| |
by Joanne Simon
Harpers News
Natural hazards and a low export profile are relatively moderate
concerns for grape growers and winemakers on Santorini. For with
young workers deserting viticulture for tourism, the island's vineyards
are in danger of dying out with the older generation. Joanne Simon
visits an historic wine island fighting for survival
'The world
is about to lose one of its most interesting wine regions.' These
words,
uttered by the usually upbeat winemaker Yannis Paraskevopoulos,
had haunted me
since my return from an eye-opening trip to Greece last year. Interrupting
our
conversation about his (successful) attempts to produce world-class
red wine at his
Gaia winery near Koutsi in the Peloponnese, Paraskevopoulos was
referring - to my
surprise, I admit - to the Cycladic island of Santorini, where
he consults and also
vinifies his own white wines at Canava Arghyros.
Back then, you see, I did not know much about Santorini's wine industry,
let alone
any of the finer details, like the practice of training vines into
baskets (of which more
later), or even the versatile minerality of the white Assyrtiko
grape, which has its
origins on Santorini. For me, the island was little more than a
potential holiday
destination.
In fact,
it was only when I sampled Paraskevopoulos' elegant yet structured,
citrussy
yet almost metallic 2001 Thalassitis (from the Greek word thalassa,
meaning 'of the
sea', and made from Assyrtiko) that his words - about losing
a wine 'as expressive
of terroir as a Sancerre or a Puligny-Montrachet' - sank in.
'There are no more young
people working in the vineyards; only a few old men who still do
it out of love,' he
said. 'Vineyards are small, often less than a hectare, so it's labour-intensive
and
relatively unrewarding. It's understandable that people would rather
build tourist
accommodation, make a fortune in three months and then go skiing
in St Moritz, than
be on their knees in the dirt. And I'm not sure there is much we
can do about it.'
Intrigued, I vowed to visit Santorini before its wine industry succumbed
to the more
lucrative onslaught of tourism. And when I went, it was early January,
when a chill
wind howled through ghost towns boarded up for winter, and the population
was
pruned down from the summer high of around 40,000 to the 5,000-odd
who don't
habitually take to the slopes.
If anything,
the starkness of winter serves only to accentuate Santorini's rugged
beauty. Originally called Strongyle (meaning 'round') and then Kalliste
('most
beautiful'), the island's crescent shape today is the result of
a catastrophic volcanic
eruption - the largest in recorded history - that destroyed everything
on the island
around 1500BC.
Fortunately,
it appears that most of Kalliste's inhabitants had time (and enough
savvy) to flee the island before the eruption - indeed, Pompeii-style
excavations at
the ancient village of Akrotiri reveal that theirs was a highly
organised society. Each
house came equipped with a bath, as well as clay amphorae whose
exquisite
decorations, still intact, clearly depict whether they were used
to store grain or olive
oil. or wine. Amazingly, those used for wine are decorated with
different symbols,
revealing that, far from having had one primitive form of fermented
grape juice, these
people had different wines - and, what's more, a fairly sophisticated
classification
system.
When people
returned they found a wasteland whose new shape offered no
protection from the incessant northerly gale. Once blessed with
fertile soils, now
layers of lava, ash and smashed pumice stone made it impossible
to grow trees, let
alone crops for feeding animals. Even today, there is hardly a cow
or goat in sight,
and the only things that grow with any degree of success are cherry
tomatoes,
capers and fava beans (all intensely flavoursome).
The grape
stock consists mainly of Assyrtiko, plus small amounts of Athiri,
Aidani
and the red Mandelaria. Their survival on Santorini is due only
to the ingenuity of
those ancient growers who came up with the idea of weaving the best
cane (or two)
of each vine into an increasingly deep basket to protect grapes
from being
sandblasted or sunburnt, and to retain moisture (here, summer mists
supplement
just 200mm of rain a year). I've never seen anything like the large
vine 'baskets' of
Santorini's older vineyards and, with phylloxera unable to survive
in the island's
volcanic soil, I mean 'old'. When I asked Paraskevopoulos to estimate
the age of the
oldest vines, he invited me to take a wild guess.
