To Kalon. For any Californian winemaker, those two words represent the Holy Grail. This vineyard in Oakville, Napa, is undeniably the region’s most famous. Perched at the foot of the Mayacamas, west of Highway 29, this site has been recognised for producing fine wine since the 19th century. Literally translating as the “highest beauty” or “highest good” from Greek, today To Kalon is home to some of Napa’s oldest vines and best Cabernet Sauvignon. “This is a Grand Cru – a premier property,” Paul Hobbs tells me, a winemaker who has a long history with the site. As a grad student at UC Davis, Hobbs would swipe the second crop from a vineyard on Walnut Drive – what happened to be BV4, Beaulieu Vineyard’s original block of To Kalon. At Mondavi – the largest holder of the hallowed site – he got to walk the rows more legitimately, and used those holdings to build Opus One – the company’s joint venture with Ch. Mouton Rothschild (although the association with the site has generally been played down). Under his own label, he’s been making wine from the Beckstoffer section of the vineyard since 1999 – and his wines, along with those from Schrader, were some of the early bottlings that put the vineyard firmly on the fine wine map, earning high scores – and lots of attention. Indeed, it was a Paul Hobbs wine that made Tor Kenward believe the vineyard was truly special. André Tchelistcheff had spoken to Kenward about BV4, but it was one of Hobbs’s bottlings that made him realise its potential. He started working with Beckstoffer plots from 2005. 
“It’s not visually impressive; it doesn’t have that ‘wow factor’,” Kenward tells me. But start digging below the surface, and you realise that you’re in the “tenderloin of Napa”, with old creek beds that run through the site. It’s an alluvial fan that runs down from the Mayacamas, sitting almost on a bench – with very little elevation. But the soils here are varied, with deep, well-drained gravels that make it perfect for Cabernet Sauvignon.  Andy Erickson – a winemaker whose resume includes Screaming Eagle, Harlan, Dalla Valle, Mayacamas and many more – first worked with the site in 2012, on a single-barrel charity lot for an auction at his children’s school. When Constellation (owners of Mondavi and co-owners of Opus One) called him to give him the chance to work with it again in 2016, he didn’t hesitate. That year, he made the first wine for the To Kalon Vineyard Company – a project that is a revival of the brand created by H.W. Crabb (known variously as Henry Walker, Hiram Walker or Hamilton Walker Crabb) in 1886, the vineyard’s godfather. “Most people know the recent history of the vineyard, and the acclaim of the wines from the past 15-20 years. But the vineyard was known for producing remarkable wines all the way back in the late 19th century. Clearly there is something there,” Erickson says.  But this vineyard is weighed down with controversy – its borders endlessly debated, with producers vying for use of the To Kalon name.  The history of the To Kalon Vineyard It’s impossible to look at To Kalon today without tracing its origins. H.W. Crabb came west from Ohio during the Gold Rush, spending six months digging in the Sierras before settling in Oakville in 1868, buying 240 acres of land at the corner of Highway 29 and Walnut Drive. He planted a wide range of crops, first making wine in 1872 under the name Hermosa Vineyards (“hermosa” meaning “beautiful” in Spanish). In 1881, he acquired another 119 acres from Eliza Yount (whose name lives on in Yountville). On land to the west of his plots, owned by John Davis, he planted additional vines – buying the fruit off Davis to feed his increasing production. In 1886, he gave his company a new name: “To Kalon Vineyard Company” – and the legend was born. Crabb reportedly said, “The name To-Kalon… means the highest beauty, or the highest good, but I try to make it mean the boss vineyard.”
