In ancient time the feet of Bacchus walked upon England's mountains green. But they did not walk upon the mountains of North America until the 30 colonists cried out for rescue. Their prayers were answered. From time immemorial, grapes had clung to the rocky hillsides and wound along the valleys, awaiting the god's visitation. Small, tight and hardy, they yielded a foxy product that did not at first seem to justify the effort of vinification. But Bacchus teaches us both riot in the consumption and patience in the production of his gifts.
Hybridisation and selective cultivation led to varietals that took their place for a while in the repertoire of Bacchic hymns. Most of these were displaced in the 19th and 20th centuries by grapes imported from the Old World, and only the Zinfandel has been able to hold its small corner of the market. But here and there, hemmed in by the global tide, you can find native grapes salvaged from the flood and coaxed into wines that taste of the soil that shaped them and the history they shaped.
First among these grapes is the Norton, native to Virginia,
cultivated by Thomas Jefferson at Monticello, and subsequently
planted on many Virginian estates by the god's disciples. Uniquely suited to the Old Dominion's humid climate, the Norton gave rise, in the late 19th century, to a serious "claret", produced by the Monticello Wine Company and entered
successfully for international competitions. All but exterminated
in the blasphemous days of Prohibition, the Norton took a further beating, at the time of the god's shy return, from the globaglug products of California. But enough of the old vineyards remained, and in recent years pious disciples have
devoted their efforts to restoring them. The result is a remarkable
wine that devotees ought to drink whenever they hear the cry of the god as he wanders through that haunting landscape.
The Norton that we have just drunk was produced by the Horton wine company of Orange County. Its inky contents stormed from the bottle like a cloud of hornets, clinging to nose, lips and palate and stinging us with intense flavours of cobnut, cranberry and molasses. Then, as we reeled away, the wine began to sing its great aftersong. The barely discernible foxiness of the American grape sounded like a deep organ-note beneath the choir of summer perfumes. A spicy glow filled the mouth and a deep murmur of fruit echoed in the belly. We recognised the authentic taste of Old Virginny - the rich red soil, the humid air, the insect-laden breezes, all squeezed into this deep black bottled-up grape, and then released in ecstatic clouds across the table. In truth, Horton Norton is a masterpiece that could enter the Wine Olympics and shrivel the balls of its competitors with a single smoky puff.
