Glass of wine in hand, I often find myself musing on the crazy, blind courage it must take to become a wine producer out of the blue. It's one thing to absorb the traditions of a wine-making family from childhood, or even to build up skill through years of toil at oenology school. But what kind of person has the guts to plunge, naked of all experience, into the mysteries of vineyard and cellar? Passionate individualists, to judge from two brave pioneers encountered recently. Aime Guibert of Mas de Daumas Gassac, the Languedoc's most distinguished wine, radiates restless energy. To engage in conversation with him, even for five minutes, is to be pulled down a mental helter-skelter at such an alarming speed that it's impossible to pay attention to the hairpin bends along the way. It is just as well that his story has been well chronicled, for he would find it hard to settle long enough to tell it himself.
Here are the bare bones. Twenty-seven years ago, Guibert and his young wife Veronique found themselves hunting for a house in the Languedoc countryside. At the time, she was an anthropologist at the University of Montpellier. He was managing Guibert Freres, a family leather business which had supplied gloves to the British royal family for 300 years. In a pretty valley in the Cevennes foothills they found a tumbledown stone farmhouse with land. Maybe they'd grow maize or olives, they thought - fashion having worn a large hole in the glove trade. Or maybe they'd try wine.
The obsession took root, with experts including the great Prof Emile Peynaud of Bordeaux lending encouragement. Great tracts of land were cleared so that vineyards - initially mostly of Cabernet Sauvignon - could be planted. When the first vintage of Mas de Daumas Gassac was made in 1978, it was clear that this was no ordinary little vin de pays but a serious heavyweight, designed for ageing. Visiting the Guiberts this summer in their hidden valley, I was lucky to taste this still quite together 19-year-old. It was evidence that, while Aime Guibert's talent for promotion and fierce pride in his wines can't harm his cause, there are more fundamental reasons why Daumas Gassac is held in high regard.
The principle underpinning all of Guibert's wines was revealed on a quick tour of the vineyards. "L'equilibre de la nature!" he cried, gesturing towards the herbs and wild flowers, butterflies and bees resident among the vines. "You must respect life! There are billions of micro-organisms alive in the soil. The more you kill with synthetic chemicals, the more serious the long-term consequences will be." Thanks to this approach, his wines are full of the character of the Languedoc countryside - aromatic with the heady perfumes of the south.
Having proved that it was possible to make a wine of stature in an area previously known only as a source of plonk, Guibert's next mission was to rescue local grape varieties. "Brussels announced that the old varieties were to be uprooted because they weren't good enough. One day I said: this is ridiculous. I will present a wine made from Grenache and Carignan to the biggest wine competition in the world, to show how good they can be."
In the 1993 Wine Challenge, his Figaro was voted Red Wine of the Year. "The impact was enormous. Like a bomb!" Brussels ran for cover, as more Guibert bottles appeared with ancient grape names on their labels. Now many young winemakers are experimenting with grapes like Aramon, Cinsaut, Clairette and Alicante, as well as the winning Grenache and Carignan.
Needless to say, Guibert - a man so energetic that he often gardens at 10 o'clock at night - has moved on to other pressing projects. "I'm developing in the direction of purity," he says. "I'm seeking out pockets of land in a prime position to make wines with the real flavour of the terroir." The first of these, Terrasses d'Albaran, Terrasses d'Elise and Terrasses d'Eraus, are now in Ireland alongside the varietals and the esteemed Daumas Gassac red, rose and white. The next move is a highly unusual dessert wine. The only sign of calm, in this picture of ceaseless, questing activity, is that Aime and Veronique Guibert have allowed themselves regular visits, over the past 20 years, to their house in West Cork.
My second trailblazer seems - on brief acquaintance, admittedly - to be imbued with an almost unnatural calm, shading off into diffidence. This comes as an enormous shock, for Randall Grahm, California's original Rhone Ranger, emerges from his idiosyncratic newsletters and wacky labels as the most extrovert wordsmith ever to have swapped life as a student of philosophy for total immersion in wine. In the flesh - tall, pigtailed and often with cigar in hand - he is wittier and much more shy.
At a tasting dinner in the Clarence Hotel, Grahm delivered a brief documentary about Bonny Doon, the winery he established above Santa Cruz in the early 1980s. "I went there to make the great American Pinot Noir," he explained. Influenced by Burgundy, he decided to truck in limestone. The proprietors of the fabled Domaine de la Romanee-Conti recommended sheep manure, so that too was acquired in bulk. Leaving nothing to chance, the vines planted were a French clone of Pinot Noir. "But the wine was nothing special," Randall shrugged. "I made a better one with grapes of local origin. Then I switched to Rousanne, Marsanne and other Rhone grapes and the wines were brilliant." There lies the genesis of the full-flavoured, Mediterranean-style wines for which he has become famous. More Anthony Quinn than Cary Grant, he says - rugged and characterful rather than refined.
To succeed with this strategy in California, a land in thrall to smooth Chardonnay, Cabernet and Merlot, must have taken a powerful blend of conviction and persistence. Before long, a small band of like-minded individualists were following the Grahm trail, planting Rhone grapes. But by that time Bonny Doon had moved on to other curiosities like Malvasia, Sangiovese (he calls his version Il Fiasco), Zinfandel (Cardinal Zin) and even Riesling. "Real men do drink Riesling," Randall joked in Dublin. "It's the ultimate nerd varietal, but paradoxically it's actually very hip." Soon on the way, from his spanking new winery in the Livermore Valley, is one he's labelled Critique of Pure Riesling. But Randall Grahm's latest bold initiative is to complement his substantial Californian output with a range of good-value wines made to his prescription in the north of Spain and, yes, the south of France. The first to reach Irish shores is an unfiltered Syrah - "Syrah Sirrah", the pun-lover calls it - straight from the Languedoc. So we're back to the beginning. Randall Grahm and Aime Guibert aren't really 6,000 miles apart.
Products of passion
White Figaro Vin de Pays de l'Herault 1996 (O'Briens Fine Wines, £4.89). Overshadowed pale sister of the prize-winning (and, incidentally, delicious) red that showed off the potential of native Languedoc grapes. Fresh and tangy - 50:50 Clairette and Sauvignon Blanc - at a great price.
Ca del Solo Malvasia Bianca, Bonny Doon, 1995 (McCabes, Wine Cellar Raheny, Dublin Wine Co. Malahide, Mill Wine Cellar Maynooth, Noble Rot Navan and other outlets, and James Nicholson, usually £7.99-£8.99). Losing ground in Italy, Malvasia is gaining Grahm fans through this rich, muscat-flavoured wine with a dry, spicy finish. Specially good with Asian food.
Red
Terrasses d'Elise Grande Reserve, Vin de Pays de l'Herault 1995 (O'Briens, £6.99). One result of Aime Guibert's new determination to make affordable wines that reflect their terroir. Smashing! See Bottle of the Week.
Le Cigare Volant, Bonny Doon, 1995 (outlets as for Malvasia Bianca, £13.99-£14.99). Bonny Doon's flagship, the Flying Cigar - a luscious rendering of Chateauneuf-du-Pape with heaps of primary fruit flavours.
Mas de Daumas Gassac, Vin de Pays de l'Herault 1993 (O'Briens and some other independent off-licences, usually £14.99-£15.99). Aime Guibert's most glorious and serious wine - admittedly not the most impressive recent vintage (1994 and 1995 are stupendous) but good enough to reveal the essential dark, rich, complex character.