Rain was threatening a parched Tuscany. What everyone wanted, they also feared. It had been a long, hot, miserable summer. Wine writers, bloggers, winemakers were all bringing the sky down with their lamentations of misery over Nature’s course. With all the crazy weather, and all the other disruptive acts occurring in these times, does anyone really care that this is the worst harvest in years? And didn’t people say that about 2002, 2003, 2011,2014? Fear, that’s what these people are harvesting, and one can never make a great, or even a good wine, with fear as the main component. Think about 1942, 43,44, those were worst harvests. But fear fuels the constant Greek chorus of wails, and draws eyes and hits on web sites. As William Shakespeare’s Macbeth intoned, “It is a tale. Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. Signifying nothing.”
The Ferragamo family fear little, if nothing. A large family, some of them looked outside the clothing business to make room for their dreams. In a little corner near Arezzo, they found such a place. I had no idea of the place, other than the wine which passed by my table from time to time, and for their famous American wine writer, James Suckling, who lives there when in Italy (his Porsche resides there, full-time, under a cover). A little borgo, put together like a jig saw puzzle, every piece gold-leafed into place.
He was especially proud of the experimental wines they were making. Concrete eggs, funny stainless steel tanks, the mad scientist and his techno tools. Yeah. Isn’t it telling that what some people consider fringe winemaking (amphora, qvevri, etc.) are influencing the influencers? Chioccioli doesn’t have a problem with that. And the experimental wines we tasted, out of the eggs, barrels, tanks, showed a willingness to learn from the outliers, from Friuli to Etna. No borders, nothing off-limits. We are truly in a golden age of winemaking in Italy right now.
An hour away, by car, is Rufina. Selvapiana is there.
Selvapiana, it had been 30+ years since I’d first visited the place. Not much changed, still making those lovely Sangiovese Rufina wines. Francesco Giuntini no longer ran the place, having ceded decision making to his two adopted children, Federico and Silvia. I knew Francesco, but hadn’t seen him much since he retired. We came across him, sitting in his drawing room.
And the wines? We tried all the new releases from Selvapiana, and Federico asked me if there was anything I’d like to revisit. I told him, “Yes, I’d like to try the ’77.” A difficult vintage, but one which I remember had brought much pleasure to me and my circle at the time in the 1980’s. Unfortunately, the first bottle we tried was corked and the second bottle was a shadow of the wine I remembered. It had been harvested late that year, picking in November. Bernabei was consulting. The memory outlasted the wine. Fortunately, the newer vintages were fine. The 2015 was mellow, with a good grip, healthy acidity and a dollop of fruit. Ok, who needs the ’77?
As we had to be on the other side of the Florentine hills in Montespertoli, I gathered up our team and made our way, post-haste to Castello Sonnino. The Barone was waiting for us. It’s not nice to keep the Barone waiting.
Once we got there, one in our team came up to me with a sheepish look on his face, the kind of look his young son has after he breaks something important that belongs to his dad. “I left my wine bag at Selvapiana,” he said. “No problem," I countered, “They can always send it to you later.” An uncomfortable pause ensued. “I left something inside of my wine bag that I might need,” he said. I asked, “What?” With a hangdog expression, he reluctantly said, “My passport.”
Ok, no problem, I ventured back the way I’d come and left the team to their tasting. I’d been there, done that. And so, I retrieved a very important document and two hours later I was sitting in the courtyard of Castello Sonnino, drinking wine and gobbling snacks.
Our last day, heading back to Rome, I got inside my head one more visit. Instead of taking the main highway from Florence to Rome, how about a coastal route, and a nice visit to a winery in the southern part of the Maremma, near Scansano, and a last lunch in a real, non-touristic spot? I was driving, so it wasn’t any sweat off my brow. So, we ventured forth to visit Francesco Bolla and his daughter Valentina at Poggio Verrano.
I’ve gone way over word length with this post, forgive me.
Look, I struggle with wine from this area. They aren’t locked into any specific identity, so anything goes. Which means, they are fairly difficult to market to Americans who want an answer and a “bucket” to put everything in. And it’s the Wild West out there. Well, it’s the Ancient repository of Etruscan Female Goddess Energy in cahoots with the Wild West. And that’s the kind of stuff that makes Americanos crazy.
These are lucky people to have the resources and the health and predilection to pursue something like this. They don’t have to, they could bask in their haute monde and never get their fingers dirty. But they choose not to. Good for them.
At the end of this, it seems this trip was less about the 2017 vintage and more about the journey. And why not? There are hundreds of vintage reports floating around the internet. And most of them aren’t worth a damn. You want to know what 2017 was like? You had to be there, that’s what I’ll tell you. Even if you were at one winery, the one next door might have a totally different story or set of circumstances. Don’t get all hung up on quantifying something you cannot measure so very well. You’ll be more successful trying to contain sand within your cupped hands.
written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy
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