Memories Elide: Vieux Château Certan 1923-2020

BY NEAL MARTIN | JULY 30, 2024

1924

Georges Thienpont strides down the cobbled street, a cacophony of rattling horses and carts wheeling vegetables to the Libourne market and time-scarred barrels of wine to the quayside. He has traveled afar for an important meeting at a notary’s office. Smartly attired in a black woolen suit, bosom white shirt and black bow tie, he carries a leather briefcase stuffed with paperwork, a fountain pen secreted inside his breast pocket whose ink is about to alter his family’s history.

For a few years, Georges had successfully run the family’s wine business from the family’s picturesque 17th-century house: Hof te Cattebeke in Etikhove, an unusually hilly part of East Flanders popular with cyclists. Founded in 1842, the merchant had become a respected distributor of wine, though three years earlier, he raised relatives’ eyebrows when he ‘crossed the Rubicon’ and purchased Troplong Mondot. But that was a savvy acquisition. In the aftermath of the Great War and interminable run of pitiful growing seasons, Thienpont was able to barter a keen price, notwithstanding that it granted him a permanent base in Bordeaux. That said, it had not encouraged him to expand his vineyard holdings further.

Georges Thienpont, cigar in hand, with his wife, Joséphine. The date and location are not known, but judging by their attire, it is a formal occasion.

Things were ticking over nicely. Right Bank wines were regularly transported in barrels, by train or canal to appreciative Belgian wine lovers. Thankfully, English merchants’ interests ventured no further than the Médoc, traducing the Right Bank as the easy-drinking fare that lacked Cabernet’s nobility. Thienpont’s portfolio prudently ventured outside Pomerol and Saint-Émilion, importing barrels from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, one of the handful of Burgundy growers to bottle some of their production, while demand for Sauternes remained strong. Recently, he had acquired barrels of 1921 Yquem from de Luc-Saluces. The elixir was so unctuous and overwhelming that, as he rings the doorbell of the notary’s office, he chuckles at the thought of collectors in the next century comparing the château’s bottling with his own.

One morning, Thienpont’s wife, Joséphine (née Billiet), surprised him when she expressed a desire to own a Bordeaux vineyard using her own money. The suggestion had come out of the blue, though Georges immediately warmed to the idea and replied: “There’s an old property in Pomerol that I’ve heard is for sale. Sadly, it’s in a rather forlorn state. I’m not even sure if the de Bousquet family lives there. Even so, its wines have been rated highly in the Féret guide.”

Interest piqued, Joséphine enquired about the name of the property.

“Vieux Château Certan.”

Georges had dealt with the property before and was familiar with its particulars, potential and devotees across Belgium and Holland. A few weeks later, he books a room at the nearby Hôtel Loubat, which lay within earshot of whistling steam trains as they entered Libourne Station. The hotel’s matriarch was a grandiloquent middle-aged woman, Marie-Louise Loubat, who took every opportunity to regale a vineyard where she had bought a minor stake.

“Monsieur Thienpont,” she trilled each time he stepped into the hotel reception. “You must try my wine. Truly, the best in Pomerol.”

Thienpont would laugh politely. She had strong grounds to extol ‘her’ wine, even if Petrus was cut from a different cloth to neighboring Vieux Château Certan. Their soils had different time signatures.

The air of the notary’s reception is thick with the smell of varnished mahogany and pencil shavings. The oak-paneled walls and parquet flooring are lit by the lambent glow of Chinese lamps that drape the chamber in shadow, from which a vaguely familiar face emerges.

“Antoine Moueix,” the gentleman says with a slight Corrèze dialect. His black hair is oiled back, and his moustache is neatly trimmed; he extends his hand in greeting.

“Enchanté,” Georges replies, a little put off his stride, the handshake firm and businesslike.

“Ah, I’m glad you two are acquainted,” the notary says upbeat, arms outstretched like a preacher towards his two clients. “Let us not waste time. Both of you seek to buy estates in Pomerol, and fortunately, there are two for sale. Château Taillefer and Vieux Château Certan.”

The exact date of this photograph is unknown. It probably comes from a merchant guide to promote its wines. Wisteria is yet to climb the façade here, and it is less shaded by trees, which gives a starker impression of the chartreuse. And who is the child sitting on the bench? Nobody knows.