A rich
history, innovative viticultural techniques, ancient vines, phylloxera-free
soils,
one of the world's most stunning vineyard settings, tourists providing
a captive
market. Into this heady mix is thrown the widely planted Assyrtiko
- arguably
Greece's finest white noble variety, because of its ability to achieve
ripeness with a
high degree of natural acidity. You'd expect Santorini's modern
winemakers to have it
made (give or take the occasional battle against the elements).
After all, their
ancestors were laughing from the mid-18th century onwards, when
terraced
vineyards covering most of their 73km2 island supplied wine to the
extremely
lucrative Russian market (although this disappeared overnight with
the Bolshevik
Revolution).
There
is certainly no shortage of enthusiasm or talent on the modern winemaking
front. But, put simply, how do you make consistently good wine (let
alone market it)
without a consistent supply of grapes? Large-scale abandonment of
Santorini's
vineyards dates back to an earthquake in 1956 that forced many inhabitants
to move
to the mainland or abroad. Others decided to replant their vineyards
with tomatoes
(at one stage, Santorini had ten tomato paste factories). And then
came the tourists
with their accommodation needs, which saw property prices shoot
up and
landowners cash in. Vineyards, which used to cover 3,500 hectares
(ha), or 84% of
Santorini, now account for just 1,200ha. And yields, too, have shrunk
over the
decades, from 40hl/ha to under 10hl/ha each year.
Of course,
small yields due to old, stretched vines result in concentrated
wines that
are full of character. This is certainly the case with Assyrtiko,
and it's no wonder that
Santorini has had an Appellation of High Quality Origin for its
dry white wines since
1972. Less clear is why it still lacks a Controlled Appellation
of Origin (the Greek
equivalent of Europe's VQPRD) for Vinsanto, the dessert wine made
from sun-dried
grapes. (Indeed, the Italian Vin Santo must be considered to have
Greek origins, with
medieval Venetians having learnt a thing or two during their 300-year
sojourn on the
island.)
But I
digress. The point is that all ten wineries on Santorini have to
make do with
3,000-4,000 tons of grapes between them in a 'good' year, or as
little as 1,200 tons
in a bad one, like 2002 (when yields were down from an average 250-500kg
per
'strema', or 1,000m2, to just 50kg).
You can
always blame the weather for annual fluctuations: poor winter rainfall
and/or
strong winds during flowering make for a bad vintage (and the good
news is that
2003 is already looking more promising than 2002). But land, without
question,
poses the biggest ongoing headache. 'If you sell the land, you get
as much money
as you would cultivating it for 50 years,' shrugs oenologist Haridimos
Hatzidakis, a
former Boutari winemaker now performing miracles in his tiny 'cave'
winery, dug into
an organic vineyard near the southern, hillside village of Pyrgos
Kallistis.
His well-made
wines (40,000 bottles in total, ranging from the crisply modern
white
'Santorini' to the more traditional, barrel-matured 'Nykteri', and
available in the UK
through Eclectic Wines) speak volumes for his sound, modern techniques.
Hatzidakis knows that his greatest challenges lie in the vineyard
- his stated aim is
to 'broaden the grape varieties, as well as to improve the quality
of the Santorinian
vineyard'. For starters, he believes the early-ripening but rare
Mavrotragano (red)
variety has far more potential than the angular, tannic Mandilaria,
and his soft, round
red wine bears this out.
He also
believes that vines should be trained into smaller 'crowns' rather
than big
baskets, pointing out that so much wood prevents the concentration
of nutrients in
the berries. But persuading growers to abandon generations of tradition
is, at best, a
heated debate (as only the Greeks can be heated). And, as we watch
a grizzled grape
grower loosen the soil around his recently pruned and trained vines,
Hatzidakis
shakes his head: 'Only the old people still do this strong work.
