Welcome to The Love of Wine Part Six. These stories draw on some of the more unlikely experiences that I’ve enjoyed during my working life in wine. In this piece I reflect on a formative time in France where discovering what lies at the very heart of wine set my path for the next twenty years and beyond.

In 2002 I found myself at an early career crossroads. I was twenty years old and employed as a trainee winemaker in the Hunter Valley. I had worked a vintage in the US and was mid-way through my wine science degree. While the trajectory of my career was certainly heading in the right direction, and despite the entertaining lifestyle I enjoyed bouncing between the city and beaches of Newcastle and the vineyards of Pokolbin, it felt as though something was missing.

I had learnt a great deal about the winemaking process, and my skills in the cellar had improved dramatically over the previous two years. My wine tasting abilities also developed immensely, with many hours spent at the ‘tasting bench;’ finessing blends and exploring the impact of various ingredients and techniques on the sensory profile of the wines we made. I had also enjoyed a great many different wines outside of work, enthusiastically attending industry lunches and dinners, joining informal tasting groups, and spending as much as my meagre salary would allow on interesting bottles.

Here is where I approached the intersection. The process of making wine was no longer a mystery to me (at least in the ways I had experienced), and most of the wines I tasted reflected this almost formulaic approach by way of style and flavour. On top of this, the consistency and repetition of cellar work outside the exciting harvest period had begun to feel stale to the point where I was really starting to wonder if this was the industry for me.

Fortunately, I was lucky to have encountered a handful of special bottles amongst my enthusiastic explorations that had indeed spoken of more. They carried unique personalities that didn’t reflect the styles or processes I had been exposed to, and – in fact – many appeared to contradict the technical teachings I had received. These wines were a flickering spark in my mind that refused to fade. I had to find out more: what made them so unique and feel so much more alive. I was desperate to meet the people and places behind them.

Given the majority of the most inspiring wines I had tasted were from France, this seemed like the logical place to begin my journey!

Following a search of advertised harvest positions, I was incredibly lucky to land a cellarhand role at Domaine Kuehn. Set amongst the rolling hills of the Alsace, the winery was steeped in history extending all the way back to the 17th century. It principally worked with Riesling, Pinot Gris and Gewurztraminer grown in the nearby Grand Cru vineyard – Kaefferkopf.

While Pinot Gris and Gewurztraminer were largely unknown to me at that time, Riesling (which had drawn me in with its similarities to Hunter Valley Semillon) was a white I had become increasingly familiar with. I soon realised, however, that this familiarity only extended so far and quickly diminished as I tasted the local incarnations. Beyond some common floral aromatics, the flavour and palate profiles of these wines were alien to me – to the point where had I not known the variety before tasting, I would have struggled to identify the wine. In their youth, the Alsatian Rieslings showed more colour and openness than the Australian examples I had tasted. There was also a mouth-filling generosity of flavour carried on whispers of residual sweetness and textural elements I struggled to explain. This was all held together by a vibrant line of natural acidity that ran from start to finish, which served to be one of the only other threads of commonality I could detect between these Rieslings and our own. I still recall the feelings of excitement as I tasted such exotic, and utterly delicious, forms of this grape I thought knew.

As vintage progressed, I gradually came to understand how the stylistic differences came to be. The location of vineyards was an obvious driver of style. Over the course of several grape sampling expeditions, Donnie, the vineyard manager – often down on his haunches with handfuls of soil in hand – would articulate why he believed these sites to be so special. I learnt why the best cru-class vineyards were situated on the free draining slopes of the surrounding hills, rather than the flats below. I came to understand the benefit of south-westerly aspects to catch optimal sunshine, and how the unique soil profiles – consisting of a favourable mix of granite, limestone and sandstone – would ultimately be expressed in the wine by way of flavour, shape, and chemistry. Most significantly, I learnt the sum of all of this could be described as terroir which was unique to the wines we were making. As a side note, terroir is a fascinating concept expressed by this single word with no direct English translation – it will certainly be the theme of a future The Love of Wine story!

In the winery, the difference in practices between what I experienced here compared to back home couldn’t be more stark. At this time in Australia, we generally handled our freshly pressed white juices in a very protective way, deploying volumes of inert gas into receival tanks and juice trays to avoid oxidation. Yet in the Alsace, there were no inert gasses used at this stage, and oxidation of juice was actually encouraged, particularly with more heavily pressed material.

