http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/oct/02/wine-in-lebanon-bekaa-valley?fb=optOut
In search of a glass in a country where the wine industry dates back 5,000 years and has survived wars and intolerant religions
"When we started planting the vineyard, we found a cluster bomb on
the ground that had been dropped on the village in 1983. The army said
it would take two weeks to get here, but I had 1,000 vines that had to
be in the ground immediately or else they'd die. So with a couple of
brave young men, we decided to plant the vines. Thank God nobody got
hurt." This isn't the kind of commentary you get on most wine tours. But this is a vineyard in Lebanon,
not the Loire. On a visit to Chateau Belle-Vue, high above the heat and
hustle of Beirut on the top of Mount Lebanon, its irrepressible owner
Naji Boutros gives us not only a lesson in viticulture but a first-hand
account of his country's troubled history, too. Boutros grew up in
the village of Bhamdoun but left when it became engulfed in heavy
fighting during the early 1980s. After a career as an investment banker,
he returned in 2000 with his family to set up the winery in what was
left of his village, naming it Chateau Belle-Vue after the hotel his
grandfather ran there. My wife and I scramble to keep up with him
as he shows us around the vertiginous terraces now planted with merlot
and cabernet sauvignon vines. "The more hurdles you overcome, the better
the result," he says, laughing off his close shave with a cluster bomb
and opening a bottle whose label could not be more apt for his
endeavours with Belle-Vue and the Lebanese wine industry as a whole – La
Renaissance. Two decades of relative peace since Lebanon's civil
war ended have allowed a wine industry that dates back more than 5,000
years to flourish. There are now 35 wineries in business, and most are
more than willing to open their doors to visitors wanting to discover
another side of Lebanese culture. The journey to Lebanon's
extraordinary vineyards, however, requires strong nerves. The main wine
region is reached by the Beirut to Damascus highway, a thunderous road
that is five terrifying lanes across – two going up the mountain, two
coming down, and one in the middle fought over by a simple game of
chicken. Our taxi driver holds his own while we cower in the back. Just
after Bhamdoun, the Bekaa Valley opens up before us. It was the
Phoenicians who first discovered that the long summers, wet winters and
warm temperature made this huge green plateau bordered by mountains
perfect for viticulture. Our next stop is the exquisitely tasteful
Massaya winery. After a tour, the enigmatic co-owner Ramzi Ghosn ushers
us down through the vines to a beautiful hidden garden. Eating cherries
picked from the orchard, we sip on a delightful 2010 rosé and watch the
setting sun turn the eastern slopes of the valley the exact shade of
pink as the wine. "In Lebanon the wine is produced to complement
our food," says Ghosn. "Ask yourself where the Romans built the Temple
of Bacchus, the god of wine. It's not in Tuscany, it's not in Rioja,
it's not in Bordeaux. It's in Baalbek, in the Bekaa Valley, just half an
hour from here." It is to this world-famous temple that we head
the following morning. As we drive along the valley floor, calls to
prayer from numerous mosques drift across the vineyards, and as we
approach Baalbek, billboards of Shia clerics and martyrs begin to line
the road.
Baalbek is the headquarters of Hezbollah, the Islamic political party
whose military wing is regarded as a terrorist organisation by many
countries, including Britain. You might think Islam and vineyards make
uneasy bedfellows, but they seem to coexist peacefully in the Bekaa,
with winemaking accepted as part of the culture of the land. The
ruins at Baalbek are breathtaking, and carved vine leaves adorning the
entrance to the Temple of Bacchus provide us with a direct connection to
Lebanon's past glories in winemaking. Our highlight is the Palmyra
Hotel, another example of Baalbek's faded grandeur. Not much has changed
since the 1920s, and walking into the lobby, with ornate Ottoman
furniture and arabesque tiles, is like stepping into an Agatha Christie
novel. We half expect to hear murderous shrieks in the night and Hercule
Poirot to appear at breakfast. The next winery on our list is
another name now impressing international wine circles. Domaine des
Tourelles was founded by a French engineer in 1868 and is being revived
by descendants of the founding family. Here we tasted some of the best
wines of our visit. "Every bottle we produce is touched by the
hands of every employee. It's a personal, human business," says Faouzi
Issa, one of the co-owners. "We want to keep it that way, so we keep the
passion in our winemaking." She believes that Lebanon's troubled past
can have a positive impact on business. "When people hear about wars in
Lebanon, that there's a very bad political situation here, and then they
taste a wonderful Lebanese wine, they appreciate it all the more." This
has worked for Chateau Musar, the last winery we visit and perhaps the
most famous outside Lebanon. It kept producing world-class wines
