the peasants realized how important the heat conducting capabilities of the stones were. We’ve kept the ancient stone walls and rocks because they really help retain heat during the cool nights, which is crucial for the grapes’ maturation.”
To that end he took us on a magical mystery diversion in his car haring round the zigzags to the base of a vineyard that sheered into the tenebrous sky. By now it was dark, the first stars were blinking and we staggered uncertainly up the slope marvelling at the stone walls that buttressed the terraces. The vines seemed to be clinging on for dear life; occasionally you could see where the roots had twisted around and poked through gaps in the wall to re-emerge on the surface. This was, we were told, the vineyard of Enfer d’Arvier, an amphitheatre of a couple of hectares, which through a chimney-effect was considerably hotter at the top than the bottom. We were enjoined to place our hands on the stones and feel that they were still warm, mini night storage heaters.
The pergola bassa
All this alpen-traipsing sharpened the appetite no end and it was a hungry group of travellers indeed that dumped their luggage with alacrity in the hallway of the hotel and thundered into the dining room in the mood for some serious bibbing and tuckering. The coach, after a dizzying drive à la Italian Job, had decanted us at the beautifully reconstructed Inn/Restaurant of “La Clusaz” which stands in the village of Gignod, in the Aosta Valley, just a few miles from the Great St. Bernard Pass.
The Valley of the Great St. Bernard is a fascinating area, of great historical interest, a grandiose natural setting of woodland and countryside that changes with the seasons. In the surrounding villages, characterized by rascards (wooden chalet-style farmhouses) and other historic buildings, time seems magically to have stood still, preserving the area’s ancient rural way of life rumbled only by the bloody pantechnicons that roar perpetually through the valley.
Around 1050, Bernardo di Mentone, vicar general of Aosta diocese, built a hospice at the pass that now bears his name to offer refuge and assistance to pilgrims and travellers. The hospice was run by Augustine monks, who have faithfully continued to perform this task right up to the present day. The hospice has been altered and extended many times over the centuries, but is still a place of peace and prayer for travellers wanting to benefit from its atmosphere of quiet contemplation.
In their work of succouring travellers, the monks had a great ally in the St. Bernard dog, the very symbol of loyalty and faithfulness. A powerfully built animal, hardy and of excellent temperament, the St. Bernard was trained to seek out travellers who had lost their way or been buried in snow as a result of avalanches. Although modern rescue methods are now used, including helicopters, and lighter-built dogs are preferred, the monks continue to raise St. Bernards, following a rigorous breeding programme. The dogs spend the winter at Martigny but are brought up to the pass in the summer months, to the delight of the many tourists who come to see them each year.
This ancient tradition of hospitality in the Valley of the Great St. Bernard is reflected in the history of “La Clusaz". It is first mentioned in the 12th century and there are documents dating from 1140 which refer to the inn as a place of refuge and refreshment for travellers and pilgrims crossing the Great St. Bernard Pass.
La Clusaz
Whilst in the restaurant the food was perhaps primped and prettified, it was nevertheless a fascinating insight into the quality of local ingredients. Behind this labour lies a passion for organic produce and genuine flavours. The perpetuation of traditional production methods over many years has evidently become a time-honoured rite and every dish has its particular story. For example, we were told about the pane di segale, a nuggety hard bread made from the harvest festival loaves that are baked annually. Traditional cooking here means that nothing is wasted.
Observing the philosophy of Slow Food La Clusaz understands that the seasons dictate the pattern of production throughout the year. When the hotel’s pigs are butchered, they produce the salami, dry-cured ham and local black puddings which feature on the traditional menu. La Clusaz also makes its own butter and a number of traditional local cheeses: fontina, the main ingredient in local soups, vapellenentse, cognentse and rebleque, a soft cheese which is also served as a dessert with cinnamon, rum and cane sugar.
The amusette to our feast was a little goat paté, followed by a selection of meats (Prosciutto crudo e salumi). I recall some melt-in-the-mouth lardo and various hams including one made from the udders of a cow (which elicited the predictable “udderly delicious” from one wag). Another course featured a golden yellow quenelle of roughly- milled corn-meal polenta in a pool of melted fontina; and another was a classic of fatty ham-wrapped chestnuts with cabbage (Tortino di castagne, pancetta e lardo con pane de segale). This dish should have been served warm so that the lard could melt into the chestnuts and release the sweet flavours therein – in the end it didn’t fit together. Gran piatto del Maiale con cavolo viola al miele was also about the big pig-ture (sic) and contained – artfully arranged - pancia a cottura confit, cotechino (boiled sausage), costina and the splendidly named Stinco disossato (deboned shank) with some honey-drizzled red cabbage. As the rather elegant plate was put in front of us, Christian, on my left, whose expression had become increasingly glazed throughout the evening – it had been a long day – looked as if he wanted to bury his face in the meat selection and go to sleep. Eric was critical: the dishes weren’t rustic enough, the magic was missing, but I think our collective appetite was more suited to gnashing the flesh off spare ribs and tucking into an earthy stew than playing pat-a-cake with the deconstructed concoctions on our plates.
