Something that Gregory Jones, a climatologist and winemaker who lives in Oregon, said recently about old-vine wines really stuck with me. “When you walk through a vineyard,” he said, “the old vines talk to you, the young vines don’t.”
At first I thought: that’s a romantic way to spin a marketing message. But then I remembered a day about 20 years ago when century-old grapevines in Sonoma County, California, talked to me.
The owner-manager of Old Hill Ranch in the Sonoma Valley, Will Bucklin, was walking me through what his family calls their Ancient Block of mixed field-blend grapevines dating from 1885. It was in March, and the ground was freshly tilled between interplanted, head-trained, dry-farmed, untrellised vines ranging from alicante bouschet and carignane to petite sirah and zinfandel, as well as two dozen other grape varieties.
Bud burst was just beginning. Seeing the annual renewal happening as tiny leaves – at first looking reddish and then light green – emerged from their winter dormancy prompted a sweet moment of reflection. The sun shone brightly, the air smelled fresh and sap flowed from the roots of the vines, up through the trunks and arms and slowly dripped from recent pruning cuts.