 To Kalon Vineyard Company rapidly became one of the region’s largest – and most well-respected – wine producers. His wines started winning awards at competitions around the world, and he was the first to start selling wine along the East Coast. He had planted a huge range of grapes – around 400 different varieties, including Malvasia, Riesling, Chasselas, Muscat, Refosco and Cabernet Sauvignon, with the latter in particular thriving. In 1889, he bought 168 acres on the hillside to the south, close to where Harlan is now based, although it was never planted with vines during Crabb’s lifetime. In 1891, Crabb bought Davis’s 135 acres (from which he’d already been buying the fruit). In total, Crabb had more than 359 acres.  But his success wasn’t to last – phylloxera arrived in the late 19th century, and recession along with it. In 1898, Crabb sold the 135 acres he’d bought just eight years earlier – and died one year later in 1899. The vines were ripped out, replaced by cherry trees under David Perry Doak in 1911, who in turn purchased another 500 acres of vines from John Benson, south of the border of the original To Kalon (across Oakville Grade Road), which is now all owned by Constellation (used for Mondavi or Opus One). After Crabb’s death, what remained of the To Kalon Vineyard Company was sold to ES Churchill at auction, taken over by his widow Mary Churchill when he died in 1903. Wines continued to be sold under the label until the arrival of Prohibition in 1920. The winery reopened briefly to sell wine in bulk in the 1930s, but the winery building burnt down in 1939. Four years later, Martin Stelling bought most of the property – 337 acres – and replanted. He sold 90 acres to Beaulieu Vineyard (the block that became known as BV4 – and was the plot used by André Tschelistcheff made Georges de Latour Reserve). In 1944, Stelling bought an additional 1,700 acres – the McGill Ranch, which included the parcels owned by Doak (both Crabb’s 1891 parcel and the 500 acres area south of Oakville Grade Road). He named the entire property Tokalon Vineyards, and in 1945 planted Sauvignon Blanc in I Block – the legendary parcel that is today used for Mondavi’s prized, old-vine To Kalon Fumé Blanc.  Tragedy struck again, however, with Stelling killed in a car crash in 1950. The property was once more divided, sold off in pieces by his widow.   
Rosa Mondavi, along with her sons Robert and Peter, purchased 132 hectares in 1962 for the family winery, Charles Krug. After Robert struck out on his own, he bought 12 acres for himself in 1966 (that remained in the Stelling family) – in the northeast corner of the 1968 Crabb parcel, where the Mondavi winery and visitor centre remains today. He bought a further 230 acres in 1968, and then took the Charles Krug section from the rest of his family in 1978. The first time the To Kalon name appeared on a Mondavi label – and the first time since the demise of the To Kalon Vineyard Company – was on the 1986 Fumé Blanc Reserve. The I Block – the Sauvignon Blanc vines planted by Stelling in 1945 – were singled out for the first time in 1995, for the vines’ 50th anniversary. The first red – Mondavi’s To Kalon Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon – appeared with the 1997 vintage. The To Kalon Vineyard’s terroir As already mentioned, To Kalon is largely an alluvial fan that stretches down from the Mayacamas to Highway 29. It is, however, a large piece of land (the exact area depending on where you draw its borders – see below for more on the controversy around this) – and as such the terroir varies considerably. The soils are richer downslope, closer to the Highway; poorer and better-drained higher up (where many – including Hobbs and Kenward – prefer to be). The gravel composition varies with the subtle slope differences and underground water.  “It’s like any cut of meat – there are better parts than others,” Hobbs says. With over 300 original acres (at least), this is a substantial vineyard (for comparison, Clos Vougeot is 125 acres). “It’s great if you have the name To Kalon, but could be pretty average stuff.” The Beckstoffer section is numbered and lettered: A to F, from road to mountain, with A1 south of A2. For Hobbs, he likes the blocks closer to the mountains, and those that aren’t shaded by the huge walnut trees that line Walnut Drive (to the south). Hobbs noted how much warmer Oakville is than Yountville – something he used to notice when driving in the evening home from Oakville to Yountville. The mountains block the sea breezes, meaning that the cooling effect happens, but more slowly. This is partly what makes it such a special place. Tor Kenward similarly prefers some of the middle blocks in B and C, where there are some of the vineyard’s oldest vines, but with lower vigour, as well as the leaner soils closest to the mountains. As for the MacDonald or Horton block: “You could argue it’s every bit as good as Andy’s piece,” Kenward says. It, along with the Detert block, was planted in the 1940s – and in fact those two blocks are now home to some of the valley’s oldest vines. Even closer to the mountains, the gravel content is even higher, and the fruit is picked up to a month earlier than elsewhere in To Kalon. Although until now most of that fruit has been sold to Constellation, there will be opportunity for others to work with it as that contract comes to an end.   
