I often talk about books that arrive at the right time.
As someone who fully believes in the act of reading as a form of self-care (and once even spoke to the Beeb about the impact of bibliotherapy), it seems to me that there are books that wait for you to discover them, books that the universe foists on you, books you can’t resist from the moment you first see them, books that are slow burns you learn to appreciate, books you cannot return to, and books that you reread differently each time. Any and all of these books might help you work through various emotional and situational challenges - hurt, hope, sorrow, joy, career changes, relationship bumps, future dreams and current challenges. All of them are books that you needed to find. They teach you something or reveal something. They might be books that hit a nerve, or several, that you want to curl around for hours of stillness, or which spark like flint to kindling, activating something in your bones.
Weathering by Ruth Allen is one of those books for me. I read the first chapter and paused, breathed, felt the tightening behind my ribs, the way my shoulders had risen to my ears. Oh, I thought, oh this book is for me, for this moment.
So I decided to take it slow. I made myself put Weathering down between parts, loosening out, sitting back to digest what I was reading in a way that, truthfully, I rarely do. I’m more prone to a book guzzle than a graze.
A few days and sixty pages later, I found the audiobook as well. It felt right to be listening along as I trundled up to a nearby common, inspired by the words to start walking more. Anywhere would do but I was definitely on a hunt for somewhere greener than my corner of South West London. Bizarrely, as I went, I often found myself slowing down, my feet pausing mid-step as I focused more on the reading than where I was going. This was a chapter about containment, grief, the physicality of our emotions and embodiment in the world. It also talked at how the way we walk in the world can mirror what’s going on in our heads. I was catching myself mid-step wondering what my walk said about my mental landscape. Maybe I was walking wrong. Perhaps I should be paying less attention to the half-blown blossoms still clinging to the trees and more to the blue of the nettle flowers as I went.
Do you think you’re trying to overachieve in the reading of a book? asked that pesky inner voice.
Perhaps, I’ll admit. But that didn’t stop me from revisiting the same chapter again that evening, reading Paul’s story and Jill’s once more before I moved on.
There’s an awful lot more I could write. I could almost certainly pull out dozens of my favourite phrases and insights and stories. I could overshare about what Weathering brought up for me in terms of the relationship I have with my body, my lack of trust in it, or the daily directional fretting of my brain. I could wax on about the fizz of ideas that it’s sparked too, the excitement of reading certain sections and going: Yes, this. Yes, this.
But I don’t want to give much more away.
I suspect this is a book that is most impactful when you come at it in your own way and with your own reasons. I will say that there’s something magic in the writing. Even the language of geology - which I initially worried about be overwhelming - was a delight. Weathering is full of terms like ossification and lissification - I loved the surprising softness of these words, the sibilance and fricatives. And then there’s erosion, minerality - words that roll like pebbles around your mouth when you say them. It’s a joy to read for the language as much as everything else.
Before I start chatting wine, I say again that I believe this is a book that found me exactly when I needed it. I will treasure it for what it’s offering me. And I will add that if you’re looking for a sign of whether it’s for you - then take this as one: today this book has found you too.
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The Pairing: Chapel Down, Flint Dry, Kent (2022).
Choosing today’s pairing was tough. I wanted a wine that spoke to Weathering’s geological heart centre. It’s fair to say that all wine could be an excuse to talk rocks, earth, environment but some have more excuse than others. In the last couple of years I’ve suddenly become interested in things like sand, clay, loam and silt because soil types define different expressions in wine. I’ve also delighted in discovering terms like mica schist and learning how rocks can change the temperature of a soil (by retaining heat or reflecting sun) or how they affect drainage. It’s all fascinating to my novice mind.
What I knew I wanted was a wine with minerality. Minerality is a bit of a wine buzzword and not without some controversy (it was missing from the language of wine until the 1980s - although you’ll find taste descriptions like ‘horsey’ and ‘mousey’ from back then which seem far odder imho). Still the term has taken off and I’m definitely of the opinion that sometimes there’s a stoniness, a cool pebbly freshness in wine or even a petrichor richness. As one Rare Wine Academy writer put it: “Minerality may well be the association with fossils, rocks, gravel, slate, asphalt, or flint - it is the umami - the fifth element - of wine, although researchers do not yet have an explanation as to why this is actually the case. Still, many people know what minerality is when they taste it.”