Since Antoine Moueix lives locally, the notary invites him to make the first choice. Georges Thienpont pictures himself returning to Etikhove and informing his wife that he had acquired a vineyard, just not the one her heart had become set upon. Antoine Moueix ruminates. The ticking grandfather clock punctures the ensuing silence, his expression inscrutable. The notary glances at his watch and asks if he has made a decision.

“After consideration,” Moueix finally says, enunciating his words carefully, “I understand that the wine of Vieux Château Certan is highly regarded…”

Thienpont’s heart sinks.

“…however, Taillefer is closer to the station and more conveniently located. If Monsieur Thienpont agrees, I will acquire Taillefer, leaving Monsieur Thienpont free to sign for Vieux Château Certan.”

“That is perfectly acceptable,” Thienpont answers unhesitatingly while feigning mild disappointment, just in case he can barter a lower price.

Thirty minutes later, Georges Thienpont’s fountain pen signs the papers. The act of sale, dated 24 February 1924, stipulates that Vieux Château Certan is sold to Mme. Joséphine Billiet, assisted and authorised wife of Mon. Georges Thienpont, wine merchant. She agrees to be the owner with the assistance and authorization of her husband. The sum is 250,000 Francs. He is already hatching plans for an eye-catching pink capsule that will differentiate it from other wines.

2024

The morning of June 6. There’s an unseasonal nip in the air as the Eurostar pulls into Lille. I greet compatriots Jancis Robinson and Dan Keeling, and there’s shared anticipation for what lies ahead: The VCC tasting to end all VCC tastings. We are picked up by the great-grandson of Georges Thienpont, Alexandre de Raeymaeker, the nephew of Jacques Thienpont. It takes less than an hour to drive to Hof te Cattebeke, where I last visited in 2010. A monkey puzzle tree looms over its white-brick façade, vines trained around its dozen-odd windows as if a child had scribbled in pencil around each in one continuous line. Nowadays, one annex of the mansion accommodates a small office for the merchant activity, upstairs is used as guest rooms, its hallways decorated with family portraits and artwork.

The original Thienpont family home was built in 1612.

I have attended three major VCC retrospectives in my career, notably Bipin Desai’s extraordinary event in Los Angeles in 2009, which turned out to be the catalyst for my Pomerol tome. But what we are about to undertake is on another level. A total of 57 vintages will be poured over two days. Consider the rarity of mature Pomerol wines before the 1960s.

Despite Mme Loubat and Jean-Pierre Moueix’s promulgation, it wasn’t until the 1980s that Robert Parker popularized Pomerol beyond its mainstay of the Low Countries. Until then, a vintage would sell down to the last remaining bottles because cash-strapped winemakers needed money. Buyers drank rather than cellared what were assumed to be short-lived rustic wine. As a result, comparatively few bottles of aged Pomerol exist, including Vieux Château Certan, confirmed by some tasting notes herein, that come from the last remaining bottle. Factor in provenance insofar that a majority had laid in Thienpont’s cellar since birth; if not, they came directly from the château, then this vertical is unrepeatable.

There were three tasting sessions. The first examined recent vintages between 2000 and 2020, and the evening saw another 20 vintages opened from 1946 to 1988. The following morning’s session broached the oldest bottles and legendary postwar vintages. It was no ‘greatest hits’ selection, even if they were included. The vertical interpolated mediocre and even derided vintages such as 1936 and 1946, presenting a more accurate, airbrush-free account. If you would like to know about the early history of Vieux Château Certan, readers can peruse my previous article on Vinous or dust off my Pomerol tome.

The first wine is poured. Off we go…

This evocative photograph comes from the Thienpont family. Notice the children lined up in the front row, the two beasts of burden on either side of the pickers. Examining this image, it is too wooded to be Vieux Château Certan; therefore, it is more likely to be Troplong Mondot. That means it must have been before 1935. I would suppose the same group would have harvested both properties. I wondered if Georges Thienpont is in the picture. Perhaps the besuited gentleman in the oversized casquette on the far left-hand side?