We drank the Morgex wines throughout the meal beginning with the Estremi made with wild yeast ferment. The 2006 was a mere 11.5% was yellow with pale greenish tints, a citrus-edged nose and an irrepressible minerality. This wine is still writing a Mont Blanc cheque to my taste-buds. I loved it, but then I seem to have a penchant for wines produced by the thimbleful. The Rayon, by contrast, which I had formerly associated in my mind’s palate with all things ethereal and mountain-peaky and gingham-skirted damsels cavorting through alpine meadows (I must stay off the cheap grappa), suddenly seemed less linear and stone-inflected and instead rather ripe and full-bodied with palpable flavours of orchard fruits. At the end of the meal we tried the off-beat Chaude Lune, an eiswein (or vin de glacière) that uses (according to tradition) several different types of wood to act as a conduit for flavour – in this case chestnut, oak, cherry-wood and juniper. Remarkably, one could isolate the various fugitive wood essences. This thoroughly distinctive wine harvested with snow literally clinging to the grapes (the Prié Blanc is a hardy soul) might be described as the classic grain de folie or pour ma guele (for my gob) showcasing the art of the possible in a wine. Commercialism doesn’t come into it; passion and a fierce sense of tradition do.
Finishing the meal with a cheeky grappa before collapsing into bed. Tomorrow morning, two more vineyards in Valle d’Aosta: Cantina di Barro and Les Cretes, run by ahem… the exuberant Costantino Charrere, before driving down to Piedmont and visiting the cellars of Giacomo Borgogno. Finally, to beautiful rolling Asti and the biodynamic vineyards of Vittorio Bera. A long day indeed.
Savoie is such an offbeat wine region that even many French people only seem to have a vague idea of its location. Viticulture here seems like opportunism and local demand sucks up the thin, often acidic wines without discernment. Amongst the patchwork scattering of scrawny vineyards and tiny wineries there are but a few gems and serendipity alone would lead you to the ramshackle village of Ayze and Domaine Belluard.
The vineyards of Domaine Belluard are situated in Ayze in the Haute-Savoie as Dominique Belluard was at pains to point out when we finally arrived at the winery. They rise to about 450m above sea level and from them you can see the spur of the Alps. Some of the vines are planted on the flat grounds near the winery, others terraced on the steep inclination of the exposed south-facing hills behind – including some on Terre Feu, a red scarred, mineral-rich subsoil composed of glacial sediments and moraines (continuous linear deposits of rock and gravel). The Alpine climate ensures a big temperature difference between day and night, ensuring both physiological maturity in the grapes as well as good acidity.
Dominique Belluard, who enjoys hang-gliding (this would be a novel method of harvesting grapes), has a restless, questing demeanour. Like many vignerons you sense he would rather be walking or puttering off in his tractor than talking. He has long grimy tapering fingers and constantly makes roll-ups one-handed – without looking. Occasionally, only occasionally, a half-smile will crack his features.
We learn about the Gringet grape, that previously it was thought to be Savagnin, the famous grape of Jura, but ampelographical testing suggests that it is, in fact, an older variety. Now the grape has virtually disappeared from Savoie with only Belluard holding any significant quantities: a mere 8ha. Most Gringet goes into the production of sparkling wines which are a local speciality and likely to remain so.
Dominique is a serious proponent of biodynamic viticulture. He speaks all of the time of “balance” with regard to the vine and its environment, the relationship of the plant and the cosmos and that the preparations given to the plant are to enable it to find this balance. When he mentioned the alignment of the planets and telluric forces a few eyes rolled, but I suppose that if you don’t work the land you’re not in tune with the rhythms of nature and all such talk must seem like arrant poppycock. The notion of achieving balance derives from holistic aspect of biodynamics that sets out the idea that all life is trying to achieve internal harmony and that we can create the preconditions for this state by observing and understanding how the natural world (or the world of natural forces and energies) works.
In his not hugely prepossessing paint-flaking winery which seems to be held together by masking tape Dominique expounds on his dislike of oak (“it deadens the flavour”) whilst pouring us some Gringet from the tank. He’s not a fan of stainless steel either, believing that it doesn’t allow the wine to breathe properly. As a result he has installed oval cement betons. All the wines we tasted were fantastically pure, especially the mineral Gringet from the Terre de Feu terroir. No malolactic fermentation here – the fruit is beacon-bright, crystalline and the acidity sings. The wine conveys initial aromas of white flowers and jasmine, is citrus-edged with a hint of white peach, jasmine and violet and a twist of aniseed to finish. The latest Gringet cuvées from the egg-shaped tanks were more emollient and slight more textural as if the lees contact had smoothed some of the stony aggression.