The classics known for minerality are Chablis, Riesling, Syrahs, a bunch of the Sauvignon options, including Sancerre. But I quickly decided that the Sancerre I was eyeing for an excuse to open was probably not the match for Ruth Allen’s writing. The sunshine and butteriness of this particular bottle might be delicious, but that was not what was going to pair well here. What then? I toyed with wines that have stories - perhaps Simpsons sparkling rosé, a Canterbury wine where the growers light tea lights beneath the vines to keep off the frost before harvest and which is grown in an iconic, chalk terroir. That didn’t quite fit either (but I promise we’ll come back to it). I rummaged through my wine ‘cellar’ a bit more - the Gruner Veltliner felt interesting as a wine from a cool climate, also the Canadian ice wine for its strange, sweet impossibility.
What I realised was that I wanted a wine that did that have that clear influence from its soil, that was full of mineral textuality, but which had a story and came from here - the cool climbs of the UK. The answer in the end was glaringly obvious - I had one last bottle of Chapel Down’s Flint Dry in the ‘cellar’ (okay, yes, it’s a cupboard beneath the bookcase). This was the perfect match.
The Wine: Well the clue is in the name, but let’s chat about the vineyard first. Chapel Down has become one of the biggest (if not the biggest) names in English winemaking - particularly their sparkling wines. From their base in Tenterden, Kent, they’ve managed to make sparklings that are exceptional, winning awards at every level, nationally and internationally. The main vineyards grow on loam soil - predominantly a mix of sand, silt and clay - with a further pure chalk terroir where they produce the Kit Coty range. The Flint Dry has always been a blend of some of the best grapes for capturing minerality - Chardonnay, Bacchus, and Reichensteiner, for example. However, the blend has evolved with the vineyard and climate change. Where the German vines historically dominated thanks to their ability to thrive through cooler weather, consistently warmer seasons now mean that the French varietals can shine through. It’s gone from decidedly floral to more fruit-forward as a result and it also responds to the soil in really interesting ways, bringing out those mineral notes: flint, chalk, a hint of smoke.
Tasting Notes: Chapel Down Flint Dry is crisp, aromatic and refreshing. You’ll quickly discover the telltale aromas of green apple and pear with background notes of grapefruit and fresh-cut grass. To drink, it’s well-balanced and has a crisp, clean finish which is where you get a line of chalky, flinty goodness as well - a stony streak that lingers on the palate. It’s a mouthwatering, easy drinking wine, perfectly dry and delightfully expressive. Drink on its own on a sunny day, with simple grilled fish or a herby pork ragu.
Where can I buy it? Where can’t you buy it? You can buy Flint Dry from the vineyard’s website. You can also find it by the bottle in supermarkets like Waitrose, on Ocado, and at Majestic.
Fun facts: Perhaps less fact and more factoid this week. I probably drank too much Chapel Down during the pandemic years. It was a new discovery (to me) in the summer of 2020, and my family and I enjoyed it on many an evening during various lockdowns. Along with the tasting notes above, I associate it with the long walks I took that year - through woodland, field, farmland, beaches and Cornish clifftops. This was the year I took my first exam in wine (the very basics of the WSET L1 before you get any ideas that I’m an expert) and the year I decided to take some time out to explore English vineyards (which I ended up actually doing in 2021 - heading through Polgoon, Sharpham, and others). I love this wine and highly recommend it.
ps. Today we’re trying a different headline format. Let me know what you think!
I mean, I don't even know where to begin with the JOY and delight this has brought me in abundance this evening. Your write up, your sensitivity to the language; it has blown me away and I am So very glad this book found you as it has. I love how you approached reading and listening to it, taking your time,.absorbing it for yourself your way. AND THEN this wine pairing. I didn't know your work/book club before and now I am like THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER. Immediate sign up! I just can't gush enough with thanks and I am itching to go and find this wine now and see if I can find the connection too. This is all such a gift, thank you xx