throughout the civil war, earning it legendary status in the wine
industry and making its owner, Serge Hochar, Bacchus's corporeal
equivalent in today's Lebanon. Chateau Musar's vineyards in the
Bekaa are stunning, the soil is terracotta red, and the vines –
a luscious, almost lime green – are framed by snow-capped mountains. The
winery, however, is the other side of the mountain near Beirut. So
getting the grapes to the winery every year, across what was often the
frontline of warring factions, was a dangerous undertaking. We
meet the twinkly-eyed septugenarian Hochar, who walks us through the
Musar cellar, thick with cobwebs and rows of dusty bottles. He plumps
for a bottle of 1977 red. On first taste it is vinegary and sharp. He
watches our grimacing faces with amusement. "If you were given that in a
restaurant, you would send it back, am I right?" he says with a knowing
smile. "But leave it for a few minutes and then taste it again." After
10 minutes its smell and taste had changed completely into something
light and fresh that lingers deliciously on the tongue. Hochar says this
lasting taste is the wine "talking" to you. "A wine that has the
ability to age is like a man who ages," Hochar explains. "As you get
older, you have more experience and you have more to say. A young wine
can talk to you for maybe only a second or a minute, but a wine that has
aged, a wine with experience, can talk to you for hours." After
five days immersed in this extraordinary industry and landscape, wine
has come to represent the magic of Lebanon itself. With its connection
to the soil, the climate, the past – surviving conflict and religious
divides – a conversation with Lebanese wine is one worth having again
and again.
In search of a glass in a country where the wine industry dates back 5,000 years and has survived wars and intolerant religions
"When we started planting the vineyard, we found a cluster bomb on
the ground that had been dropped on the village in 1983. The army said
it would take two weeks to get here, but I had 1,000 vines that had to
be in the ground immediately or else they'd die. So with a couple of
brave young men, we decided to plant the vines. Thank God nobody got
hurt." This isn't the kind of commentary you get on most wine tours. But this is a vineyard in Lebanon,
not the Loire. On a visit to Chateau Belle-Vue, high above the heat and
hustle of Beirut on the top of Mount Lebanon, its irrepressible owner
Naji Boutros gives us not only a lesson in viticulture but a first-hand
account of his country's troubled history, too. Boutros grew up in
the village of Bhamdoun but left when it became engulfed in heavy
fighting during the early 1980s. After a career as an investment banker,
he returned in 2000 with his family to set up the winery in what was
left of his village, naming it Chateau Belle-Vue after the hotel his
grandfather ran there. My wife and I scramble to keep up with him
as he shows us around the vertiginous terraces now planted with merlot
and cabernet sauvignon vines. "The more hurdles you overcome, the better
the result," he says, laughing off his close shave with a cluster bomb
and opening a bottle whose label could not be more apt for his
endeavours with Belle-Vue and the Lebanese wine industry as a whole – La
Renaissance. Two decades of relative peace since Lebanon's civil
war ended have allowed a wine industry that dates back more than 5,000
years to flourish. There are now 35 wineries in business, and most are
more than willing to open their doors to visitors wanting to discover
another side of Lebanese culture. The journey to Lebanon's
extraordinary vineyards, however, requires strong nerves. The main wine
region is reached by the Beirut to Damascus highway, a thunderous road
that is five terrifying lanes across – two going up the mountain, two
coming down, and one in the middle fought over by a simple game of
chicken. Our taxi driver holds his own while we cower in the back. Just
after Bhamdoun, the Bekaa Valley opens up before us. It was the
Phoenicians who first discovered that the long summers, wet winters and
warm temperature made this huge green plateau bordered by mountains
perfect for viticulture. Our next stop is the exquisitely tasteful
Massaya winery. After a tour, the enigmatic co-owner Ramzi Ghosn ushers
us down through the vines to a beautiful hidden garden. Eating cherries
picked from the orchard, we sip on a delightful 2010 rosé and watch the
setting sun turn the eastern slopes of the valley the exact shade of
pink as the wine. "In Lebanon the wine is produced to complement
our food," says Ghosn. "Ask yourself where the Romans built the Temple
of Bacchus, the god of wine. It's not in Tuscany, it's not in Rioja,
it's not in Bordeaux. It's in Baalbek, in the Bekaa Valley, just half an
hour from here." It is to this world-famous temple that we head
the following morning. As we drive along the valley floor, calls to
prayer from numerous mosques drift across the vineyards, and as we
approach Baalbek, billboards of Shia clerics and martyrs begin to line
the road.
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