Aligoté

15 March 2018

[Working journal while I continue to obsessively assemble a project of dubious interest & limited appeal.]

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“In the past, aligoté was planted at the top of Chambertin! Musigny blanc was half aligoté! It was half of Corton! After phylloxera, most replanted with easier-to-grow chardonnay and put aligoté on the other side of the road where no one ever planted anything but carrots and potatoes. This was the sad story of ruined aligoté.”
LAURENT PONSOT, to Alice Feiring *

From a certain point of view, the triumph of noble international grape varieties in the second half of the 20th century looks like progress. Rip up that outdated, rusticated trash in the vineyards! Why plant anything but the best? Find your greatest monoculture and clone it! Robert M. Parker, Jr. rushed valiently to the barricades in defense of this notion in 2014, in a baffling member’s-only display of bleating irrelevence:

“What we also have from this group of absolutists is a near-complete rejection of some of the finest grapes and the wines they produce. Instead they espouse, with enormous gusto and noise, grapes and wines that are virtually unknown. That’s their number one criteria – not how good it is, but how obscure it is. …they would have you believe some godforsaken grapes that, in hundreds and hundreds of years of viticulture, wine consumption, etc, have never gotten traction because they are rarely of interest (such as Trousseau, Savagnin, Grand Noir, Negrette, Lignan Blanc, Peloursin, Auban, Calet, Fongoneu and Blaufrankisch) can produce wines (in truth, rarely palatable unless lost in a larger blend) that consumers should be beating a path to buy and drink.”

(Here is the full, um, article, copy-pasted to a discussion board, and here an example of how it was received at the time: “the Robert Parker tirade that’s got many in the wine world wondering whether he’s snapped.”)

I poke fun—I wrote and deleted a bunch of jokes about this being the last sound a mastodon makes before sinking into the tar pit, etc.—but the piece still upsets me, and still occasions a moment of quiet reflection: am I advocating for the wines I advocate for, for the right reasons? I sure hope this repeated fondness for underdog grapes doesn’t come across as affectation, or obscurity for obscurity’s sake.

But on the other hand, fuck Parker here. It’s really not fair to have to go through careful refutation when his rhetoric he deploys is all straw-manning and hyperbole. And it displays a breathtaking ignorance of wine’s past, which is full of examples of varieties not coming into larger availability for reasons that, surprise, are contingent on the vagaries of history rather than quality per se, like money, access to rivers for trading purposes, the luck to be close enough to the Dutch that they finance planting your entire region with grapes to distill into the base for genever, etc.

There are certainly reasons that people all over the world plant chardonnay, but those reasons, both viticultural (early-ripening, productive, easy to grow) and cultural (commercial viability of varietal wine labelling, pioneered in California by the folks at U.C. Davis & Frank Schoonmaker around the ’40s and coming into widespread popularity in the ’60s and ’70s), aren’t compelling arguments for “finest grapes, finest wines.”

When I think about the underdog grapes that I love to drink and advocate for on the floor, I find they tend to share some characteristics: the fruit’s not really interesting until the vines are older, more than 15 years say; the variety is late-ripening, which carries more risk as you wade deeper and deeper into the harvest season and open yourself up to rain or other calamity, and means examples that are ideally ripe & complex might be rarer; it’s fickle, or disease-prone, in the vineyard, or its yields are low.

All good reasons for farmers to abandon a variety, especially when the going gets tough (phylloxera & the world wars both occasioned a lot of re-planting with high-yield, easier-to-farm varieties), but nothing that’s an actual reflection on the wine produced. Some grape varieties are difficult to grow, and are always going to be obscure. When you have someone stubborn enough to do the work in the vineyard, the results are still worthwhile.

There is, of course, a lure to the unfamiliar & rare, if you’re a curious person, and people who end up working in wine tend to be curious! But there’s also value to be found—these things can be underpriced—as well as, I happen to believe, an inherent upside to diversity, both in the vineyard and in wine styles. Monoculture is not good for the environment, and it’s not good for us.

