Blog

Part 1:

Background, branding, heritage varieties & lost vineyards

Tell us about how you got into wine.

I wish I had a romantic origin story, something like sipping a teaspoon of d’Yquem on my grandfather’s lap, but alas, I don’t. At the age of 17 I had an epiphany that money doesn’t buy happiness, which explains most of the subsequent, and often foolhardy, decisions in my life. After graduating with a degree in English Literature from Cardiff, where I learned you could make friends by lining your windowsill at Halls with demijohns of home-brew from a Boots wine kit, I took a job at Oddbins because I’d realised that I enjoyed drinking wine just as much as reading books. As a young man, I was deeply influenced by Billy Connolly’s advice for a happy life: “Find something you love to do, then find someone who’ll pay you to do it.” I’m still working on the second half.

How do you balance your various roles/projects?

With great difficulty.

When I became self-employed, about fifteen years ago, my to-do list was pretty vague, but my what-not-to-do-list was very clear: no boss, no staff, no suit. If you can handle the long hours, financial insecurity and the risk associated with unpredictable weather and markets, then the rest is gravy.

What was the inspiration behind Lost In A Field? And why a pet nat, in particular?

In 2013 I bought a one way ticket to South Australia where I lived for five years building a business making pét-nat under the Astro Bunny and Piggy Pop labels. When I returned to the UK in 2018, I wanted to make pét-nat here but had a hunch that the varieties most widely planted in the UK, Chardonnay and the two Pinots, just wouldn’t be right for the style of pét-nat that I wanted to make, which is aromatic and fruity. I had this vague memory from my WSET days of German cross varieties being planted in England before traditional method and the Champagne varieties took over.  Just as I started to do some research, covid hit, so it became my lockdown project. I started off gathering together as many examples of these German cross varieties as I could find, most of them still table wines, and after tasting through them, I discarded a few (Ortega, too earthy, Siegerrebe, teenage girl’s perfume) and focused on three varieties: Madelaine Angevine, Schönburger and Reichensteiner. From old records and maps I identified a list of every vineyard that had been planted with those three varieties in the last fifty years, which came to just over 200 addresses, often just a postcode, no name or address. I started on my computer, zooming in on Google Earth to see if I could identify a vineyard, making calls, often to numbers that were long disconnected. Then I spent five months driving around the south of England, choosing one part of a county each day, driving up country lanes, stopping every few hundred yards to look over a hedge to see if I could spy an old vineyard. And on the rare occasion I found a vineyard, having to find a house nearby to ask who owned it. From that list of 200 I found just twelve vineyards that were still in existence, four of which were dead, four were in ownership disputes, and I ended up working with the remaining four, which formed the basis of the inaugural 2021 Lost in a Field “Frolic” pét-nat. Since then, I’ve managed to unearth another half a dozen, increasingly because people get in touch with me having tried or read about the wine. When I started, the project had a completely different name, which I’m too embarrassed to even mention, but it was the process of driving around all those country lanes, getting lost myself, then finding old vineyards, some of which were overgrown or abandoned, that eventually led to the name Lost in a Field bubbling up into my consciousness. It came about organically, to describe what I was doing and what I found. As soon as you hear the name, I like to think it gives a sense of what the wine might be like; a little wild, rural, artisan, very English, which is why I think it resonates with people.

Why pét-nat? When working in London in the mid-2000s I fell in love with the pét-nats from Pierre and Catherine Breton which you could find by-the-glass at the much missed Terroirs restaurant. I was captivated by these wines, a genuinely unique style, and one that was alive, they got fizzier and drier from Spring to Summer. I knew if I was ever going to make my own wine it would be something this exciting, something I truly loved, was a little bit obsessed with. When I first went out to Australia in 2013 with the vague plan of making my own wine, only six producers were making pét-nat (which quickly grew to over 300) and although I had no technical training in winemaking, I reckon I knew just a tiny bit more about pét-nat than those six people, and that was enough to give me the confidence to give it a go. I now make pét-nat in two different countries on opposite sides of the world, so my life is a never ending cycle of pét-nat harvests, making and selling, I confess, I am a pét-nat tragic.

Over time I’ve come to see this hyper-focus on just one style as a real strength. In my experience, the only real way to learn and improve as a winemaker is to drink as widely and as curiously as possible. Not just the good stuff, you have to drink the bad and everything in-between too. For me, as an untrained winemaker, and possibly with a bit of imposter syndrome, making a wine style that I love to drink, all the time, from everywhere, seemed a pretty good plan, and was a way to carve out a little niche in the vast world of wine that felt valid and had integrity. I could even contribute some of my hard won knowledge to the benefit of others. For the first few years I wrote a blog (www.pet-nat.com) detailing my triumphs and failings as a novice pét-nat winemaker. It’s amazing how many people over the years, from all over the world, have told me that this blog acted as their inspiration, and handbook, for their first foray into pét-nat making. So, to get where I am today, king of my own little global pét-nat empire, I’ve drunk everybody else’s pét-nats. This has helped me develop a deep, 360-degree understanding of the style and how to make it, which has allowed me to keep making small incremental improvements in quality each year, which is what keeps me interested, and hopefully keeps people coming back for more.

What are the UK “heritage” varieties, and when and where were they planted?