The affable winemaker of Domaine Kuehn, Francis, explained to me the chemistry behind this process in his typically generous style. Fundamentally, he believed it was good for the juice to see air at this point because gentle oxidation would cause unwanted phenolic material (tannins) to fall out of suspension. While this made the juice appear darker in colour, even brown at times, the earlier removal of these compounds would better protect the wine later, carrying it through production and maturation, and ultimately extending its life in the bottle.

Miraculously, juices with appearances that would have caused Australian winemakers to pull their hair out, did as Francis promised; they transformed through fermentation into perfectly fresh and vibrant young wines, arguably carrying greater potential to age than our own (he would go on to prove this in the coming weeks by pulling the corks on several bottles of Riesling that had cellared for up to fifty years!).

I learnt about the use of naturally occurring yeast to ferment freshly settled juices, and how the commercially propagated forms of yeast we commonly used at home, were one reason why – to Francis’ palate at least – our wines all tasted the same. The populations of yeast fermenting the wines at Domaine Kuehn invariably came from the source vineyards and the winery itself, which meant they were unique and therefore critical to the equally unique personalities of the wines that Francis set out to craft.

Predictably, I found all of this utterly fascinating, and daily my mind wandered with creative possibilities around the potential application of what I was learning. Despite the physical demands of vintage, I was feeling energised and stepping ever closer to discovering what had been missing for me. What I didn’t expect, however, was the single-most career defining realisation I was soon to make – the one that ultimately led me to pen these words some twenty-three years later – didn’t necessarily happen in the winery or the vineyard.

Many of Domaine Kuehn’s amazing wines were the product of the local Grand Cru – Kaefferkopf

Working as a vintage cellarhand at Domaine Kuehn turned out to be much more than a job. I remember the first time Francis invited me to his parents’ home to help out with some wine they were making: the family owned a small plot of vines outside their village of Katzenthal. There, I met his two brothers and proud mother and father, all busying themselves in a micro-winery built under the family home. Brotherly banter and laughter flowed as we all went about fussing over tiny quantities of grapes that had been lovingly picked by friends and family only hours earlier. There were many hands for not a great deal of work, and everyone was so excited and happy to be there, including me.

As the floors were hosed off and buckets stacked away, the call for dinner came from the kitchen. The conversation and laughter continued as we tucked into the Alsatian feast Francis’ mother had prepared. Mouthfuls of sausage and sauerkraut were washed down with glasses of Riesling and Pinot Gris that were enthusiastically poured by the hosts, eager for my feedback. These were wines they had made in previous vintages, and with each glass came an elaborate story about the season, conveyed by one or all three brothers at once. While there was plenty I didn’t understand in the flood of English-French-Alsatian that came my way, what I couldn’t miss was the passion or how obviously central wine – particularly the wine they made – was to their way of life. Aside from Francis, the other brothers had day jobs that weren’t wine related, but it was clear this is what they loved to do.

I picture that same scene being played out all over France; in every village, commune and wine producing region across the land. I suppose this is why, after literally thousands of years (and vintages), the identity of these places, and the people that belong to them are so strong. Wine is central to it all.


 I would be invited back to the Klee family home several times during my stay in the Alsace, sometimes to work on the tiny batches of wine they were making, other times just to share a meal. Each visit left me buzzing with happiness and a feeling of gratitude that I had been allowed into a special space to enjoy time with such a wonderfully kind and generous family.

It was these times spent talking, eating, learning, and tasting with Francis and the people he introduced me to that gave rare insight into a life of wine that was utterly unforgettable. In combination with what I was experiencing in the vineyards and winery, my understanding of wine had been lifted well above the plane it had existed on previously. I no longer viewed wine and winemaking as a product and profession, rather, it was a way of life.

At the time I struggled to surmise exactly what it was that I was feeling, or the true insight that I had gained. My thoughts drew on everything I had experienced in the winery, and just as importantly, those fantastic times outside the cellar with the people that shared this common and all-consuming passion.

But what was ‘it’ exactly? What made wine so special that generation after generation of maker would pursue it with such unwavering resolve? How was it that wine had the power to shape not only the lives of all those involved with its making, but the very identity and function of entire villages, towns and regions?