The Beckstoffer plots of To Kalon Andy Beckstoffer bought Beaulieu Vineyard’s block, BV4, in 1993. He’d just lost a prized site – Liparita, on Howell Mountain – when the 89 acres of BV4 came up. He’d worked the site for years and leapt at the opportunity to buy it. “It’s a mystery to me why they sold it,” Paul Hobbs told me, although word on the grapevine was that they needed to liquidate funds – indeed, it was around the same time that Mondavi went public for similar reasons. Phylloxera was once more raging through the region thanks to the widely used, non-resistant AXR rootstock.  The BV4 block was in bad shape when Beckstoffer took it over and he had to replant the entire site. Paul Hobbs was one of the first to use fruit from Beckstoffer’s plots, starting to work with him from 1995/96. “Andy didn’t really realise he had a Grand Cru property,” Hobbs says. Hobbs was given free rein to pick his plots, opting for four or five plots on the western side, furthest from Highway 29. The vineyard produced its first fruit in 1997; 1998 was a difficult year; but in 1999 Hobbs was able to produce his first To Kalon bottling (although it couldn’t say so on the label). “I was loathe to tell people how young it was – but the quality was so good,” Hobbs says, still starry eyed thinking about it. “It was only four years old, but producing stunning wines.” Most fruit is sold on its weight, by the ton, but Andy Beckstoffer created a different model – one that is intricately tied to the vineyard’s name and reputation – and arguably has increased its reputation. Producers who use his fruit pay him 175 times the bottle price per ton, with a ceiling at $50,000/ton; tying the value of the fruit to the value of the final wine. “For producers like me in those days, when I didn’t have the land or ability to buy land, Andy was a saviour of sorts,” Hobbs tells me. “Because I had access to one of the top vineyards in all of Napa. I had to pay – but at least I had access.”
  The To Kalon controversy: how big is it? And is it a brand or a place? Mondavi trademarked the name “To Kalon” in 1988, and “To Kalon Vineyard” in 1994. This gave them the right to use the name on any wine from anywhere – even beyond California – and meant that no one else could use the name, even if they had plots in what was considered the original To Kalon vineyard. The first Beckstoffer bottlings only mentioned the name on the back label; but in 2000, Schrader decided to put it on the front label. The now famous lawsuit commenced. “They shouldn’t have been able to trademark it,” Hobbs tells me. “Anyone from the original To Kalon estate should have the right to the trademark as well.” In 2002, Mondavi sued Schrader for using the name on their Beckstoffer bottling. Countersuing ensued, from both Schrader and Beckstoffer (the latter arguing that Mondavi was misleading clients by using the name for wines made with fruit from beyond the vineyard’s original borders). A settlement – the details of which remain a mystery – was made in 2003, but wines made from the Beckstoffer section can now bear the name “Beckstoffer To Kalon”.  Constellation bought Mondavi in 2004, and then Schrader in 2017. Reportedly attempts were made to trademark “To Kalon Wine Company”, “To Kalon Vineyard Company” and “Rooted in To Kalon” – something, unsurprisingly, that Beckstoffer objected to. The legal battle continues today, with a fight over the naming of To Kalon Creek, and The Vineyard House – owned by Jeremy Nickel, which sits on the 1889 hillside section – arguing for the use of the name as well.  The borders of the vineyard are a constant source of debate – and given the history above, you can see why.  Andy Beckstoffer considers the original To Kalon to be only the parcels bought by Crabb in 1868 and 1881. The 1889 parcel was never planted by Crabb, so most aren’t inclined to include it as “original To Kalon”. The Detert and MacDonald plots, however, aren’t acknowledged by Beckstoffer, but were planted – and, albeit more briefly than other plots, owned by Crabb. Then there’s the “Stelling extension”, the southern section added after Crabb’s death under Martin Stelling, that Mondavi considers part of the original vineyard, but some others do not. Given the sums fruit – and wine – bearing the To Kalon name command, it’s unsurprising that its usage is so disputed.  
