Field Notes - Cognac vineyards

Vineyards are surely the most civilised of our ancient cultivations. Humanity seems to have evolved liking its plants arranged in tidy rows, but while carrots and corn stand tall and straight, like obedient soldiers, vines have a rebellious elegance that cannot be stood to attention. They lean and twist with weary dignity, brothers in arms, performing more important work.

Across the world there are boatloads of grape varietals, from Abrusco to Zinfandel and all stops in between. Each promises subtle flavours, earthy tones, whispy notes of peppered soil and mystic spice... (ahem).. Yet the vines themselves are remarkably similar. Same leaves, same gnarled trunks, same whippy cords and wayward canes. Sometimes they remind me of a rugby team coming out of a pub. Arms linked to shoulders, in collective support and stability, their massed muscle leaning one on the other.

Unless, that is, you choose to stroll around the vineyards of the Cognac. Here, something altogether different occurs. These vines have posture. They stand taller on their wires, as if trained at finishing school. They are leggy, clever, faintly superior — like a group of debutatantes in tresses as dresses, giggling with confidence, just loudly enough to make you wonder if it’s not actually about you. These vines are a leafy Can-Can, the showgirls of the Charente Maritime.

For all that dizzy disposition, theirs is an elegant labour, which results in one of civilisation’s finest alchemies: Cognac. Sunlight held together by water, coaxed into a liquid that insists upon being sipped, never gulped. Unlike wine, which may be quaffed in an evening, Cognac whispers that waiting quietly is part of the art. Distilled, aged, soaked in oak until the seasons themselves approve, it is patience in a bottle.

The lesson is clear enough. Time, when given dignity, will yield miracles. From vine to cask, to lead crystal glass, with patience and purpose, the magic will always appear.