1943

Georges Thienpont had left his home in Etikhove the previous Sunday. Best leave on the Day of Rest, before dawn when no one’s about. His wife waved him off from the porch at Hof te Cattebeke: a kiss on each cheek, a symbolic ‘à bientôt’ not ‘adieu’. Joséphine Georges silently prayed for his safe return as her husband tightened the straps on his panniers, then gradually faded into the mist. The round-trip from Belgium, diagonally across France to Pomerol, was some 550 miles each way and would take several days. Georges was not as young as he used to be, and the arduous journey would take its toll. That was the least of his concerns…

The Nazi soldiers must have spotted him as he crested the hill. An about-turn would raise suspicion. He should have known. French Resistance had been active in this area of central France, and the RAF was targeting a local munitions factory; therefore, the German infantry doubled the checkpoints and became edgier than usual. He pedals more slowly to afford a few more seconds to compose himself. A broad-shouldered, square-jawed officer in a stone grey uniform, scuffed jackboots and peaked cap adorned with swastikas raises his hand. For a brief moment, Georges thinks he is about to give him a casual wave. If only. The officer has ensured that his pistol is conspicuous in its leather holster.

“Stop!” he commands. Georges’s bike screeches to a halt. He should have oiled the brakes before leaving.

“Good morning,” Georges bids as nonchalantly as nerves allow.

“Papers.”

Georges dismounts and opens the pannier crammed with snacks, fruit and, disconcertingly, a compass and a map—equipment the Resistance would carry. He finds his documentation and hands it over. The soldier frowns and looks him up and down with mild disdain.

“You have come all the way from Belgium,” he asks without hiding incredulity. “What is your business?”

“I own a vineyard near Bordeaux,” Georges answers, having decided to be as open and honest as possible. “We are replanting some of the old vines. I need to see how they are getting on. We lost a third last year to oïdium. Plus, I have to pay workers’ wages.”

“By bicycle? Don’t you have a car?”

“Usually, I drive with my wife. We used to come several times a year. But petrol is impossible to find. In any case, cycling keeps you fit and strong,” he replies. It's best to keep the exchange light-hearted despite everything uttered being perfectly true. The soldier considers this strange man clearly someone of standing, though you could not trust anyone, and so he remains suspicious.  

“Bordeaux. Where in Bordeaux?”

“Pomerol.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Near Libourne. Vieux Château Certan. No doubt, it is appreciated by the Weinführer. I’ve even heard they rank which Pomerol châteaux make the best wine.”

The officer snorts. He’s not buying it.

“So, let me understand. You are telling me that you cycled all the way from Belgium to Bordeaux? Surely someone is running the vineyard in your absence?”

It’s a valid point. His wife beseeched him not to make the perilous journey across occupied France. But it was true. Despite leaving the daily running to Monsieur Fontanaud, Thienpont needed to oversee the harvest and pay wages. He looked on with dismay at abandoned vineyards, vines growing wild amongst weeds, though women, children and elderly had kept most ticking over. Seeing vines with his own eyes gave Georges at least a chimera of normality. Despite the upheaval of war, seasons come and go, their rhythm unchanged, come what may. Each September, vines will bestow fruit, and the circle of life repeats.

But why would this soldier comprehend that? Georges waits patiently and remains silent, gripping the handlebars tightly. After what seems like hours, he thrusts his documents back into his hand.

“On your way,” he says curtly.

“Thank you. Maybe we’ll meet on my return.”

Georges hides his relief and pedals briskly away, knowing another checkpoint could lie around the corner. Maybe he was taking an unnecessary risk? But the pull of the vines is stronger than the push-back of danger. That would remain unchanged until the war reached its conclusion in victory for either the Allies or the Nazis.

1956

When Georges Thienpont signed the property deeds in his notary office 32 years ago, he assumed he would be the boss. He was wrong about that. Nature calls the shots, determines fate, the amount of work, stress and, of course, the resulting quality of wine. There had been occasional days when he wished he had sold the Pomerol vineyard together with Troplong Mondot and simply run the merchant business in Belgium, where he continued to live with his family, commuting to and from Bordeaux.

But that would have been living half a life.

The 1929 Wall Street Crash and the consequent Depression severely affected the merchant business. Customers vanished into thin air, and few could afford to spend money on something as frivolous as wine. Compounding their financial travails, the growing seasons were so appalling in 1930, 1931 and 1932 that he sold everything off in bulk. Coffers were running dry, and George had no choice but to offload Troplong Mondot, as this estate would sell more quickly and for a higher sum than little-known Pomerol.

