The sun sets over the Parthenon (Photo by Scott Barbour/Getty Images)
Never before have so many wanted to spend their days visiting vineyards and writing about the magical subject of wine. Yet somehow, the profession (or should I say vocation?) is in a state of crisis. Arguably, it always has been. Nevertheless, as wine publications struggle for revenue, and the large tech platforms further choke visibility and traffic, the fragmentation of quality voices continues. Dispersing in their wake is a critical mass of engaged readers. With A.I. lurking menacingly on the horizon, raising the bar on quality is crucial for survival.
Given the stakes, we might consider an extended delve into early 20th century English travel writing as a little indulgent. Lingering on the pretty phrases of well-schooled gentlemen, endlessly keen to express their comfort with the great works of the ancient world, would usually sit at odds with the incessant buzz of notifications, emails and the need to keep content and invoices flowing.
Yet, the predicament is providing splendid opportunity for meandering exploration through some of the more literary and erudite texts of the genre. In many cases, they are harmless, hapless adventures, and ooze the kind of personality that makes such writing timeless. So, filing my inquiry under research, and temporary escapism, I embarked on Robert Bryon’s iconic Road to Oxiana.
Published in 1937, it charts his journey through the Levant and across the Middle East. Byron’s self deprecating tone will inevitably strike a more pertinent chord with the British reader, but it is universally acknowledged a masterpiece for its balance of witty memoir and poignant observation. Sensual prose bring exotic scenes to life, capturing the essence of people and place.
The author’s primary interest lies in the great monuments of Islam, but his deep knowledge is administered carefully, diluted with engaging journal entries that document the trials and tribulations of a colourful and unpredictable journey. Clearly, he is well versed in his field and able to braid scholarly comment, but it remains a backdrop, and a device for maintaining order lest his more comedic characters infringe on the intended atmosphere. For Byron, architecture (we may read wine) is a reason for travel, but it is certainly not the story.
Henry Vollam Morton is another outstanding travel writer of a bygone era, despite suggestions of appalling character. Over the last few days I’ve found it difficult to put down A Traveller in Southern Italy (1969). Although less poetic, the format is similar. Enthralment with the lives of the Saints provides motivation for his expedition, but his writing draws from the well of knowledge modestly – skilfully aware of the importance of peeling back the curtain and standing clear.
Inevitably, the subject of wine provides rich material for the writer and there are many enclaves in which to develop a specialism. For me, the most alluring wine writing, and the most age-worthy, provokes and evokes in a way that the best travel writing does. It connects on an emotional level and make one long for experience. Put simply, the best books about wine are often not really about wine – at least, not entirely.
Paul Theroux, the great American writer noted that, “travel writing begins in journalism, slides into fiction, and ends in autobiography”. When I think back to those bright and elegant columns by Hugh Johnson or Michael Broadbent, I am reminded of a note by Hemingway. “If a writer knows enough about what he is writing about, he may omit things that he knows. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one ninth of it being above water.”