Clearly I wanted to answer these questions, because one drizzly Saturday afternoon I made my way to the local marchand de journaux to purchase a notebook. In the window of my tiny apartment I scribbled the heading, ‘The Philosophy of Wine.’ And there I sat for some hours. Sadly, the words wouldn’t come, and the notebook remained unfilled. But I knew I had found what I was looking for, even if I couldn’t describe it.

Now, with the benefit of another twenty-three years, and having enjoyed many more life-shaping wine experiences since, I feel I can now help the twenty-year-old me with those words that refused to form all those years ago.  

The Philosophy of Wine

Wine is a liquid thread that connects the soil, sunshine, and weathered hands of the grower to something uniquely tangible, experiential, and utterly profound.

Through the miracle of fermentation, juice transforms from the simple to the sublime. Connection extends to every touch, movement, and interaction in the winery. As the winemaker shapes the wine to her design, guiding it through fermentation, maturation and then to bottle, her mark is made, and her own connection becomes indelible.

Shared at a table of loved ones, that wine now connects all that let it past their lips. Some will regard it’s nuanced detail, pondering the season, the variety, the region or perhaps the quality of the winemaker’s craft. Others will simply relish its deliciousness; a liquid delight for the senses. All, however, will enjoy its effects beyond the sensory. With thoughts quietened, inhibitions shrugged off, creativity engaged, and happiness rising, new connections are formed: not just within, but between.

You see, no other drink is shared quite like a bottle of wine, and no other drink can offer the impossibly numerous points of connection that it brings. This is why wine is with us at birthdays, weddings, first dates, and university graduations. At the centre of every table surrounded by laughter, and love, is a bottle of wine. For thousands of years wine has been with us during our most vulnerable, our most intimate, and our most joyous moments.

Regardless of the occasion or setting, when we craft or share wine, the outcome is always the same – connection.

I realise my attempts here to articulate the equally powerful and intangible quality that lies at the heart of wine is still clumsy, but I am OK with that because the theme, the core of the message – the very thing that has defined where, how, and why I work in this industry every day since, and why I believe wine will continue to play an important role in our lives for generations to come – is crystal clear: and that is connection.

From my time in the Alsace, not only was my commitment to pursuing a career in winemaking cemented, I had decided all sorts of other things about what shape I wanted my work to take. The most fundamental of which was the desire to only work in wineries of small enough scale that I could be connected to every aspect of the production and marketing of the wines I would be crafting. I knew that if I lost this connection then my passion would follow.

For those who have followed Gundog Estate for long enough, you might also see some of the stylistic cues I’ve carried forward: the use of wild yeast to build personality, an emphasis on shaping textural palates, and the embrace of off-dry styles of both Semillon and Riesling, are but a handful of examples that reflect my time in the Alsace.

While the strength of the historical and cultural bonds to wine I brushed with in France are largely incomparable here, we do have our own points of connection that can be equally as powerful to experience. Aside from the growing and crafting, I also reference the connection between maker and customer. At Gundog Estate we are incredibly fortunate to be able to share our wines with thousands of visitors a year at each of our cellar doors. These spaces are where you have a chance to connect with the wines that our talented and passionate team pour with smiles and stories of their own.

For me, I especially relish the connections made at our wine club events. Over the many years hosting these fabulous lunches and dinners, I can attest to the number of enduring friendships that have formed around the table. I feel I have greedily enjoyed more than my fair share of laughter and passionate conversation. And I just love listening to your own Gundog Estate stories: how you discovered the brand, the special moments you’ve had with particular wines, or introductions to the friends that you shared with. These are all connections, and profound ones at that.

In the coming weeks you will receive a calendar of member’s events for the year ahead. If you haven’t attended one before, I highly encourage you to come along. It doesn’t matter if there are two, four or the one of you – everyone is welcome.

As the more seasoned campaigners will attest, if an event catches your eye, please book ASAP as most sell out within a very short space of time.

Hopefully I will see you for a glass of wine soon!

Kind Regards,
Matt Burton

P.S. If this story lands with you or sparks any memories of your own unexpected wine experiences, please feel free to send me an email – I’d love to hear from you!

You can read previous editions of The Love of Wine on the News & Events page, here.