All of which brings us to aligoté: born, like chardonnay and gamay, of the ancients pinot and gouais blanc. Its name (per Wine Grapes) “probably derives from Gôt, an old synonym for Gouais Blanc in the Arrières-Côtes de Beaune, where the mother was replaced by its child”. So from gôt, with gouais likely a village name of origin. You could pick from a bunch—Gouaix, Gouais-les-Saint-Bris, Gouex, Goix—and then, subsequently, track down the toponymies (for instance, one is ‘belonging to Gradius’). Not very satisfying, at any rate. But it’s also apparently first cited in 1780 “under the name Plant de Trois, an old synonym referring to the fact that its branches usually bear three bunches each,” which is apt, concrete, and doesn’t involve some convolution like the vine that is the child that replaced the vine from the village belonging to [what does Gradius mean].

So: vine bearing three bunches. Where do you find it?

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A map of some important places for aligoté

Well, a little bit of everywhere. As far north as Chablis, of course, as we saw with the de Moors; and as far south as, for instance, Celine & Laurent Tripoz’s plantings outside of Loché; and either side of great hinge of the hill of Corton, on the fancy stretch of slope named golden. Once, as Laurent Ponsot says up above, it was planted in some of the greatest sites of the region, before it was exiled to the carrots & the wrong side of the highway. And in one place, uniquely, in the otherwise more-or-less pinot noir–dedicated Côte de Nuits, William Ponsot (the uncle of Laurent’s grandfather), planted it in 1911, fifteen years before he died, in a vineyard belonging to the town of Morey, just above one of the grand cru, named Monts Luisants (present participle of luire, from Latin lucere, gleaming, shining), possibly because the leaves of the vines never turn red in the autumn but stay golden, and glow when lit from behind by the sun, a vineyard that, after he died, would be rated by the government and called premier cru, and remains the only place in Burgundy where aligoté is allowed to wear 1er on its label (I’m imagining it like a 4-H award ribbon): the shining hill.

(The wine has only been 100% aligoté for the last decade & change; it was typically blended in that vineyard with chardonnay and a little bit of a specific kind of pinot blanc planted around 1930 that Clive Coates calls pinot gouges, a white-skinned mutation of pinot noir that the eponymous Henri Gouges found in his pinot noir–planted monopole Clos des Porrets at some point in let’s say the 1920’s. So I’m to understand that the vines some Ponsot, I guess Hippolyte, William’s godson & nephew, planted in Monts Luisant then were pinot blanc cuttings from Gouges. Anyway they stopped blending in the gouges in 1994 or so, and I guess grafted the vines over to pinot noir? And did the same thing to the chardonnay in 2005. From what I can piece together, anyway.)

Morey, like everyone else around it, appends the name of its most famous vineyard to its official town name, in this case the walled vineyard of Saint Denis—but before all that it was a villa (self-sufficient Roman farmstead, you could render it estate, or manor) that belonged to somebody, as indicated by the suffix -acum, in this case Moriacum, the estate of Morus/Maurus, probably a nickname derived, ultimately, from the same roots that give us moor as dark-skinned (Greek maûros, black, dark, and some Latin stuff in between). A dark man’s estate. 

Ponsot’s own name—although it seems he abruptly walked away from the family business to start his own domaine last March—probably derives from the baptismal name Pons, French form of Latin Pontius (as in Pilate), a pretty popular first name around the 12th century it seems, cropping up with such notables as the seventh Abbot of Cluny and a count of Toulouse, and in Spain among a variety of Catalan & Castillan nobles (in Spain Pons becomes Ponce, as in “de Leon,” as in “obsessed with finding the fountain of youth in Florida”).

