Semillon in the Hunter Valley ... photo Jameson Fink
08 April 2015
SEMILLON DOES NOT END IN O
Semillon in the Hunter Valley ... photo Jameson Fink
Semillon? What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet
by PHILIP WHITE
“Pinot Riesling doesn’t mean very much at all.
Chardonnay’s not Pinot Chardonnay and I don’t think Riesling in the context of Pinot
Riesling means very much. I mean Riesling is Semillon and Pinot is Chardonnay,
and we have more Semillon in the wine than Chardonnay, so it should be Semillon
Chardonnay.”
It was 1983, and that was Mark Cashmore's response
to my question about why he'd changed the proprietorial brand name of his
Richmond Grove Hunter Valley Pinot Riesling blend to Semillon Chardonnay
without any change to the wine's actual composition.
Although that answer may not have provided Mark's
burgeoning Richmond Grove with much instant market leverage, it was an attempt
to clear some of the bullshit that choked the Sydney wine market of the day. At
that stage, Sydney's most popular white wine was called Traminer Riesling, when
in fact most of it was actually a blend of any one of the so-called muscat
family with Semillon, the premium white variety of Bordeaux, as grown in the Hunter. Or Griffith. Or the Murray Valley. Or any of the irrigated vignobles that Murray Tyrrell mischievously called "the Long Paddock."
In other words, no Traminer. And no Riesling.
Semillon, the wine grocers say, is too hard to sell
because of its name, which they claim is too difficult for Australians to
pronounce. It doesn't end in O, for starters. If we listen to the feverish purveyors of
the new mob of disparate immigrant varieties that end in O, you could be forgiven for
thinking the market finds them fairly easy to pronounce and therefore accept,
regardless of their actual difficulty or style. I'd love to see some scientific
research into consumer reactions to, say, Semillon versus Zemmio or even Ze
Million, million being a word not much of Australia has difficulty pronouncing.
If you blur your ears in Bordeaux, you may think
the proper pronunciation of Semillon is actually ze million.
This O thing is not confined to grape varieties.
Look at the way even newsreaders mispronounce the peninsula Captain Nicolas
Baudin named after the sponsor of his expedition, Charles Pierre Claret, the Compte
de Fleurieu. Perhaps it's just the bogan in us, but somehow we find floo-ree-oh
easier to say than fler-ree-er.
I suppose that if clairette could become claret, it's possible that something as simple
as the Fleurieu Peninsula could become Floorio.
It doesn't seem that long ago that any grape
variety that ended in ay as in eh? not aye was like excellent, eh? Like Chardonnay
and Cabernet. If you go back a little longer to the days of South
Australian wine pioneer Sir Samuel Davenport (below), and consult his ampelography
in the State Library, you'll find the page called Chardonet.
An ampelography is
a scientific compendium of grape varieties, and this Family Bible-sized volume, with its beautiful hand-tinted etchings,
was given to the energetic migrating investor by I think the professor of
viticulture at Dijon. So given the unlikelihood of Australians being able to
properly pronounce any foreign word, it's a wonder really that we didn't end up
pronouncing the hard T in the end, not just of Cabernet, but also in Chardonet.
I suspect Davenport, just be the way, was the first
grower of Chardonnay in this colony, and I reckon he grew it in his Macclesfield
vineyard, but cannot yet find secure proof, which is a fair enough disclaimer
to cast over many of the unproven suppositions I make here. Beneath its entry in his ampelography, Davenport
has scrawled in pencil his belief that Chardonet would become "the white
grape" in the new colony.
While it took an extra 150 years for Chardonnay to actually
dominate the South Australian vignoble, it looked for a very long time that
Semillon, the premium white grape of Bordeaux, would fill that leading role,
and perhaps it did, but under many names.
It's confounding to try to track this stuff down,
but it appears that in the Barossa they called Semillon Clare Riesling, while
in Clare, Crouchen was called Clare Riesling. This may be due to the fact that
when it was introduced, the Clare vignerons thought Crouchen was Semillon. By
that stage Hunter Valley vignerons were accustomed to calling Semillon Hunter Riesling,
Hunter River Riesling, Shepherd's Riesling or Shepherd's white.
Both the Barossa and Clare called true Riesling
Rhine Riesling.
To make everything easier, the pioneering vignerons
of Western Australia were calling Chenin blanc Hunter River Riesling. They'd
probably also got their cuttings from South Africa, where Chenin blanc gradually became prolific under the name of
Steen.
South Australia was also guilty of planting true
Riesling as Semillon. But they had various names for the actual Semillon, like
Madiera and Sercial, indicating that some of the cuttings may have come from
Madiera, which was a popular port of call for early vessels travelling south
through the Atlantic.
Madiera is certainly the source of most of
Australia's Verdelho. We think too that what early vignerons called the Madiera
and Sercial varieties are what the Barossa now calls Red Semi, or Red Zemillon
by those old Deutschers who refer to
the place where dishes are washed as the zink.
Like the Pinot family, which includes grey and
white types, Semillon also has pink to reddish forms. In Rutherglen, one of
these was called Barnawartha Pinot. I suspect that the grape the Hunter called
Verdielhao, with or without the i or the a, was actually the same as these
reddish Semillons, but I don't think there's any of the old bushvine Verdielhao
left there amongst the coalmines of the beleaguered Hunter. The Barossa's Red Semi - actually a pinkish
grey - is a favourite of mine, producing wine of great structure and rigidity,
with acid that keeps it true to form for many years in bottle.
Which is what made Semillon so popular in the Hunter
Valley in New South Wales. Picked early, before the onset of the moulds brought
by destructive vintage rains in that sub-tropical environment, Semillon held an
acidity that could see the wine through years of thick or thin.
Given the right amount of that added preservative,
sulphur, the Hunter also sold its Hunter Riesling as Hunter Burgundy (less sulphur) and Hunter Chablis
(more sulphur).
I'm sure that's cleared everything up for you. I
shall write more about Semillon soon. It's time we took it a lot more
seriously.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment