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Know your Bastardo from your blistering barnacles

Wine is not simple; its pleasures are as various as some of its components’ names.

Last column, I wrote in defence of wine geekery; here, m’lud, is the argument for the prosecution. You may have heard of Zinfandel, the American grape; you may well distrust what you have heard, since blush – surely the most depressing development in the beverage field since someone worked out you didn’t need oranges to make orange juice – is made from something called white Zinfandel, which is red Zinfandel with the redness taken out and often with various grapes that are not Zinfandel (which isn’t American anyway) added in.

Confused yet? Good, because it’s confusion I want to talk about. You may manage to resist the lure of unpleasantly sweet, almost tasteless pink wines but if you are interested in America’s bolshy, red mouthbombs then you still need Zinfandel, because it’s the second most planted red variety in California. And if you love the hearty pasta and meat dishes of Puglia, in southern Italy, and the luscious but structured reds made from Primitivo that go so well with them, you might like to know that Primitivo and Zinfandel are the same thing.

This story of a long-ago parting, with cuttings taken to the US, their origins lost until the 1970s, is like a star-crossed romance, if rather an incestuous one. And it’s unusual: lots of older grapes have different names in different places – Carignan is Mazuelo in Spain, Grenache is Cannonau in Sardinia, Malbec is Cot in France (although my favourite name for this very black grape is Pied de Perdrix – partridge’s foot, presumably because earlyrising, earth-tending peasants are more likely to notice birds’ feet than night skies) – but mostly their connection was known, if not always clear.

None of this stuff is essential – it’s just useful, for those on a quest to experiment while still buying what they know they’ll enjoy, otherwise known as having your bottle and drinking it. The eminent wine writer Jancis Robinson, with Julia Harding and José Vouillamoz, has just brought out a 1,300-page book called Wine Grapes, a work of such scholarship it uses cutting-edge DNA analysis to teach me, for example, that Primitivo-Zinfandel is actually from Croatia, where it rejoices in the name Tribidrag. This is a very serious book indeed, yet appropriately – given that wine has been known to provide a bit of entertainment on occasion, some of it inadvertent – Wine Grapes made me laugh aloud. It’s not just some beautifully restrained commentary (“Many an American has argued that Zinfandel is indigenous, notwithstanding the fact that vitis vinifera is not a native species of the Americas”) or occasionally, the deliberate lack of same (“As Zinfandel it is also found in Israel, where American influence is strong”). No: ladies and gentlemen, I believe that I have proven, using the most meticulous DNA technology, that Wine Grapes is actually descended from Tintin.

Once you start to ponder the attempt to avoid confusion between Mazuelo and Carignan by calling the grape Samsó – a move that baffled everybody – or the fact that this grape is no relation to Bovale Sardo, despite sometimes being known as Bovale di Spagna, you may be reminded of the identical twins, Thomson and Thompson, in Tintin and their puzzlement at how anyone could ever mix them up. Many of the names here would have served Tintin’s author, Hergé, well too: the Bastardo grape, also known as Trousseau, or the name of the first person to record the existence of Primitivo: an 18thcentury Italian priest called Francesco Filippo Indellicati.

Wine is not simple; its pleasures are as various as some of its components’ names. Now and then, the intricacies make even a devoted oenophile throw up their hands like Captain Haddock and yell “Billions of blue blistering barnacles!” – which could, come to think of it, work as an alternative name for vitis vinifera.

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 25 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, After God

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Puffins in peril

Britain’s best-loved seabird is vulnerable to global extinction.

The boatmen helped us scramble ashore and soon there were 50 people wandering on an uninhab­ited slab of sea-battered dolerite called Staple Island. It is one of the National Trust-owned Farne Islands in Northumberland and among England’s most spectacular wildlife locations. There are 100,000 pairs of breeding seabirds here and they were everywhere: at our feet, overhead, across every rock face. The stench of guano was overwhelming.

While the birds seemed to be boundless, the human beings converged on the grassy knoll where the local star attraction resides. It’s the creature that adorns the boat company’s publicity and is emblazoned on the National Trust’s website for the island, the bird that possesses what the poet Norman MacCaig called the “mad, clever clown’s beak”: the pint-sized, parrot-faced puffin.

The British love for this creature is so intense that it is, in essence, the robin redbreast of the sea. Nearly all of its breeding colonies around our coast are tourist attractions. Just across the water, along the shore from Staple Island, is the town of Amble, which holds an annual festival devoted to the puffin. From Lundy in Devon and Skomer in Pembrokeshire to the Isle of May off the Fife coast, or Fair Isle in the Shetlands, trips to puffin colonies are frequent, sometimes daily, events.

“Every tourist shop on these islands sells puffin merchandise – knitwear patterns, tumblers, carvings, coasters, cuddly toys, clothes and, of course, puffin hats,” Helen Moncrieff, the area manager in Shetland for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB), told me.

While the love affair is unquestionable, what seems in doubt is our ability to help the bird now that it is in trouble. Fair Isle once supported a puffin colony of 20,000 birds. In less than three decades, that number has halved. Similar declines have been reported at Britain’s most important puffin site on St Kilda, Scotland, where millions are said to have bred. Now there are fewer than 130,000 pairs, half the total recorded as recently as the 1970s.

The national picture is alarming but the news from elsewhere is even worse. Continental Europe holds more than 90 per cent – five million pairs – of the global total of Atlantic puffins but they are shared primarily between three countries: Denmark (the Faroe Islands), Iceland and Norway. Across this subarctic region, losses have been estimated at 33 per cent since 1979, when monitoring began. But the most striking figure comes from a colony on Røst, Norway, where there has been a fall over this period from nearly 1.5 million pairs to 285,000.

The Westman Islands off the south coast of Iceland hold a substantial proportion of the country’s puffins. Since 2005, breeding success there has been almost nil, and a similar failure has recurred on the Faroe Islands for more than a decade. In both places, where hunting puffins was once a staple of cultural life, catchers today have initiated a self-imposed moratorium.

Puffins are long-lived species and a life­span of between 20 and 30 years is not unusual, yet Euan Dunn, principal marine adviser to the RSPB, explains the implications of persistent breeding failure. “Puffins on Shetland or the Westmans may go on attempting to breed for years, even decades, but eventually all those old adult birds will die off and, if they haven’t reproduced, then the numbers will start to plunge.”

BirdLife International, a conservation network that classifies the status of birds worldwide, has reached the same conclusion. It judges that the Atlantic puffin is likely to decline by between 50 and 79 per cent by 2065. The nation’s most beloved seabird has been declared a species that is vulnerable to global extinction.

To unpick the story of puffin losses, marine ecologists have examined the bird’s oceanic ecosystem and looked particularly at changes in the status of a cold-water zooplankton called Calanus finmarchicus. This seemingly insignificant, shrimp-like organism plays a crucial role in North Atlantic biodiversity and has experienced a huge decline as sea temperatures have risen steadily since the 1980s. While the decline of the finmarchicus coincided with swelling numbers of a close relative, this other zooplankton species is less abundant and nutritious.

As the finmarchicus has suffered, so, too, has one of its main predators, the lesser sand eel. And it is this formerly superabundant fish that is the staple food of puffins in many areas of the Atlantic. At the root of the disruption to marine life are the hydra-headed effects of climate change.

Though no one disputes that an important shift is under way in the sea areas of northern Britain and beyond, not everyone agrees that the present puffin situation is a crisis. A leading British expert, Mike Harris, thinks it is premature to designate the bird an endangered species. There are still millions of puffins and, he says, “We need numbers to plummet before we even start to assume that things are terminal.”

Similarly, Bergur Olsen, one of the foremost biologists studying puffins in the Faroe Islands, believes that the talk of extinction is over the top. “The food situation may change and puffins may well adapt to new prey, and then their numbers will stabilise and perhaps increase,” he says.

***

On Staple Island, the extinction designation does appear bizarre. The Farne Island puffin population has increased by 8 per cent since 2008 and there are now 40,000 pairs. This success mirrors a wider stability among puffin colonies of the North and Irish Seas. The distinction in feeding ecology which may explain the birds’ varying fortunes is that, in the southern parts of the range, puffins can prey on sprats when sand eels are scarce. Sprats appear to have suffered none of the disruption that assails the other fish.

But Dunn says it is important to look at the whole picture. “It’s fantastic that puffins are doing well in places like the Farnes, but remember: Britain holds less than 10 per cent of the world total. Also, the declines that have beset puffins in Shetland and St Kilda are even worse for other seabirds.”

The numbers of a silver-winged gull called the kittiwake have fallen by 90 per cent in Shetland and St Kilda since 2000 and by 80 per cent in the Orkneys in just ten years. Shetland’s guillemot numbers have also halved, and the shag, a relative of the cormorant, has experienced falls of over 80 per cent on many islands since the 1970s – 98 per cent, on Foula. Most troubling is the fate of the Arctic skua, which feeds mainly on fish it steals from other seabirds and is reliant on their successes. Its declines are so severe that Dunn fears its eventual loss as a breeding species in Britain.

While there is disagreement about what to call the puffin predicament, there is unanimity on one issue: much of the data that informs the discussion in Britain is out of date. All of these seabirds, which are of global importance, have been monitored decade by decade since the 1970s. Yet the most recent big audit of our cliffs and offshore islands was concluded in 2000. The full census data is now 16 years old. The organisation that underwrites this work is the Joint Nature Conservation Committee; it is sponsored by the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, which has suffered deep budget cuts since the 2008 financial crisis. There is no certainty that another comprehensive census will be mounted any time soon.

“Much is made on wildlife television of how special these islands are for wildlife and how much we care about it,” Dunn says. “In the case of our seabirds, one of those claims is indisputably true. Britain holds populations of some species that are of worldwide significance. But if we lack even basic information on those birds and how they’re faring, especially at a time when our seas are in such flux, what message does that send about how much this country cares? And how can we ever act effectively?”

The plight of the puffin is shedding light on the fortunes of our marine wildlife generally and the shifting condition of our oceans as a result of rising carbon-dioxide levels. Now, puffin politics is also starting to show
this government’s indifference to nature.

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue