A Discovery in Darling

The Cape has a way of hiding things.

I was not looking for Cinsault when I arrived in Darling. I was looking for Chenin Blanc — everyone who comes to the Swartland is looking for Chenin Blanc. But the best discoveries happen when you stop looking for what you expected.

A viticulturist I trusted pointed me toward a set of vines on a hillside above the town. Heritage plantings from 1974. Cinsault, not Chenin. The vines were gnarly, low-yielding, and obviously old. They had survived decades of Atlantic wind, drought years, and the temptation of replanting with something more commercially viable.

The farmer who owned them didn't think they were special. He was considering pulling them out. I asked if I could taste what they produced. He shrugged and handed me a glass from a barrel in his shed.

That glass changed the trajectory of this entire project.