To Kalon: what does the wine taste like?  So what makes the wine so special? Why do winemakers fight for the fruit, and consumers for the bottles they produce? Despite the sheer variety of the site, Tor Kenward is adamant that there’s a continuity, with a profile that that site gives Cabernet. He describes it as “wall-to-wall carpeting”, a plushness to the mid-palate, a softness, that means the Cabernet isn’t hard-edged. “There’s something about the ground there,” Andy Erickson agrees. For him, To Kalon has a distinct tannin texture – not as rugged as hillside sites, but richer, with a generosity in the wines. “They are dark, aromatic, but very broad and polished,” he says. “I think the vineyard brings forward many of the complexities of Cabernet Sauvignon, but delivers it in a very approachable and elegant package.” “It’s very identifiable,” Paul Hobbs says. “It’s a structural and textural thing mostly. It’s a freshness to this sort of tannin. It has grip, but it has this uplifting character.” He explains it like a skipping stone – you think you’ve got it, then another wave comes, the wine shifting on the palate. For him, one of the most distinctive things is that Cabernet sings alone here – much better than blended with other varietals. “It didn’t need the help of its brothers,” he says. “It’s a wine that’s at peace with itself… It doesn’t shock you, except in its beauty.”
 Who owns what today in To Kalon? Robert Mondavi: From the original 12 acres, Mondavi now owns 328 acres of To Kalon, including the Stelling extension. Has the rights to use the To Kalon name.  Opus One: The 35-acre Q Block was sold to the joint venture by Mondavi in 1981, with K block acquired in 2008. Although under Constellation’s ownership they could likely use the To Kalon name, Opus One doesn’t trade on this. (To Kalon Vineyard Company uses fruit from Constellation’s holdings, both Opus One and Mondavi plots.) UC Davis: a research block that was key in developing phylloxera-resistant rootstock
Beckstoffer: 89 acres, with fruit sold to a range of producers (currently 23), including Paul Hobbs, Tor Kenward and Schrader. Producers can use the name “Beckstoffer To Kalon” on their labels. MacDonald (sometimes referenced as Horton): Graeme and Alex MacDonald are the current generation, owning 21 acres of the 1891 parcel. When their great-grandparents bought the site in 1954 (along with the Detert plot – see below – from Caroline Stelling, Martin Stelling’s widow) it was planted with cherry trees. Advised by Robert Mondavi, the MacDonalds planted vines. From 1966, they sold grapes to Mondavi – holding some back for personal use from 2004, with the first MacDonald commercial release in 2010 (just 92 cases). Although historically 75% of production here has been sold to Mondavi, I’m led to believe that the contract is coming to a close and won’t be renewed. The MacDonalds can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines currently. Detert: Today owned by Tom Garrett, a cousin of the MacDonalds. This 25-acre plot was bought in 1954, along with the MacDonald parcel – divided between the buyers’ children giving the two plots today. There’s more Cabernet Franc in this section. Most of the fruit is sold to Mondavi (with the contract, as for MacDonald, coming to an end soon), and Detert can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines. The Vineyard House: Many dispute whether or not this is original To Kalon; it’s on the hillside area purchased (but not planted) by Crabb in 1891. This plot is owned by Jeremy Justin Nickel, who is the son of the late Far Niente proprietor Gil Nickel. It’s thought to have first been planted with vines in 1980. They can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines, but have taken court action over the issue.  Wineries with To Kalon bottlings  NB Not all of these will bear the To Kalon name on the label Mondavi Winery, Opus One, To Kalon Vineyard Company, MacDonald, Detert, Alpha Omega, Amici, Alejandro Bulgheroni Estate, AXR, Bacio Divino, B Cellars, Boich Family, Bounty Hunter, Cain Concept, Carter cellars, Ch Boswell, Jacquelynn, Kitchak, Cliff Lede, Morlet, Realm Cellars, Tor Kenward, Paul Hobbs, Schrader Cellars Read more Editorial 

The Napa Valley has many incredible vineyards, but To Kalon undoubtedly sits at the top of the tree. As the To Kalon Vineyard Company releases their latest vintage, Sophie Thorpe delves into the story of this iconic site – from its 19th century origins to the fight to use its hallowed name

Explore the history of To Kalon vineyard – and what makes it such an iconic site today. We spoke to Andy Erickson, Paul Hobbs and Tor Kenward to find out more

The tale of Napa’s iconic To Kalon vineyard

The tale of To Kalon

