In this entry to our 2024 wine writing competition, wine specialist and auctioneer Noah May writes about a particularly memorable wine moment. See our competition guide for more great wine writing.
Noah May writes I am a Wine and Spirits Specialist. I joined Christie’s Wine Department in 2007, after graduating from The University of Leeds with a degree in English Literature and Philosophy. I currently work as Head of Wine & Spirits, for the EMEA region at Christie’s. My professional expertise is focused on collectible European wines, in particular old and rare French wines and spirits. I have been involved in several high-profile wine auctions including the sale of Historic Cognacs from the Private Cellars of La Tour d’Argent, the sale of Fine Wines from the Private Collection of Sir Alex Ferguson CBE and more recently the sale of wines from the Avery Family collection.
The Chalk Cellar
She is almost eighty, so the moment she disappears directly into the hedge, on this unseasonably warm September morning, my colleague and I turn to each other, somewhat taken aback and concerned for her safety.
“Don’t worry about me, and apologies, but it’s the only route to the cellar; please follow!” comes the cry from deep in the foliage.
We are visiting her family’s cellar, an old underground air-raid shelter at the bottom of their garden, carved into the chalk of the Surrey downs. She’s warned that we might be wasting our time, “the wines look absolutely ruined, labels all over the place, filthy, please don’t get excited”. That said, we knew that separately they owned four cases of wine from the hallowed Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, stored safely at Octavian, so there was a suggestion, a hope, that we might be in for pleasant surprises.
Once through the hedge, we identify a green iron door under a thicket, behind which our host is descending. The warmth of the autumn sun suddenly falls away, as we follow her down the dark staircase into a chalky underworld.
The temperature drop in the cellar is a shock, as is the absence of sound and light, as we move into the Stygian gloom. Our eyes start to compensate, making out a shapeless mass in front of us. We take out phones and turn on the light. There is a thick and fibrous smell of must: wood, cardboard and faint memories of wine.
What faces us in the half-light of iPhone torches looks like one homogenous mound. Huge and ominous at first, almost alive, but then as we steady ourselves and our eyes fully acclimatize, we start making out names. “Krug 1955 Reserved for Great Britain”, then the fragile remains of an old Christie’s box, with “9 x Quinta do Noval 1931” written on the side.
A shiver of excitement begins to rise, as we start to explore a sea of boxes in front of us. I furtively explore the cardboard and wood. The first thing that emerges is a bottle of Rayas 1967. The ullage must be 1.5cm. Then Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, Grands-Echézeaux 1959, with a similar level. Deeper I delve, and extraordinary things appear. Another skeletal case, which all-but collapses in my fingers, but inside I can see a golden V for victory. The cardboard remains seem to house eight bottles of Mouton-Rothschild 1945, arguably the greatest Bordeaux ever made.
I’m trembling at this point. I catch my colleague’s eye. I feel like a poker player, realising I’m holding a royal flush, at the Casino de Monte Carlo. Suddenly, this febrile dream-state is disturbed. Our host is apologetic, she’s so sorry it’s a mess, and heads off to find a better torch and make tea.
Charlotte and I frantically try to take it all in. A stack of wooden cases stand at the back of the room; old wooden cases with Lebegue & Co, London on one side, the other we can only just make out, but it looks a lot like “Conti 1971”. La Tâche 1971 sits below. It feels fantastical.
It takes time to extract the wines from the chalk cellar, and even longer to convince our host that the damp-stained and damaged labels really aren’t an issue, and that the perfect cellar conditions, levels and luminous colours of the wines are more than enough to reassure us.
She tells us that her husband had loved wine, but then suffered an illness many years earlier, and had stopped drinking entirely, and that she’d never been much of a drinker. This all goes some way to explain how this crystallized cellar, hidden deep in the Surrey downs, was left to slumber until now.
As we leave, she insists we take a bottle to taste to check it’s drinkable. We gratefully agree and she chooses a bottle at random - Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, Grands Echézeaux 1984. Not the greatest vintage, but rarely seen and the wine in bottle looks beautiful.
I confess, dear reader, we don’t hang about or wait for Jancis Collection glasses; we pull out a corkscrew and plastic cups and drink it on the 6.15 to Waterloo, such is our delight. The wine tastes hauntingly lovely as we sail through the commuter belt. It is soft and autumnal, full of ripe, wild strawberry, clove and sous bois, much like that which we ventured through, hours before. We sit in a haze: half-drunk on the heady fruits of Flagey-Echezéaux, the budding excitement, and with thoughts of what triumphs will be seen at the rostrum in the months that lie ahead.
The photo is the author's own. Caption: 'Charlotte and Grands-Echézeaux 1984 on the train'.