Vieux Château Certan survived the war relatively unscathed, its seven ancient wooden vats intact, though it had proven difficult to find sulfur or glass to bottle wartime vintages. Things picked up in the 1940s. He was convinced that his post-war vintages had immense potential and was moved to suggest that the 1945 was a modern-day 1929. The 1947 was precocious and almost too delicious despite challenges regulating fermentation temperatures during that Second Summer. However, austerity did not disappear once gunfire fell silent, and George’s company struggled to find buyers for either. Soon after, in 1948/1949, under the Marshall Plan, Georges introduced rudimentary mechanized tools, though horses and man continued to do most of the heavy work.

The 1956 vintage was little more than a salvage operation after February’s Arctic freeze imperiled the entire region. Pomerol seemed to take the brunt. Unprotected by the moderating waters of the Gironde, its clay soils clung to the coldness. He had witnessed countless snaps over the years, though never this deep or protracted. The air gnawed his bones; no matter how many layers of clothing he wore, the vines were exposed and defenseless. Once the mercury finally rose above zero, there was a gut-wrenching realization that most vines had perished. This brought on moments of despair. He had lost his beloved Joséphine just before Christmas in 1954, and now his estate was threatened.

George met Mme Loubat walking to church a couple of Sundays earlier as the sonorous chime of bells resounded across Pomerol…

“Monsieur Thienpont,” she cries, conspicuous in her signature plumed hat with an oversized brim, dressed as if visiting royalty rather than Capdequi, the local curé. “Have you cycled down from Belgium to see us?”

“Ha-ha. That was once during wartime,” he replies. “I’ve driven here to inspect the damage after the freeze.”

“It’s terrible, terrible,” she says, suddenly looking distraught.

“My vineyard manager estimates that around two-thirds have perished and have to be replanted,” Georges continues. “Hopefully, the surviving vines are sufficient in number to produce a few barrels in 1957 or 1958.”

“Replanting? I could not do that to my vines. I buried canes back into the earth,” she replies, making the sign of the cross across her chest. “With God’s providence, they will grow into new vines.”

Georges had heard of this technique known as provignage, but it carried immense risk since it might not propagate new growth, and essentially, you’re back at square one.

“Well, I wish you well. They’ll be no 1956 Vieux Château Certan, that’s for sure. I’ll know the chances of a 1957 or 1958 in a few days.”

Mme Loubat bids Georges Thienpont farewell. A few minutes later, with his vineyard manager, he is surveying his vines and assessing the damage. But if the vineyard can survive six years of war, then he is convinced that it will survive this.

Léon Thienpont, here pictured without his fedora, perhaps tasting the latest vintage of Vieux Château Certan.

1985

Léon Thienpont was in his twilight years. He married in 1951, which is not a memorable vintage, he recollects; a son, Alexandre, blessed their lives four years later. Though Léon was not the eldest of Georges’ children, and, despite initially training as a lawyer, he accompanied his parents on trips to Bordeaux. After his father’s passing in July 1962, he accepted responsibility for running the Pomerol estate and decided it would be more convenient to be based in Pomerol instead of Belgium. Three years later, he relocated his family to the renovated château that had been uninhabited for years. This meant he could be permanently on site and oversee its daily running with his winemaker, Armand Belivier.

It had not always been easy–what he would give for those magnificent vintages in the late Forties. After 1964, when they picked the Merlot before the heavens opened, a run of terrible seasons scuppered chances of wine remotely near what Léon desired. Rot had ravaged his vines in 1965 to the extent that he sold off the fruit. By this time, tractors were becoming mandatory, and like many estates, his last horse trotted off the following year, and the estate lost its equine charm. Yet mechanization is moot without a benevolent Mother Nature, and the 1968 vintage was hardly better. Matters were not helped when Belivier took his retirement, and his replacement, “Tony” Zucchi, had different tenets. Encouraged by Léon’s brother and co-owner Georges, quantity became the motto for success to make ends meet. Salesmen constantly knocked at his door, inveigling him or Zucchi with the latest chemical fertilizer or herbicide, promising these were the panacea to their troubles. Everyone else in Bordeaux was using them, so why not?

