Most keen wine drinkers know that chenin blanc is the most widely planted grape in South Africa.  Those who follow the history will also know why – because as a non-aromatic variety with overt acidity it’s ideal for making brandy, and white fortified wine, long a staple of the South African industry.  What is less well-known is that a couple of centuries ago, before British imperial demands for those styles of wine came to dominate, semillon was the most significant grape in the Cape. 

Both, of course, came early to the region, brought either by the Dutch East India Company traders from the west coast of France, or by the Huguenot protestants who settled here when chased from their country by that most Catholic (and tyrannical) King, Louis XIV.  So, for over one hundred years semillon dominated.  Now the residual plantings of the grape are mainly used in blends.

Except in Franschhoek: the name means the ‘French Corner’.  It’s the bowl in a series of mountain ranges where 300 of those religious dissidents were first settled by the Dutch authorities in 1688.  They brought with them a good knowledge of how to make wine, which helped to kick start the Cape wine industry.  They created their refuge from persecution and began to make the wine which had comforted them back home.

And there I was too, at a tasting provided by the local wine producers, enjoying a bit of Southern Hemisphere warmth in mid-November, and not a chenin blanc in sight – but a whole range of semillons.  For some reason – the residual French memory perhaps – the grape is still there, making a distinctive range of wines, showing the texture of the grape to its best.  What’s more, they tend to come from older vines, giving lower yields, and therefore much more concentration.  A couple of the wines I tried were from the same vineyard with vines planted in 1905; others were from 1936, or 1942.  The young ones from the early 1990s or the beginning of this millennium.  This had a noticeable impact on their quality.  Most of the grapes used to be sold in anonymous blends or with no varietal name but in the last few years the local producers have decided collectively to push the wines (last time I was here, nearly 20 years ago, nothing was made of the grape).  It’s effectively their identity.  You could also argue that in marketing terms it’s a point of distinction, helping them to sell the wines – but as one producer said to me, ‘no one knows semillon; it’s a bastard to sell’.  Local attachment to the grape preceded any clear business plan.

Why this variety in this place?  No-one did a detailed soil analysis or hydrological study, nor a temperature assessment, to see if it was the ideal grape for the region.  It just happened to come with the original settlers, it reminded them of home, they planted it and the wine which they made was ok, and 235 years in its still there, because it seems to work, and it is now part of the heritage.

Finally, just before finishing this this otherwise sympathetic story, it’s worth remembering that the land given to the French had been occupied by the indigenous Khoisan people for a long time and was taken by the Europeans without anyone asking them if they agreed to it or wanted to have grapes planted there.