The unique cement “eggs” used for fermenting and ageing the wine. Note the primitive artwork on the walls
I left thinking that Belluard’s beton was metaphorically half empty. Below in the valley lorries rumble and the pollution festers; meanwhile, in his redoubt on the slopes, Dominique is searching for purity and perfection. His slightly hangdog expression suggests that he is fighting a battle not just against the perennial forces of nature, but against the depredations of Man. Whatever you think about his endeavours or his wine he is the archivist of a nearly-vanished grape variety and should the Gringet ultimately disappeared, well, we are all ultimately diminished by that fact. Uniformity can be endless replicated making individuality all the more precious.
The Mont Blanc tunnel is not for the claustrophobic and it was rather wonderful to eventually shoot out the other side into the soft evening light of the Aosta Valley. We stop at the luxury spa hotel in Prés Saint Didier where we are met by the youthful Gianluca Telloli, winemaker at Cave du Vin Blanc. Down the stairs, get changed, then cavort through numerous rooms of warm waterfalls, sultry steam baths and assorted thermal geysers, then into the blood temperature outdoor pool where we sat on marble shelves each with a glass of sparkling Cave de Vin Blanc (from the Prié Blanc grape) and toasted the resplendently snow-skirted Mont Blanc, its muscular massif locking in the northern horizon. A bubbly mood ensued, lots of splashing and diving, before our second glass of something, a frivolous, effervescent Gamay. As Goethe might quoth as he might quaff: “Wie herrlich leuchtet mir die Natur”.
The Cave de Morgex may be the biggest wheel in town but is in reality a tiny co-operative of many dozen of members some of whom own a mere row or two of vines. The total vineyard area amounts to around 20 hectares, fragmented over many sites. The sheer beauty of these soaring mountain vineyards is made even more arresting by a time-honoured system called pergola bassa, or low pergola, where the vines are trained near the ground in trellised arbours with stone columns surrounded by stone walls. According to La Cave’s winemaker Gianluca Telloli, “The low pergola has been used for centuries here because it protects the vines from wind and heavy snowfall, while allowing them to benefit from heat accumulated in the ground during the daytime.” Yet the low pergola presents many difficulties, too. Harvesters must pick the grapes on their knees and, in some cases, while laying flat on their backs.
The vineyards, famously, are amongst the highest in Europe, with some vines at 1300m above sea level. They are old as well; some of these gnarled veterans have been knocking around for over 100 years. As I gazed towards Mont Blanc fading into the gloaming I thought we were in some kind of wine version of Shangri-La, a womb-like forgotten valley where traditions hold as strong as ever and where amongst the extremes there was a humble approach to growing and winemaking.
Telloli explains that the stone walls surrounding individual plots and the enormous piles of rocks heaped in a seemingly haphazard manner among the terraces have a function beyond aesthetics. “Centuries ago, the peasants realized how important the heat conducting capabilities of the stones were. We’ve kept the ancient stone walls and rocks because they really help retain heat during the cool nights, which is crucial for the grapes’ maturation.”
To that end he took us on a magical mystery diversion in his car haring round the zigzags to the base of a vineyard that sheered into the tenebrous sky. By now it was dark, the first stars were blinking and we staggered uncertainly up the slope marvelling at the stone walls that buttressed the terraces. The vines seemed to be clinging on for dear life; occasionally you could see where the roots had twisted around and poked through gaps in the wall to re-emerge on the surface. This was, we were told, the vineyard of Enfer d’Arvier, an amphitheatre of a couple of hectares, which through a chimney-effect was considerably hotter at the top than the bottom. We were enjoined to place our hands on the stones and feel that they were still warm, mini night storage heaters.
The pergola bassa
All this alpen-traipsing sharpened the appetite no end and it was a hungry group of travellers indeed that dumped their luggage with alacrity in the hallway of the hotel and thundered into the dining room in the mood for some serious bibbing and tuckering. The coach, after a dizzying drive à la Italian Job, had decanted us at the beautifully reconstructed Inn/Restaurant of “La Clusaz” which stands in the village of Gignod, in the Aosta Valley, just a few miles from the Great St. Bernard Pass.
The Valley of the Great St. Bernard is a fascinating area, of great historical interest, a grandiose natural setting of woodland and countryside that changes with the seasons. In the surrounding villages, characterized by rascards (wooden chalet-style farmhouses) and other historic buildings, time seems magically to have stood still, preserving the area’s ancient rural way of life rumbled only by the bloody pantechnicons that roar perpetually through the valley.
Around 1050, Bernardo di Mentone, vicar general of Aosta diocese, built a hospice at the pass that now bears his name to offer refuge and assistance to pilgrims and travellers. The hospice was run by Augustine monks, who have faithfully continued to perform this task right up to the present day. The hospice has been altered and extended many times over the centuries, but is still a place of peace and prayer for travellers wanting to benefit from its atmosphere of quiet contemplation.
In their work of succouring travellers, the monks had a great ally in the St. Bernard dog, the very symbol of loyalty and faithfulness. A powerfully built animal, hardy and of excellent temperament, the St. Bernard was trained to seek out travellers who had lost their way or been buried in snow as a result of avalanches. Although modern rescue methods are now used, including helicopters, and lighter-built dogs are preferred, the monks continue to raise St. Bernards, following a rigorous breeding programme. The dogs spend the winter at Martigny but are brought up to the pass in the summer months, to the delight of the many tourists who come to see them each year.
This ancient tradition of hospitality in the Valley of the Great St. Bernard is reflected in the history of “La Clusaz". It is first mentioned in the 12th century and there are documents dating from 1140 which refer to the inn as a place of refuge and refreshment for travellers and pilgrims crossing the Great St. Bernard Pass.
La Clusaz
Whilst in the restaurant the food was perhaps primped and prettified, it was nevertheless a fascinating insight into the quality of local ingredients. Behind this labour lies a passion for organic produce and genuine flavours. The perpetuation of traditional production methods over many years has evidently become a time-honoured rite and every dish has its particular story. For example, we were told about the pane di segale, a nuggety hard bread made from the harvest festival loaves that are baked annually. Traditional cooking here means that nothing is wasted.
Observing the philosophy of Slow Food La Clusaz understands that the seasons dictate the pattern of production throughout the year. When the hotel’s pigs are butchered, they produce the salami, dry-cured ham and local black puddings which feature on the traditional menu. La Clusaz also makes its own butter and a number of traditional local cheeses: fontina, the main ingredient in local soups, vapellenentse, cognentse and rebleque, a soft cheese which is also served as a dessert with cinnamon, rum and cane sugar.
The amusette to our feast was a little goat paté, followed by a selection of meats (Prosciutto crudo e salumi). I recall some melt-in-the-mouth lardo and various hams including one made from the udders of a cow (which elicited the predictable “udderly delicious” from one wag). Another course featured a golden yellow quenelle of roughly- milled corn-meal polenta in a pool of melted fontina; and another was a classic of fatty ham-wrapped chestnuts with cabbage (Tortino di castagne, pancetta e lardo con pane de segale). This dish should have been served warm so that the lard could melt into the chestnuts and release the sweet flavours therein – in the end it didn’t fit together. Gran piatto del Maiale con cavolo viola al miele was also about the big pig-ture (sic) and contained – artfully arranged - pancia a cottura confit, cotechino (boiled sausage), costina and the splendidly named Stinco disossato (deboned shank) with some honey-drizzled red cabbage. As the rather elegant plate was put in front of us, Christian, on my left, whose expression had become increasingly glazed throughout the evening – it had been a long day – looked as if he wanted to bury his face in the meat selection and go to sleep. Eric was critical: the dishes weren’t rustic enough, the magic was missing, but I think our collective appetite was more suited to gnashing the flesh off spare ribs and tucking into an earthy stew than playing pat-a-cake with the deconstructed concoctions on our plates.
We drank the Morgex wines throughout the meal beginning with the Estremi made with wild yeast ferment. The 2006 was a mere 11.5% was yellow with pale greenish tints, a citrus-edged nose and an irrepressible minerality. This wine is still writing a Mont Blanc cheque to my taste-buds. I loved it, but then I seem to have a penchant for wines produced by the thimbleful. The Rayon, by contrast, which I had formerly associated in my mind’s palate with all things ethereal and mountain-peaky and gingham-skirted damsels cavorting through alpine meadows (I must stay off the cheap grappa), suddenly seemed less linear and stone-inflected and instead rather ripe and full-bodied with palpable flavours of orchard fruits. At the end of the meal we tried the off-beat Chaude Lune, an eiswein (or vin de glacière) that uses (according to tradition) several different types of wood to act as a conduit for flavour – in this case chestnut, oak, cherry-wood and juniper. Remarkably, one could isolate the various fugitive wood essences. This thoroughly distinctive wine harvested with snow literally clinging to the grapes (the Prié Blanc is a hardy soul) might be described as the classic grain de folie or pour ma guele (for my gob) showcasing the art of the possible in a wine. Commercialism doesn’t come into it; passion and a fierce sense of tradition do.
Finishing the meal with a cheeky grappa before collapsing into bed. Tomorrow morning, two more vineyards in Valle d’Aosta: Cantina di Barro and Les Cretes, run by ahem… the exuberant Costantino Charrere, before driving down to Piedmont and visiting the cellars of Giacomo Borgogno. Finally, to beautiful rolling Asti and the biodynamic vineyards of Vittorio Bera. A long day indeed.
