“Terroir” is a term deployed by wine enthusiasts often with more mystique than precision. There is a sort of magic by which the environmental qualities of a particular place are supposed to pass through into the aesthetic virtues of the wine. What I understand from conversations with oenological chemists is that in fact, historically, the important environmental element involved is not in the earth but in the air—in the form of ambient yeasts which are caught and make the wine what it is, for better or worse. With the modern intentional addition of prescribed yeasts, “terroir” is now a less meaningful term than “expertise.”
As a regional historian, though, I still like to play around with the idea of terroir at least as metaphor, the idea that all things great and small, particularly all things human, get their savor from that place in which they grow.
It happens, too, that Dr. Kelley and I, prairie historians headquartered here on the northern plains, in our offshore research ventures, have landed in grassy places grown into significant nodes of the New World wine industry. For nigh onto a quarter-century we have explored the deep history of the Lindis, a semiarid grassland district of Central Otago, New Zealand. Sheep, fine-wool Merinos, are still a big deal in the Lindis, but grapes have come to loom larger in the public identity of the place. Some of the finest Pinot Noir in the world comes from this grassy place.
That is a recent development; indeed, I helped trim some of the early vines of the Lindis in the mid-1990s; now, as historians, we incorporate viticultural developments into the regional history. This means we have to experience the enterprise in the field and in the glass. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.
Now we have crossed the Tasman into another study region, the Barossa valley of South Australia, settled by German-speaking, evangelical-Lutheran Silesians in the 1840s. I’ve been writing about the discovery of common cultural antecedents I share with the people of the Barossa in matters both religious and agricultural. It was a comfortable zone for me as we drove into the region a week ago, as winter wheat was just about harvest-ready.
In addition to meeting our German-settler compatriots and going over the ground, we also commenced familiarizing ourselves with the viticultural landscape, including a call at the Langmeil winery, a truly historic establishment. The signature wine grape of the Barossa is Shiraz, a favorite of mine. Dr. Kelley has taken a shine to the lesser known grape of the region, Grenache. We walked up to the oldest planting of Shiraz vines in the world. And at the cellar door, the lass in charge adjudged us worthy of pouring from a $350 bottle of Shiraz for tasting.
That’s a little rich for my farmer-professor blood, but now I have a better sense of the elevated state to which the purveyors of Shiraz may aspire. More generally, through research at the State Library of South Australia, a wonderful institution, we got an idea of how wine may assume a central place in regional identity. Which is good, because our next stop, after the Barossa of Australia, was the biennial conference of the New Zealand Historical Association, held in Auckland. I was scheduled to deliver remarks on the method, the craft, yes even the philosophy of doing regional history. Going through these things in other parts of the world, with people who have different vocabulary and assumptions, sharpens me for examination of historical affairs at home.
The Barossa gives us an interesting study in place and identity. Certainly from the time of original German settlement forward there was the basis for an ethno-cultural region, quite homogeneous, and somewhat isolate. Many of the evangelical Germans were determined not only to hold onto language and culture but also to avoid contact with English-speaking outsiders. Come the First World War, however, the outside world came to the Barossa, determined to suppress the language and culture of the enemy. It happened there, as it happened here. All the more reason for German settlers to lie low and keep to themselves.
All of which changed in the second half of the twentieth century, as the wine industry planted viticultural flags in far-flung parts of the Southern Hemisphere, such as the Barossa. There developers found that Germans had been raising some grapes and making a little wine all along. This was a modest basis for commercial expansion. More to the point, German identity, once disparaged, was found to be a commercial asset, if you’re trying to market wine. And develop a wine-based tourism industry. Here on the plains, our German antecedents have largely faded. In the Barossa, they are heralded publicly, but also persist quietly. If you go to the right cafe, you can eavesdrop on gentle German conversations among old residents. They have some stories to tell, I am sure.
