Master Word Blending

 

As the UK slips into autumn and you reach for thicker jumpers, dig out your boots and lay in a supply of mandatory hot chocolate to fortify you through all those writing hours, down here in South Africa, it’s almost spring.

I know this because everyone is going on about it after a wet and miserable winter but also, more aesthetically, because I have spied blossom on the trees and signs of life in the vineyards.  Since I’ve recently had a delightful week in Stellenbosch, one of the best wine-making regions of the world (just sayin’), I’ve had the opportunity to see this up close.

If you are not a wine-drinker for reasons moral, ethical, religious, or tastebud-related, you may find this post is neither your cup of tea nor glass of vino.  No problem; as you were.

Personally, I find the whole process of wine-making fascinating.  White, rosé or red, it intrigues me that the same soil can produce a different flavour of grape each year according to weather and the time of year they’re harvested.  Different soils, altitudes, aspects and techniques give each cultivar a slightly different flavour as the years go by and at the discretion of the wine-maker.  Here in South Africa, where Chenin is the biggest of the exported wines, we’re also used to standard tastings of Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay, Merlot, Malbec, Pinotage, Syrah, Shiraz and Cabernet Sauvignon, with occasional treats of Viognier, Semillon, Cabernet Franc, Petit Verdot, Sangiovese, and Pinot Noir.  (I'm not convinced that any of those need capitalising, but the persistent red line persuaded me otherwise.)

While I’m slightly showing off (but mostly because I can go wine tasting here for the princely sum of about £3, always have a designated driver since my husband hates the taste of alcohol, and because I ask a lot of questions at the wineries I visit), I can tell you that bush vines are very different from trellised wines.  You might already know that fermenting grapes in French oak barrels gives a very different flavour (quite oaky) that those placed in American oak (more vanilla flavours) – whether that’s 1st, 2nd or 3rd fillings – or in stainless steel tanks.  An increasingly popular trend is the use of cement amphoras which alter the way the fluid inside moves and consequently the taste of the wine – at least for those with a sensitive palate. The time in which the grapes are left there also makes a difference.

So far, so good, but then there’s the very delicate skill of wine blending which ups the ante again.  Taking a higher or lesser percentage of one grape and combining it with another opens the door (or the bottle) to an entirely new spectrum of flavours and takes a huge amount of skill to avoid something that’s just going to be used as paint stripper or poured down the drain. Bordeaux blends, Rhône blends, or the wine-makers personal favourites are all much sought after.  Tweaks in the fermenting process, disasters on the weather front, devastating pest infestations etc. all contribute to what makes it into the final bottle on the shelf.

What, I hear you ask, has all this got to do with writing?

A couple of years ago I was with a group of praying people and one of them began talking to me about wine blending, equating it with word blending.  'That', he assured me, 'is what you do.'  It’s stayed with me as a great picture for all writers.  We take a little from here, a little from there; an influence here, a reference from elsewhere and we wrap it all up in our own unique selection of words.  None of us produces exactly the same thing even if we write in the same genre.  Our created uniqueness shines through.  Our writing reflects our personal experience filtered through our upbringing, our learning style, our perception of the world, our faith, our values, our politics and our relationships.

It’s quite wonderful and actually very exciting that we can, and do, create worlds with our words which, like my South African wines, carry different flavours and emphases, different reactions and after tastes depending how we choose to blend them.

Like the world of wine, I think that’s worth celebrating and exploring.  

Meanwhile, if anyone can lay their hands on a bottle of single varietal Mouevèdre from five plus years ago, I’m totally here for it.

Cheers!

         Jenny Sanders has spent the last twelve years living between the UK and South Africa. She writes faith-inspired nonfiction: Spiritual Feasting (2020) asks how we can ‘feast’ when life serves unpalatable menus; Polished Arrows (2024), explores the allegory of  God shaping us to be fired effectively into our culture and contexts.       

          Jenny also has two published collections of humorous short stories for Key Stage 2 children: The Magnificent Moustache and other stories, and, Charlie Peach’s Pumpkins and other stories. She is available for author visits and creative writing sessions in primary schools.  She loves walking in nature, preferably by a river, and has a visceral loathing for offal, pineapple and incorrect use of car indicators on roundabouts.