So, well: what does Pontius mean? Maybe from the ancient Asia Minor province of Pontus, itself from Greek pontos, sea. Or for the Oscan word for “fifth.” Or Ponsot is a diminutive of Latin ponsbridge, a name you’d get, I suppose, if you lived near one, originating in the proto-Indo-European root *pent-, for path, passage, and the movement of feet, from which, eventually, the verb to find, the name of the Russian satellite Sputnik (fellow traveller), and the formal title of the pope, pontiff, from pontifex (he who prepares the way). I’ll split the difference: from near the water. 

Meanwhile, a little further north in Marsannay, Sylvain Pataille is emerging as a single-minded champion of aligoté’s ability to transmit particular senses of place. Marsannay, like Morey, was originally a 4th-century entrant to the Roman villa system, Marceniacum, belonging to a Gallo-Roman landowner named something like Marcenius, which so frustrated me—there is no etymology I can find, let me tell you, for a potentially fictitious 4th-century landowner—that I’m going with a less likely alternate root that a source, by which I mean a glossy Camille Giroud catalogue, threw out: “a Celtic word for marshland”. I’ll mash them up: Villa of the man from the marshes.) Marsannay is as far north as you get while still retaining the privilege of being one of the village communes of the Côte de Nuits, & it’s only been that way 1987—but then, a lot of appellations are newer than you’d think. They’ve still been making wine there for quite some time, probably since Marcenius set up house. And they make an AOC rosé there, which is noteworthy if you’re studying for an exam.

Pataille (a variant of pateiller, paddling, with a sense of wading [pietiner], or stomping & trampling [patauger], and which I am imaginatively reading as an occupational name related to pigéage à pied, grape-treader) decided in 2013 to separately bottle the low-yielding, old-vine 1.6 hectares of  aligoté he farmed, by parcel, into four different wines. I can just about eyeball this now:  a third of a hectare called Champ Forey, field near the, I want to say…forest? or field that was a forest?; the Clos du Roy, walled vineyard of the king; La Charme aux Prêtres, which seems to mean it charmed the priests; and Auvonnes du Pépé, auvonnes, oats, the name of the plot (must have been an old oat field before being cleared & planted, the soils here are denser clay than the other plots), that belonged to his pépé, grandpa. 

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I also drank a bottle of Auvonnes du Pépé recently

How does the wine taste? I went through the whole line-up a year and a half ago, but I can’t find my notes. I also drank a bottle of Auvonnes du Pépé recently; it was very good. As you can imagine, it’s tough to describe coherent differences, especially when multiple tasters attempt in stereo. You’re going to think that means that the entire exercise is bullshit, but you know I don’t believe that. Semiotics of meaning are hard, & humans like to draw fine distinctions. I think if you squint you can just about see tasters converging, through subjective experience & the imperfect veil of language, on a Platonic ideal of each wine. Here’s Becky Wasserman & Eric Asimov trading off:

Champ Forey, Becky Wasserman says, is salty, oyster-shell, & detailed, while Eric Asimov calls it “fresh and herbal”; Clos du Roy is “more saline, deliniated, and complex,” writes Asimov, while Wasserman says, “high-toned and bright” with “lots of acid and a tight, chalky, mineral finish. In two words: focus and power.” Auvonnes du Pépé? Wasserman: “Slightly richer notes of salted butter caramel”; the wine “yin and yangs” between richness & chiseled minerality. Asimov: “tangy, herbal, and citrus.” They both seem to judge La Charme aux Prêtres the best in the long run, for whatever value of “best” you prefer: “penetrating, deep” (Asimov), “intellectual due to its extraordinarily diverse expression” (Wasserman), but it might be simply that Pataille likes it best too: “It’s the Charlemagne of aligoté,” he says.

(Does this mean it’s only worth ordering Charme aux Prêtres when you see all four of these on a wine list horizontal? Of course not. And what is the “best” wine? What is objective greatness? Worth very little, at the dinner table, in the moment you drink it, as measured against the pleasure and interest you’re able to take in it, and what the wine in your glass provides you.)