Making wine under conflict Between 1975 and 1990, Lebanon was a mosaic of wars caused by complex shifting political, geographical, and demographical factors. When 16 years of Civil War were finally over, the foundations for a new republic had been laid, but at a considerable cost. Over 100,000 people were dead, nearly one million had been displaced, and billions of dollars worth of property and infrastructure had been destroyed. Chateau Musar’s vineyards had suffered damage from fighting in the Beka’a Valley, but although the winery in Ghazir had been subject to intermittent shelling, it had escaped significant damage. The fact that Musar only missed one year of winemaking during this period is no mere miracle – but a testament to the family Hochar’s dedication and devotion to their vision in the face of the most horrendous ‘working conditions’ imaginable. For Serge Hochar, protecting the family business his father had established was paramount. “If you ask me on which side I fought during these 15 years,” he once said, “I can only tell you that I was fighting for my wines.” And fight, he did. The effort required to get the Musar grapes from the vineyards to the winery each year during the Civil War was nothing short of Herculean. The pickers, who would often pick under artillery and gunfire as the dug-in militias bombarded each other, emerged as heroes. As did the truck drivers, who risked their lives when running the gauntlet of a journey that in peacetime can be made in two and a half hours, but during the war had sometimes taken several days. The story of Musar’s 1984 vintage in particular highlights the adversity Serge Hochar and family faced during the conflict – and also vindicates the passion at the heart of their decision to keep diligently making wine. In 1984, there was almost no vintage as there were only enough grapes to fill two trucks which proved to be a good thing as there were only two truck drivers brave enough to attempt to get them back to the winery.  Each went a different route. One took five days, the other seven. All the while, the grapes in the trucks were piled up, squashed, heating up in the hot sun each day and starting to ferment. A delivery of warm grapes can result in musty, unappealing wine but – such was
his philosophical outlook – Serge defiantly made wine with them anyway, bottling it and cellaring it to let it “become whatever it decided to be”.  Chateau Musar’s 1984 red should, in theory, have been a terrible wine. But against all odds, given the right conditions and no small amount of time, has become not only a drinkable wine – but a delicious, complex, exciting one, brimming with life and hope. The small amount of the vintage that exists was released to the marketplace in 2014 (exactly 30 years after it was made) and the bottles that occasionally appear on the market are very highly prized. This wine – and all of the vintages made during the Civil War – represent the Musar legacy Serge Hochar left in the capable hands of his sons Gaston and Marc, and his brother Ronald and his son Ralph, along with viticulturalist and winemaker Tarek Sakr. These wines were made during a time when simply driving to check on your crop or to pick up supplies meant dicing with death. “We did our best with what we have, as always. This is the Lebanese way. You give me grapes, and my job is only to help them to be the best wine they can be.” - Serge Hochar Chateau Musar: the Civil War years (1975-1990) 
Miraculously, in the 16 years of Civil War in Lebanon, not a single one of Chateau Musar’s employees was killed – even though many of the Hochar’s friends and neighbours lost their lives in sniper attacks, bombardments or car bombings. The winery escaped serious damage and, in retrospect, seems to have been the safest place in Lebanon. Thousands of bottles stored deep underground in Musar’s cellars carved in the limestone heart of Mount Lebanon slept peacefully during the years of conflict.  The Hochars even converted part of the cellars into a bomb shelter for refugees fleeing Beirut. And they took any opportunities they could to distribute and ship their wines while all the madness of war enveloped them, steadily growing Musar’s reputation around the world. By the end of the Civil War, Chateau Musar was so much more than a maker of exquisite wines. It had established itself as an icon of national endurance and hope. And who wouldn’t drink to that? Read more about life at Chateau Musar during the Civil War years with the timeline below: 1976 30,000 Syrian troops move into Lebanon ostensibly to restore peace, but in reality, this was Syria’s attempt to claim the lands (including the Beka’a Valley) it believes it was owed when Lebanon became independent in 1943. “In 1976 there was total war in Lebanon. We had no electricity. No fuel. No transport. No harvest. No nothing. 1976 was the only year in which we failed to make any wine. For others, the weather is a problem – for us, it is war.” Without the ability to reach the grapes, to pick them and bring them back to the winery, there could be no new wine. Even if there had been, there was nobody to buy it. So Serge saw the opportunity to reach out and find new markets for the wines he had in his cellars. His father-in-law had a travel-agency in London and agreed to start importing his wines in the UK. 1977 From 1977 to 1990 (and during plenty of small dirty wars since) the Hochar family successfully made wine each year – often plucking grapes from the barbed wire zones of the frontline. “During times of war, we have to put all our belief and all our assets in wine!” said Serge. “We have to keep going with the things that are our essence. By now, I was used to war. So I kept on making wine; I was making it for a market I did not yet know existed.”