I don't know what will
happen when they go - there is no one behind them.'
But therein,
paradoxically, lies a glimmer of hope: 'I am quite optimistic,'
says Elli
Tentzeraki, the oenologist at Sigalas winery, whose owner, Paris
Sigalas, is
determined to halt the decline of grape growing in northern Santorini,
where his is
the only winery left, and to replant vineyards with 'forgotten'
varieties like
Mavrotragano, using organic principles. 'Good viticulturists will
come from other
parts,' insists Tentzeraki. 'Why not? Assyrtiko is one of the world's
best white
varieties, because it can be vinified fresh or matured in barrel
or sun-dried, and our
soil gives it a unique herbal, mineral character, which becomes
almost petrolly as it
ages. People understand that, so they will come here. And they will
have a
willingness to try new things, instead of inheriting the mistakes
of the old people.'
The winery's Assyrtikos, labelled as Sigalas Santorini and Sigalas
'Barrel' Santorini
respectively, have recently won bronze and silver medals at the
International Wine &
Spirit Competition (IWSC), as has its Vinsanto, made from 70% Assyrtiko
and 30%
Aidani. Producing 100,000 bottles a year under six different labels,
Sigalas exports
its wine to the US, Germany, France and Japan, and is currently
seeking a UK agent.
Equally
keen to increase exports is Stela Kasiola, the marketing manager
at
SantoWines, a co-operative with 1,100 active members. 'But you can't
export if you
can't guarantee grapes,' she sighs, 'so before we can develop a
proper marketing
and sales strategy, we have to help our cultivators stabilise their
production.'
SantoWines' promotions manager, Nick Dinos, explains the dual role
of the
co-operative: 'We are a business, but we also have a social duty
to protect the future
of our growers. If there is no one to take over from them, one solution
is to introduce
corporate farming, whereby we employ people to maintain the land.
But the laws on
employment are very strict, so we will need backing from other big
companies before
we talk to the government.'
Making
24 different styles of wine (including its 2002 IWSC gold medal-winning
1996
Vinsanto), the winery building is impressive, following the contours
of the volcanic
caldera. But built in 1990, when demographic studies failed to predict
the impact of
tourism, it uses only around 20% of its 5,000-ton storage capacity.
'A bad capital
investment,' says Dinos, putting it mildly. But the construction
of an on-site Wine
Promotion Centre (which surely has one of the island's best views)
is one thing that
has paid off: SantoWines has 40,000 visitors a year.
'So perhaps
tourism is not all bad news for the wine industry?' I suggest,
mischievously. To which Kasiola replies: 'Tourists come here to
experience a
traditional island way of life, but that traditional way of life
is disappearing. It's a
vicious circle.'
Petros
Vamvakousis, manager at Boutari's 1,500-ton capacity Megalochori
winery,
whose hospitality and multi-media centre attracted 30,000 people
last year, agrees
with Kasiola and predicts a shift back to viticulture. 'In the past
20 years, tourism has
been the most important income for locals, but things are changing.
These days,
visitors want to experience new things, so it's not so easy just
to be a hotel or a
restaurant manager. You have to offer more,' he says. Importantly,
Boutari - one of
Greece's oldest and biggest companies - appears to have a corporate
plan in place
to secure Santorini's future grape requirements. 'When the old people
have finished
their work, our plan is to rent their vineyards and use our own
staff to cultivate the
grapes,' says Vamvakousis.
Passionate
oenologists already doing good things with the small quantities
at their
disposal; a move towards a better-balanced relationship between
viticulture and
tourism; and a company like Boutari (whose Santorini and Kallisti
labels are
available at Oddbins and Tesco) getting ready to flex its corporate
muscle. It all
augurs well for the survival of a wine region whose disappearance
would, indeed, be
a tragedy.
|