The first wave of modern British vineyards began in the 1950s, but real growth took off in the 1960s and continued through the 1980s. During this period, almost everything planted was one of the German cross varieties, chosen partly for their disease resistance, but mainly for their early-ripening qualities in a climate then considered too cool for classic French grapes. The most common were Madeleine Angevine, Huxelrebe, Bacchus, Reichensteiner, Müller-Thurgau, Schönburger, Siegerrebe, Ortega, and Seyval Blanc (a hybrid, not a cross). For reds, it was Triomphe d’Alsace, Leon Millot and Rondo (all hybrids as well). By the 1990s, plantings of the German varieties had slowed, giving way to the Champagne varieties that have dominated ever since. When I started the Lost in a Field Instagram account, I found that constantly writing “German cross grape varieties” was a bit of a mouthful. So, in my second post—right after the first harvest, on 10th October 2021—I used the hashtag #HeritageVarieties. Rather satisfyingly, it seems to have caught on, I hear people using the term all the time now. Even in the short time since I began this project, the reputation—and price—of these grapes has shifted. Once seen as underdogs, looked down on compared to the fashionable Champagne varieties or trendier options like Bacchus, and priced accordingly, they’re now gaining renewed respect. I’m not sure if rebranding them as “heritage varieties” had anything to do with that shift, perhaps it’s more to do with growing interest in grapes suited to table wine, but it certainly hasn’t hurt.

Are there still abandoned vineyards in England & Wales that could be recovered?

Not many. I’ve uncovered most of the old heritage variety sites by now, though if someone wants to tip me off about a small plot in their neighbour’s field, I’d be more than happy to be proved wrong. There may still be a few ageing or abandoned vineyards planted with more common varieties like Pinot, Chardonnay or Bacchus, but they’re unlikely to date back to the last century like the heritage sites. And with so many of those varieties already in the ground, it’s hard to see a compelling reason to rescue any younger, abandoned plots.

Tell us about the various vineyards you work with and the challenges of the last few vintages.

In terms of vintages, the last few years have been pretty challenging. The heatwave in July 2022 caused our oldest vines to shut down, losing us a fortnight of ripening mid-season. Then, late September storms brought heavy disease pressure, forcing us to pick around ten days earlier than planned. In total, we lost nearly a month of ripening time, resulting in a wine that came in at just over 9% ABV.

It was that vintage where we discovered, quite by accident, the superpower of the heritage grape varieties, that even at such low sugar levels and potential alcohol, they’re still capable of reaching phenolic ripeness. That means flavour ripeness—aromatic, expressive, and balanced—even when the numbers suggest otherwise. It’s nothing short of miraculous. By contrast, Chardonnay at those sugar levels would be suitable only as a sparkling base.

2023 was famous for its record-breaking yields across the country, but many producers struggled with ripeness due to overloaded vines. Our old vines, however, naturally self-regulate and are low yielding by nature. The result was a well-balanced crop and another insight into the benefits of working with old vine heritage varieties.

2024, on the other hand, was something of a horror show: cold, wet, and with barely a glimpse of sunshine all summer. Like many across the country, our growers either lost their crops to disease or failed to ripen even these famously early-ripening varieties. In a year like 2024, you have to sacrifice something. You can sacrifice quality and pick under-ripe or rot-affected fruit. You can sacrifice style by introducing varieties you wouldn’t normally use, altering the character of your wine. Or, and this is the option we chose, you can sacrifice quantity and only pick the grapes that are ripe and clean. For us, that meant sourcing fruit from just two of our eight regular growers, and being meticulous during harvest, hand-picking with berry-by-berry sorting in the vineyard. The result is a tiny production of just over 1,500 bottles, less than half our already small normal volume, but the wine is looking fantastic. We’ve preserved both quality and style. We just won’t make much money!

Which grape variety (varieties) do you particularly enjoy working with and why?

My favourite variety is Madeleine Angevine. It has this wonderfully aromatic character with a touch of that English hedgerow floral quality, but not as overt or pungent as Bacchus, and with a juicy, satsuma and pink grapefruit note that can make the wine taste almost like tropical fruit juice. More than one person said the first vintage of Lost in a Field tasted like Fanta! Looking back over the four vintages we’ve made so far, the more Madeleine in the blend, the more I like the wine. There’s very little Madeleine left in the UK these days, but excitingly, Sandridge Barton in Devon have imported new cuttings and are carrying out the first major commercial plantings of Madeleine Angevine in over two decades.

The next most important variety for us, one we’ve used every year, is Reichensteiner. It’s a semi-aromatic grape with naturally high acidity, which isn’t unusual in this country, but what sets it apart is its beautifully clean character of freshly cut lemon and lime. I think of it as playing a role similar to Riesling in a blend, adding lift, drive, and a squeeze of citrus flavour. It’s also pretty bomb-proof in the vineyard, with strong disease resistance. Seyval Blanc equals it in that respect, but Seyval’s acidity is too hard and nervy for the style of wine we’re making.

And then there’s Schönburger, the rarest of the heritage varieties, and one of the most special. It’s one of just two highly aromatic varieties still grown in the UK (the other being Siegerrebe). But while Siegerrebe tends to veer into artificial, car air-freshener territory (think the worst parts of Viognier) Schönburger is all rose petals and delicate perfume, reminiscent of the best elements of Gewürztraminer. Interestingly, like Gewürztraminer, Schönburger turns a lovely pink when ripe, it’s beautiful to look at on the vine. Unfortunately, it’s a tricky grape to grow. It has an incredibly narrow ripening window, going from underripe to overripe, and dropping its acidity, within a matter of days. It also has a reputation for attracting wasps, which is probably why even vineyards that have held onto their other heritage varieties often pulled out their Schönburger years ago. I believe there are only three or four significant plantings left in the country. We were lucky to get a few hundred kilos from one of them, in Wiltshire, for the 2023 vintage, and it brought a gorgeous lift and exotic perfume to the wine.

Stay tuned for Part Two…

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