 1978 The UN steps in with peacekeeping troops and Israel is forced to withdraw from Lebanon. Syria steps in instead, targeting the Christian population in the ‘Hundred Days’ War’, the worst offensive for two years. Serge: “There was very heavy shelling in Beirut. The Syrians shelled Achrafiyeh, where our office is [in central Beirut]. At the time, my wife Tania was running the Godiva chocolatier nearby. She took the kids to the winery cellar in Ghazir in shock. There were many dead in Achrafiyeh. My secretary hid in the strong metal filing cabinet. Many people here were psychologically affected.” 
 1979 Revolution in Iran leads to radicalisation of the Shi'ite movement in Lebanon, and the creation of the Amal party, the ‘movement of the dispossessed’.

 1980 Bashir Gemayal unites Lebanon’s Christian military factions, creating the Lebanese Forces political party.  Serge: “This was one of the worst years of the war for us. I used to write a harvest report, but have mislaid it for this year.”  Chateau Musar UK was officially established this year. 1981 Relations between Syria and Israel deteriorate. Serge: “This was a year of terrible hardship. Tania and the kids left for London. They had to. I could not guarantee their safety. They came back, then left again in 1983. I promised that I would join them the moment the war ended. We did see each other every few months when I could get a flight.” 
 1982 Israel invades Lebanon again intending to dislodge the PLO. Some 18,000 people, mostly civilians, lose their lives as the battle-zone moves towards Beirut. Italian, French and US troops assist in the evacuation of the Palestinians. In the Beka’a, 80 hectares of Musar vineyards become the frontline between the Syrians and Israelis, whose tanks faced each other over the vines. Serge calculates that he will not be able to harvest grapes from them again until 1985. But he does. In the confusion that ensues after the invasion, the loyal Bedouin pickers collect what fruit they can, and the Hochar trucks manage to make their way to the winery. Serge: “The 1982 is a pure wine of war.” 1983 Times darken further as suicide bombing reprisals shock Beirut and its suburbs. In the Chouf mountains, the Mountain War begins. That summer, Serge took his family on holiday to the US. During a stop-over in Paris on their return journey, war broke out again so the family decided to settle in France. Winter is severe in the Beka’a, with metres of snow coating the vineyards; summer is barely warmer, and the Hochars’ harvest was late. A break in fighting, instilled by the American fleet anchored off Beirut, came at just the right time for the vineyard manager to pick a few grape bunches and smuggle them into Beirut for Ronald to check. They were good: there had been no rain, no heatwave, and the grapes had reached perfect condition. Ronald put in a call to Serge, who was visiting the US, and the brothers decided to match the bravery of their vineyard manager and order the harvest in. “It was very dangerous,” admits Ronald: “Serge flew to Cyprus, then took a six-hour hovercraft crossing to Beirut; he arrived at the winery in Ghazir moments after two rockets blasted the coast road he’d just been driving on.”  The truck drivers, with their precious loads of hand-cut grapes, carefully negotiated the capillary-like country roads that would lead them to the winery, relying on a network of local gossip to learn which roads the militias were controlling with checkpoints and which route between the Beka’a and Ghazir would be the least bloody. They were successful. As Ronald said, there were two advantages: “Our usual headache, the traffic jams, were gone. And the harvest, just like that of 1982, was excellent!” 
 1984 The Lebanese Forces, having controlled the capital since 1982, are expelled, and the Amal Party takes control of West Beirut. Peacekeeping forces (from the US, Italy and the UK) leave Lebanon. Serge: “We did our best with what we have, as always. This is the Lebanese way. You give me grapes, and my job is only to help them to be the best wine they can be. In 1984 the sun was very hot, and the fighting was hotter. After waiting and waiting for a break in the shelling, and more than a month after the last day of the harvest should have been, we quickly picked whatever grapes were left on the vines. Most were very ripe and sugary. There were enough grapes for only two truckloads, and only two of our drivers were brave enough to attempt the journey to Ghazir.  The first truck managed to find a way through the cedar forests in the northern Beka’a and get eventually to Tripoli, near the northern border with Syria. In five days it was with us. The second truck drove south over mountain tracks to Jezzine, then crossed the battlefronts on the way down to Sidon. From there, the trucks needed to avoid Beirut, so they waited for a boat. There was a terrible storm, which delayed the ferry to Jounieh.  Eventually, the storm was quiet enough and the ferry sailed slowly up the coast. The trucks arrived at the winery after seven days, on October 20th, 45 days after what should have been the end of the harvest – 45! So, in 1984 the grapes that we received were hot, bruised, sticky and very much fermenting. As an act of defiance, and as an act of faith, as a way of showing that the Lebanese spirit can never be broken, we made those grapes into wine. I made the 1984 to declare war against war.” Fittingly, 1984 was the year that Serge Hochar was named as the first ever Decanter magazine ‘Man of the Year’ - for his unswerving commitment to winemaking. 
 1985 The Israelis continue their withdrawal from the south of Lebanon under armed pressure from Hezbollah. They keep an occupied ‘security zone’ along their border. In the War of the Camps, Palestinian refugee camps are targeted by Shi'ite and Amal militia. Serge: “The Israelis continued to withdraw from Sidon, but it was still difficult to get the grapes from the Beka’a to the winery. After this year, things started to settle down, on our terms.” 1986 Serge: “Military action destroyed some of the vineyards on Mount Lebanon. Our white grape Obaideh was, and is, grown on the slopes of the Anti-Lebanon and was still available – but we only ever used this grape for Arak (Lebanon’s aniseed-flavoured aperitif). Prior to 1986, the Chateau white was only produced from Merwah grapes. From 1986 we began to blend Obaideh with Merwah and the combination worked. We were the first to use these two local varieties in a unique new style of wine.” Close to four decades later, Musar is still the only one. 1987 Anger at the continued presence of Israel in Lebanon is augmented by the first Intifada (Palestinian uprising against Israel’s occupation of the West Bank and Gaza).

 1988 Following Amin Gemayel, Lebanon’s new interim president is announced as Michel Aoun. Serge: “Life in Lebanon was not so hectic in 1988. It was a normal year, politically speaking.” 1989 President Aoun declares war on Syria. After seven months of fighting, with 800 dead, the Arab League negotiates a ceasefire. The Taif Agreement is signed, with the ethos ‘no victor and no vanquished’, in an attempt to end the Lebanese Civil War. Meanwhile, life is beginning to return to normal in the Hochar vineyards. In an impressive vintage, Carignan grapes begin to win Serge’s heart.

 1990 Miraculously, in the 16 years of Civil War in Lebanon, not a single one of Chateau Musar’s employees was killed – even though many of the Hochar’s friends and neighbours lost their lives in sniper attacks, bombardments or car bombings. The winery escaped serious damage and, in retrospect, seems to have been the safest place in Lebanon. Thousands of bottles stored deep underground in Musar’s cellars carved in the limestone heart of Mount Lebanon slept peacefully during the years of conflict.  The Hochars even converted part of the cellars into a bomb shelter for refugees fleeing Beirut. And they took any opportunities they could to distribute and ship their wines while all the madness of war enveloped them, steadily growing Musar’s reputation around the world. By the end of the Civil War, Chateau Musar was so much more than a maker of exquisite wines. It had established itself as an icon of national endurance and hope. And who wouldn’t drink to that?

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The story of Ch. Musar’s 1984 vintage highlights the adversity of Serge Hochar during the conflict and also vindicates the passion to keep diligently making wine. We find out more

The story of Musar’s 1984 vintage highlights the adversity of Serge Hochar during the conflict and also vindicates the passion to keep diligently making wine

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