1st October, 2016: Flooding of the Langhorne Creek vignoble, on the estuarine lakes at the mouth of the Murray-Darling, Fleurieu Peninsula, South Australia. Traditionally, 'Larncrk' depended upon annual flooding of the Bremer River for deep soil moisture. Once Premier Dean Brown made possible permits for the vignerons to take water from the adjacent Lake Alexandrina, the region has grown on an enormous industrial scale, but as you see here, can still flood quite impressively, as have many of the winegrowing regions of south-eastern Australia ... photo from Langhorne Creek Winemakers
Floods, eucalypts, grape flavour: remembering the 'minty' reds of 1983 and a drive with The Ferret
by PHILIP WHITE
It's probably too late in
the season for all this water to have much good influence on the flavours of
2017.
If anything, growers will
face big trouble when the spring properly arrives and the weather warms and
settles: there'll be a huge surge of leaf growth which will cramp canopies and
make it hard for any breezes to penetrate that thick green thatch.
Unless there's a lot of
fungicide spraying, like too much, vignerons will have to be shoot-thinning and
leaf-plucking to admit the drying and healing breezes to the bunches as they
form and swell.
As the sousing rains set in across the south east of Oz, Bayer, the new owner of
Monsanto, was hard at work teasing the paranoia and pride of grape-farmers,
pumping the conscience of the lot of them with full-bore social media advertising
of their fungicide, Teldor.
Drinkers who bother to read the Teldor back label may well hope any growers
who use this stuff should advise us of its use on the back labels of their
wine, just so's we know. The incessant ads are there right now. It'll be used. Bayer's also
going for the strawberry growers.
Botrytis and other moulds
aside, these dramatic rains will do one other thing to many vineyards. In some,
the fruit will likely be minty with eucalyptol.
In the late 'seventies and
early 'eighties a lot of reds from the new cooler climate Victorian regions
like Heathcote, Bendigo and the Yarra Valley were sometimes very minty. This
excited show judges looking for new aromas and flavours. These wines often came
from vineyards in forested regions. Many boring tasting games depended on the
drinker identifying these prospective vignobles by their pepper - which usually
indicated unripe fruit - or what we called mint or peppermint, which we
eventually learned was really eucalyptus.
When those terrible fires
had been extinguished on Ash Wednesday, in 1983, leaving 75 dead, there was a teasing belting of
rain that came too late to help. Instead, it washed a lot of precious scorched
topsoil away from the areas that were burnt. In those that weren't, the water flooded
through, picking up gum leaves which it deposited as a thick layer in downstream
vineyards. Some of this vegetable gunge was knee-deep when the water went down.
When those '83s were
eventually poured, with tasting games like Options one could tease the
proponents of those trendy new cool spots of Victoria. If one poured, just for
example, a Barossa Shiraz from the flooded slopes of Stockwell, Light Pass or Nuriootpa,
it was so stacked with eucalyptol the taster would often imagine it must have
come from those forested regions to our south east. In the memories of most, the
rich, ripe Shiraz of that north-east Barossa had not previously showed that
character so overtly.
Some winemakers were very
pleased about their usually blackberry-and-chocolate reds suddenly showing some
of the style of the exciting new regions across the border; others regarded it
as an alien intrusion and attempted, usually in vain, to dilute and diminish its
character by blending or masking it with toasty American oak.
But it was fun to trick
pompous old wine buffoons who thought they knew everything. Pass a glass of,
say, Elderton Shiraz from Nuriootpa and they tended to sniff that minty
eucalypt and say "Bendigo" or "Heathcote".
The first person I met who
understood the source of this new aromatic was John "The Ferret"
Glaetzer, the master nose and vineyard expert behind the success of Wolf Blass.
The author with Wolf Blass and John "The Ferret" Glaetzer ... photo Johnny "Guitar" Preece
We'd been having a beer in
Paulos' pub in Tanunda sometime after the Ash Wednesday reds had begun to
appear, when I suggested the source of the "mint" or
"peppermint" was in fact eucalyptus.
