Here's a powerful example of the Riesling distinctive to that old Polish settlement. It's unflinching and staunch. It has its chin out. It's clean and pristine, with all that fleshy pith of citrus blossom and its fruit decorating a straightup squeeze of the sort of tiny limes we used to pick on Dum In Mirree Island, somewhere near where the terrifying Dundee Forest hits the Timor Sea up The Territory.
Unless you go and visit and sit and look and studiously taste, it's hard to grasp the way the Clare flavours change from the old rocks facing the sunrise across the Polish Valley, to the intermediate upland north-south valley holding Sevenhill and Wendouree, and then, further to the west, the sunset-facing youthful calcrete of the Watervale Côte Blanche which is an appellation I just made up.