Pataille, then, you know: there aren’t every many examples of aligoté more expensive (although Ponsot is another one). Taken together, there are also few bottlings of the grape that make as detailed & persuasive a case for its right to be considered to be considered as a peer alongside fancy white Burgundy.

Interestingly, the ones that do (and that carry a price tag to match) all seem to be north of the Montagne du Corton, (mountain, dedicated, it seems, to a Holy Roman imperial successor to Charlemagne, Othon, so of the emperor)in the Côte de Nuits, literally slope of the night, probably better translated as dark rock, for the unvarying midslope strip of darker marl & heavier clay mineral content that you get up here, and which makes it more suitable for pinot noir than the southern side.

I’m thinking particularly of the wines of the formidable Madame Lalou Bize-Leroy, the woman who pushed Domaine de la Romanée-Conti into biodynamics & then was herself pushed out, left with nothing, nothing but a mansion and a century year-old merchant business with a million-bottle cellar and the vines she owned herself that she had moved to biodynamy as well way back in 1988 and today command prices rivaled only by Domaine de la Romanée-Conti—and which, certainly, when they are aligoté, constitute the most expensive aligoté on the planet, whether under her eponymous Domaine Leroy or the Domaine d’Auvenay, made at their other 12th-century house in Saint-Romain, which used to be run by her late husband. (That’s the Bize in Bize-Leroy, a name, like hers, that belongs to the north, and that probably comes from bise, exposed to the cold north wind. Leroy, of course, just means the king. Which isn’t a surname any actual monarch would have ever worn. So? Potentially a nickname you might have earned by triumphing, long ago, in some village contest, like, one source suggests, “le surnom donne au vainqueur du jeu de l’arc,” first prize in an archery competition. I’m picturing the sequence in the Disney animated version of Robin Hood.)

(To write about Burgundy is to write about complicated inheritance law, to accept the presence of the aristocratic particle de and of noble titles, to acknowledge the role that negociant families, the nobility, and Church ownership have played in forging and in the end commercializing this storied region, which in the last decade has become at the top level an expensive object of international connessieurship whose closest analogue is the high-end fine art market. And to take into account the spiraling auction prices, gray-market resale, purchasing for collection rather than gustatory enjoyment, and outright forgery that wine-as-fine-art implies…)

Aside from Madame Bize-Leroy, of Leroy & d’Auvenay, DRC connections animate another couple of noteworthy figures. There is the young Nicolas Faure (Occitan var. of fevre, blacksmith), an assistant winemaker at DRC with his own tiny but noteworthy production, his aligoté coming, in most years, from .13 hectares (about five tennis courts) of vines planted between 1915 and 1935 in a section at the top of Pernand-Vergelesses called Corvée de Bully, the origin of corvée being a drudgery, chore, or communal effort, and finally the name of a formal system of forced labor extracted from tenants as tax by a local landowners, in this case the abbots of Maizières, with Bully (from French bulles, bubbles) in reference to a nearby gushing spring.

And there is Yann Durieux, in Villers-la-Faye (villers “usually from vilare or villariaa word signifying a hamlet of a few houses,” and Faye, from fagetum, beech wood, so hamlet in the beeches). For years he worked at the mythic natural Burgundy estate Prieuré-Roch (founded by Henri, the son of Madame Bize-Leroy’s sister, Pauline Roch, the family trees in these are worth a Russian novel–style flyleaf), and he himself is a bit of a wild mystic. His aligoté is a French-accented pun on the hippy slogan love & peace, “Love & Pif,” with pif a nonsense sound that is also used an expression meaning doing something roughly by approximation, by eye (au pif) and also, apparently according to his importer, slang for wine. Durieux is du rieu, a dialect word in Provence, Normandy, and Languedoc for ruisseau, a brook, creek, or small stream. From the house near the creek.

And, of course, there is Aubert de Villaine, the other (and original) family proprietor of the Domaine, the one who fell out so spectacularly with Leroy, who in addition to the story of Romanée-Conti (another time, another time) has owned another estate under his own name down south in the Côte Chalonnaise since the ’70s, one that’s important to any account of this grape no matter how you slice it. (His nephew, Pierre de Benoist—peep that nobiliary particle!—has been running the show since the aughts.

If you followed the link to the Wasserman piece above, you’ll have read, before the tasting notes, a paeon to aligoté doré, “the pre-clonal version” of the grape, “so fantastic you wouldn’t believe it is the same variety.” There are two aligotés, in this telling: high-yielding, vigorous, tart & bland vert (green aligoté); and golden aligoté, doré, which possesses “a complexity to the acidity […] and a complexity to the fruit that surrounds it, that is in another league altogether.”

Where does the golden aligoté come from? Why, it comes from old, old vines, cut & propogated in Bouzeron, and by who, you might be wondering…?

(Where is Bouzeron? In the humbler Côte Chalonnaise, just south of the Côte du Beaune, itself the southern half of the Golden Slope, with its more variagated, diverse soils than the Slope of Dark Rock, and more varied exposures, clustered around the ancient walled trading city of Beaune, named for a Gallic deity, Belenos, called “the brilliant,” again coming from the same Celtic linguistic enfolding that unites divinity and water sources, and so named for bubbling springs, for white water, and eventually, in his role as god of medicine and of gleaming light, conflated by the Romans with Apollo. The Côte Chalonnaise is broadly dedicated to a metric shit-ton of sparkling wine, which I’ve been reading about all afternoon, but the fascinating and sometimes sordid history of sparkling wine in Burgundy—ranging from 19th-century grand cru red mousseaux to millions of cheap declassified supermarket sparklers—will have to wait for another time. Bouzeron is first named Boserontis villa in the text of a 9th-century gift by Charles the Bald to some monks, with the meanting likely hiding in bos (Latin, cattle), the suffix indicating enclosure: estate of cattle yards. )

So de Villaine pushed for three decades, eventually successfully, to get Bouzeron AOC recognition for the aligoté he grows there. The name Villaine, incidentally: something between tenant farmer and townsman, same root as villager and villain, and originating the same way as all those villas that make up so many of the towns of the Côte d’Or, self-sufficient Roman landowning estates with dependants tied to the land, and eventually seen as disreputable, vulgur—literally vilified—even as their system of virtual enslavement wasn’t abolished until the Revolution. And it’s ironic, isn’t it, that a surname that can be seen, squinting, to translate to serf should bear a particle that denotes lord?

And for sure, the special qualities of the old-vine aligoté at the de Villaine estate in Bouzeron was well-known—a lot of the older plantings in the Côte de Beaune—Lafarge, for instance (the forge, and by extension blacksmith) who indicates it on the label: “Raisins Dorées,” golden grapes—went in during the ’20s and ’30s via cuttings from Bouzeron.

But in the end, I’m a little ambivalent about reducing aligoté to “good” aligoté and “bad,” or talking about doré as though it’s a completely different variety. For sure, some growers will talk passionately about its special qualities, or put it on their labels, in much the same way that some farmers down in the northern Rhône (Eric Texier, Jean-Michel Stephan) put serine on theirs. But the plant is not a reduction of where its cuttings come from. It reacts to environment. It grows and ages. “Clonal” selection is important, but wouldn’t cuttings from, say, the de Moor’s vines in Saint-Bris be as interesting to propagate from the perspective of genetic diversity? Can’t there be more than one “good” aligoté?

Anyway, up in the Côte de Beaune, you’ll find the opportunity, especially near Meursault (often planted on the ‘wrong’ side of the highway) to taste some of the greatest producers of white Burgundy in their appellation make white wines from this grape with the same care for a fraction of the price. There is a popular and ridiculous etymology of Meursault that translates it as a “rat’s leap,” supposedly because of the width of a stream, but it’s more likely to refer to the walls (mur) of a fortified Roman-era camp above the village. Glancing at my Clive Coates, I see that he mentions both before concluding, “etymology, I fear, is far from being an exact science, and one can idle away a lot of time up its dark and twisted alleys.”

Shut up, Clive.

Lots of people to drink around these parts: Lafarge, as we mentioned, the man from the forge, from a site planted from doré cuttings in 1937; François Mikulski, whose vines were planted in 1929 and 1948, and whose Polish name of origin is a city that owes its roots to the innumerable mutations of Saint Nicolas that I mentioned writing about Ulysses Collinfrom the place of the people’s victory; Pierre Morey, probably a nickname surname of the same ilk that gave us the village of the same name, or a locational surname meaning he comes from same, so either dark man or from the dark man’s estate; Fanny Sabre, a toponymic surname, from a village in Landes named Sabres, from sable (sand, gravels), probably for the decomposed granite soils; the Marquis d’Angerville, marquis a noble title (French marche, frontier) for a lord on the borderlands, Angerville combining ville (manor, estate) and Anger, from Old High German Ansgar (ans, god + gar, spear), with the most famous namesake a 9th-century saint and “apostle of the north,” born to a Frankish nobleman, educated by Benedictines, was archbishop of Hamburg when it was sacked by re-paganized Scandenavians who he had previously prosleytized among in Sweden & Norway, it didn’t take I guess, also there was a capture by pirates in there somewhere—so, roughly, the extremely High Fantasy wet dream frontier lord of the manor of god’s spear; and, finally, the very famous Jean-Marc Roulot, and here I’m going to pause for a brief digression on Nordic/Germanic personal names.

Roulot comes from Roul, a Germanic name originating in Hrodwulf, (wulf = wolf), hrod an interesting & prolific root worthy of some extra attention, with cognates in Old Norse (hróðr), Old Saxon ([h]rôth), Old High German (hruod), and Old English (hrōð), where it would go on to beget names as various as Robert, Roger, Rudolph, and Roland, not to mention Roderick, Rodrigo, Orlando, and Royce. Generally rendered as meaning fame, but maybe closer to or with shadings of honor or glory, as in the kind of public-facing gesture that heroic figures of epic poetry are concerned with, the momentary deed made timeless. There’s a reason, I’m saying, that so many Germanic names have this root—it’s the same cultural fixation as, what’s it called, kleos in Homeric Greek, renown, related in Greek to the verb to hearYou’re looking for your name to ring out, to attain immortality in song. Plus, you probably have a totem animal whose skin you wrap yourself in before you go into battle. Roulot: famed wolf.

In Roulot we have fame set in stone: he’s one of the most celebrated cult winemakers of white Burgundy. Claire Naudin, another possessor of a Germanic surname, has neither the same renown nor farms the same nobility of terroir, at least as far as the appellation is concerned, but as a woman who took over her family’s vines around Magny-lès-Villers (farmhouse near the hamlet) in 1994, just where what are called the Hauts-Côtes of Nuits & Beaune meet, she’s been slowly building a reputation for honest, transparent wines closer to the earth, among them an aligoté, “Clou 34,” assembled mainly from vines planted in 1934 and 1902—just next, in fact, to the Corvée de Bully, which is on the far side of Corton, which starts to look from a certain point of view like the beating heart of old-vine aligoté. (And also: starts to look as though the heart of that heart was torn out in the ’70s. Also also: here’s Alice Feiring tasting “Clou 34” for the first time in 2011.) Naudin is an apherisis (a loss of initial sound of a word, especially an unstressed vowel) of a Germanic personal name, either Arnaud or Renaud, (arn=eagle, ragin=counselor), where naud in both cases is power, which is exactly where she’s coming from.

Where else? I never got around to mentioning a next-door neighbor of the de Moors in Saint-Bris, probably because my favorite wine of theirs is a sauvignon gris—but you can find an example from biodynamic Goisot, literally big throat, a nickname surname for someone who’s either greedy or talkative, and either way has a big mouth. There is a shocking amount of aligoté in the ground in Eastern Europe, like tens of thousands of hectares: Russia, Bulgaria, Moldova, Ukraine, and the Republic of Georgia. I couldn’t tell you anything about any of it. There is a tiny bit in the quarry-adjacent limestone that Josh Jensen found and planted in Mt. Harlan, in San Benito County, originally to chardonnay; he grafted over a little bit to aligoté in 2004 and 2007, and Calera means lime kiln in Spanish, a reference to the century-old stone kiln on the property.

There is an argument for the aligoté’s superior ability to transmit terroir, and it’s a paradoxical one. (“Aligoté expresses terroir almost more than chardonnay,” Sylvain Pataille told Eric Asimov.) Chardonnay is neutral, impressionable, malleable, a blank slate. Aligoté has some inescapable qualities: a tangy, bright acidity; something of a green streak; a kind of almond-paste richness when ripe. Ironically, because it’s so stubbornly itself, to vinify it successfully you can’t just impose style—you can’t make it anything you want it to be. You have to listen to it.

And of what does it speak, in minute variations on a theme, from plot to plot, from up north in vines planted in 1904 in Saint-Bris, to its ripe, richer expressions on the dark marls of the dark slope, to its ripped-up plantings in the grand crus of Musigny and Corton, to its restored position on the shining premier cru slope of Morey, to the old, gold-berried plantings from the ’30s in little-known hamlets like Corgoloin or Magny-les-Villers, to their source in the southern nursery in Bouzeron, to its children on the other side of the ocean? What, you’re going to ask, is it saying?

Drink up. Find out.

 

VINE BEARING THREE BUNCHES
= Island of the Gold-Wielding Black Amazons =
Winery at the Lime Kiln, Mount Harlan 2011
= Land of the River-as-Goddess
 =
Big Mouth, From the Land of the Tribe from the North 2015
From the Barren Place, “All Tied Up, or the Grape’s Name” 2012
From the Barren Place, “Planted in 1902” 2012
From the Barren Place, “Planted in 1902” 2011
From the Barren Place, “From Other Valleys” 2011
= Land of the Tribe from the North =
Treader of Grapes, From the Land of the Tribe from the North 2015
Treader of Grapes, Villa of a Man from the Marshes, “Field Forey” 2013
Treader of Grapes, Villa of a Man from the Marshes, “A King’s Walled Vineyard” 2013
Treader of Grapes, Villa of a Man from the Marshes, “Grandad’s Old Oat Field” 2013
Treader of Grapes, Villa of a Man from the Marshes, “It Charmed the Priests” 2013
From Near the Water, A Dark Man’s Estate, “Walled Vineyard of Shining Slopes (Vineyard First-Class)” 2005
Keeper of the Keys, The Forest, “Old Vines” 2011
The King, The Forest 2010
The King, The Forest 2006
From the House Near the Creek, Hamlet in the Beeches, “Love and Peace, or Wine” 2011
Coming From Power, High Dark Slopes, “The Youngest Vines Were Planted in 1934” 2016 (magnum)
Coming From Power, High Dark Slopes, “The Youngest Vines Were Planted in 1934” 2015
Coming From Power, High Dark Slopes, “The Youngest Vines Were Planted in 1934” 2014
My Country Home, “Under the Little Chateau” 2007
Blacksmith, “Forced Labor by the Bubbling Place” 2015
From a Village of Sand & Granite 2011
Frontier Lord of the Manor of God’s Spear 2015
Man from the Forge, The Walled Camp, or a Rat’s Leap, “Golden Berries” 2015
Man from the Forge, The Walled Camp, or a Rat’s Leap, “Golden Berries” 2010
From the City of the People’s Victory, The Walled Camp, or a Rat’s Leap 2007
From a Dark Man’s Estate, The Walled Camp, or a Rat’s Leap 2011
Famed Wolf, The Walled Camp, or a Rat’s Leap 2012
Tied to the Land, Estate of Cattle Yards 2015

 

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