"Whatterya doing this
arvo?" Glaetzer shot back, through a cloud of tobacco. He offered me a seat
in his car: he was off to Langhorne Creek to collect ripening bunches for
analysis back in his Barossa lab. His was the only company car in the Blass
camp with a sunroof: folks in the know joked about him needing it to let the
smoke out. I recall a cartoon somebody drew of that Falcon, tearing across the
countryside like a steam locomotive.
We laughed and smoked all
the way down the Bremer Valley through Harrogate, Kanmantoo and Callington to
Larncrk, as he called it, me mystified by the nature of my inclusion in
the exercise.
When we got there, we went
from vineyard to vineyard. My job was to collect soil samples from beneath the
vines he sampled, and take notes of the appearance and aspect of each site,
paying particular attention to the number of adjacent red gums.
Back in the lab, he
crushed each bunch and put its juice in a numbered glass. The relevant soil
samples were lined up in little piles, also numbered, on another clean white
bench and an assistant shuffled both lots of samples. We sniffed the glasses
for an hour. Most showed the aroma we'd called mint, some overtly.
Then we sniffed the soils.
Those with the most obvious mint, or eucalyptus, generally matched the bunches with the same
bouquet, and tended to come from the vineyards my notes showed to have the most
red gums surrounding them, or indeed, big ones growing amongst their vines.
From this highly
unscientific exercise, we agreed that the eucalyptus in the soil, or in the
air, was volatile, so its airborne particles must have settled on the matte
blume of the grape skins, where it stayed until skin contact with the
fermenting must transferred the aroma into the wine itself. You only needed a
few parts per million or trillion or something miniscule to obtain the affect.
"That's where our
Jimmy Watsons come from," the Ferret enthused: he'd recently won his boss
three Watson trophies in a row; still the record.
"The show judges can
smell it through the fruit and the oak, whether they recognise it or not. They
seem to like it."
Recalling the frigid industrial hall in which the Royal Melbourne Wine Show was judged reminds me that sometimes all one could smell in that joint was high volatiles and fresh oak sap; it was so cold that berry fruit was barely perceptible in comparison to such harsh edges.
A few years after those
Ash Wednesday floods the eucalypt in the Stockwell/Light Pass/Nuriootpa reds
had declined to previous levels, but the young Whitey's hooter never forgot
that eucalyptus, for good or bad, was something to look for in the snifters.
For those who live 'down among the gum trees' this aroma is often overlooked: it's the normal background bouquet of great swathes of Australia.Locals breathe it without smelling it until they get home from somewhere else.
Of all South Australian
vineyards, it was Glaetzer's Langhorne Creek favourites that tended to exude
the aroma regardless of whether or not their source had been flooded during
vintage.
The stuff was in that black muddy ground.
I wouldn't dare suggest
that 2017 will smell of gum trees across the board. But I'm willing to bet that
if and when this water ever goes down, growers whose vineyards sport a new
layer of eucalypt leaves may well find a new mintiness in their reds.
When the 2017 berries grow
fat and full, that eucalypt will rise from the ground and settle on their
skins, especially when the humidity soars in a summer thunderstorm.
If they're lucky, this
might see such winemakers coming home from the Melbourne Show with a Jimmy in
the boot.
On the other hand, growers
of whites will want none of it. You don't want eucalyptus in your Riesling,
Savvy-b or Chardonnay. Or Pinots, for that matter. Please Bacchus, Pan, Huey ...
anybody listening ...
One other thing. While
these persistent deluges will pump leaf growth and then the 2017 bunches to a
discomforting degree, they'll be having a profound influence on the tiny buds
already forming deep inside the vine wood for the 2018 vintage.
As the remarkable diaries
(1891-2016+) at Kay Brothers' Amery show, it's almost invariably the year after
sousing rains that are the greatest producers of flavour. Any grower who can't
manage and control this tricky 2017 by finicky shoot-thinning, leaf-plucking
and selective bunch-dropping, might console themselves in the hope that my theory
delivers the bacon, if not the Big Jim, with their 2018 wine.
Touch wood. But make it
seasoned French oak, not red gum.
If the broadacre industrial grapeyards deliver the big yields likely after such extreme rain, and then have access to a surplus of very cheap irrigation water, the Oz discounting liquor duopoly, Coles and Woolworths, will be sure to slurp up anything that sinks to the bottom.
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