Even with global warming, growing grapes to make wine in Co Dublin is a brave move. David Llewellyn tells Shane Hegartyhow his sideline is attracting a lot of curiosity.
It's a Wednesday afternoon in a field in Lusk, north Co Dublin. It is damp and overcast. And we are opening a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon/Merlot, 2005 vintage. None of which would be particularly noteworthy if the wine hadn't come from the vineyard a few feet from where we are standing.
"When I opened the first bottle, it was horrible. I thought it would have to go down the sink, that no one would want to drink this," says the winemaker, David Llewellyn. He sips, sucks, then examines the colour. "But it has aged quite well. It is tasting much better now and it'll be interesting to see if it has peaked or whether it will continue to improve." He drinks again. "A good cheddar goes very well with it."
This must be one of the world's most unlikely winemakers. It is not the only Irish vineyard - 2001's The Wines of Britain and Ireland names four, but it has gained a little attention of late. It has something to do with the growing reputation of English wines, perhaps. Or the notion that global warming will eventually make Ireland a New Zealand of the north. Or maybe it's just the audacity of it, which is hard to ignore.
Llewellyn's three acres of land slope gently south on the off chance of catching some sun, and hold strips of polythene under which grow the grapes he makes 500-1,000 bottles of wine from each year. They are harvested in October, de-stemmed, fermented, then the wine is cleaned and by the following Easter should be ready to drink.
"Most of the vines are assisted during the summer months by covering them with polythene to raise the temperature."
He looks at the overcast sky. "It would take a lot of global warming to make them ripen." His Sauvignon Blanc fits more with the preconception that, should anyone try to make wine in Ireland, white is the most obvious way to go. The Merlot seems a bit off the wall, but his 2006 vintage includes a red from a frost-resistant rondo grape.
The hardy German varieties he grows are testament to the challenge involved, but also to the spirit of experimentation that inspires him to give it a go.
Llewellyn is not the wild eccentric that his enterprise suggests. The wine is only a sideline to the much bigger, and profitable business, of making apple juice and, increasingly, cider and balsamic vinegar. The vineyard takes up only a quarter of an acre of his Queenpenny Orchard, from which he produces 40,000 bottles of apple juice annually, selling largely through farmers' markets.
He is developing a decent reputation for his pressed cider, which, while something of a traditional drink in England, has largely disappeared from the Irish market. He has also been expanding his production of balsamic and cider vinegars, recently aided by a British Great Taste award. From first having grown and sold apples, he moved instead into the apple's various by-products, to great success. He has been in Lusk since 2001.
"There was no future in selling apples, but I found that there was a market for good apple juice. After that I began to experiment with cider." He wanted to find an alternative to what he describes as the "industrially-produced" brand that monopolises the market.
"I'm at a level where I'm making a living. I've no great plans to take over C&C or anything like that. But the best potential is in the cider. It has not been realised yet."
There was, he points out, a tradition of pressed cider here until a century ago. "Excise duty is so severe on cider for small producers that it makes it uneconomical." Cider makers, he says, are hit hard by excise, unlike in the UK where there are exemptions for small cider producers. In fact, Llewellyn admits that he had an unwanted run-in with the Revenue Commissioners after, he says, the business grew a little quicker than anticipated.
But it's the wine that attracts the curious glances. A qualified horticulturalist, 41-year-old Llewellyn gained experience through working in the Baden vineyards in southern Germany and making Irish wine, he says, is only a sideline.
"For me, I don't have to make a living from it. It's just a long-time hobby that's expanded into a small sideline. I would be reluctant to bring it further than that." It's labour intensive and expensive. The south of England's vineyards can rely on a better climate, as well as a small tradition of winemaking. He has neither of these.
"It's not just the climate that's a problem in Ireland," says Llewellyn. "There's no wine industry here. The equipment has to be sourced abroad, so do the bottles. So it's expensive to produce. Yields are lower and costs are higher."
That's reflected in the price, which, at €15-20 a bottle means that "we have to sell on curiosity and novelty value, because we're not going to compete with the €6.99 bottle of Australian Merlot in the supermarket," he says. He sells directly, or at markets, usually by the case, to "curious wine lovers and tourists". More importantly, Kevin Thornton took some for his restaurant, he says, although success would come in getting another order from the Michelin-starred chef.
"I'll just play it by ear," he says of his ambitions. "It's more of a long-term thing than the apples. If you plant vines, you have to wait five years until you get a full crop and then another year until you get wine from it. So even if there was a demand tomorrow for a few thousand bottles, it would be at least another five years before that wine could be made."
Tomorrow - An Irish Harvest: Lorna Sigginsgathers seaweed in Connemara