Dealing with innumerable relatives, each with their minority stake in the château, each with their expectations and degrees of realism, added to his workload. When did they trudge outside into driving rain or swelter under blistering sunshine? Were their hands calloused? A contretemps over pricing and distribution resulted in the entire 1972 crop being sold through Gilbey’s, the merchant owners of Château Loudenne; thereafter, the estate struggled in the red until the 1982 vintage.

At least Léon’s son, Alexandre, was ready to take over after learning the ropes at La Gaffelière. For a short time, he and his wife Thérèse rented a nearby timeworn abode owned by one of his nephews, Jacques, who, in his youth, often helped out at Vieux Château Certan. Having studied viticulture in Talence with his brother Luc, Jacques bought a small patch of land near the château from an elderly widow, Mme Loubie. This land included the house rented to Alexandre. He used the vacant space underneath to install vats and a handful of barrels. Of course, it could have been subsumed into Vieux Château Certan, but this was Jacques’ pet project. He named it after the pine tree outside, and after years of disinterest, Le Pin was starting to garner allure.

On this particular morning, Léon Thienpont is anxious about the freezing temperatures and fears a repeat of the disastrous winter of 1956. Newspapers reported that the Garonne almost froze over. Confined to his bed, he cannot go into the vineyard, which he finds immensely frustrating.

“Alexandre, Alexandre,” he calls from his bedroom as the clock chimes in the hallway.

Alexandre enters the room, and Léon beckons him closer.

“I’m worried about the vineyard,” he says. “It’s been bitterly cold recently. How are the vines?”

“No need to worry. I’ve just looked, and it seems they’re unscathed.”

He pauses to consider whether this is the right moment to bring up the subject.

“Perhaps this would be an opportune moment to replace the Malbec? It’s not a noble variety for Pomerol, and most has been pulled up.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I think we should also consider a Second label. Many châteaux are doing that nowadays instead of putting all fruit into their Grand Vin.”

“Well, good luck with that. I don’t think members of the Thienpont family will be happy seeing ‘money’ being snipped off vines for no reason.”

“We also need to update the winery. It’s not long ago that we were cramming as much fruit into the bastes [a local term for the container to carry bunches to the winery] as possible, some pickers squashing bunches before they’d even entered the winery. We still have to submerge the must simply by the weight of the stems. We have to move forward.”

“Again, it’s not so easy when so many voices want to be heard. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Léon Thienpont took his final breath soon after. Alexandre assumed full responsibility for Vieux Château Certan with the 1986 vintage in a winery that had hardly changed since the war. Not without protest from some family members, he set about implementing changes to bring their modus operandi in line with contemporary winemaking.

1999

It was only my second or third time that I had passed the sign, “Vous entrez dans la Commune de Pomerol,” confusingly planted outside Cheval Blanc. Geographical boundaries aside, the appellation had already cast its spell. I was intrigued by its wines and winemakers, who seemed to be cut from a different cloth than the rest of Bordeaux. No tailored suits and ties. No rarefied air that fomented the feeling of visiting royalty. Some Médoc proprietors had described themselves as “farmers,” but how many could actually steer a tractor? The Pomerolais seemed more in touch with the land. They came across as down-to-earth, literally and figuratively, plus most could drive a tractor.

I was chaperoning Japanese colleagues around the region and had become acquainted with the 44-year-old Alexandre Thienpont. Always congenial, his diction was hushed but rapid, sometimes his words tumbling over each other so that he almost sounded breathless. Having exchanged pleasantries, someone mentioned the previous day’s visit to a garagiste in Saint-Émilion. The movement was at its apogee, garnering high scores from the omnipotent Parker. The subject triggered something in Alexandre. He became animated and voluble…

It was just a fad. He questioned their motives. Was their raison d’être merely to gain points? Did these arrivistes really articulate their terroirs?

He was not the only one questioning the garagistes who created a stylistic fault line across the Right Bank. Vieux Château Certan was a bulwark of so-called “traditional” Bordeaux alongside kindred spirits like the late Denis Durantou and Jacques Guinaudeau.

Twenty years later, Bordeaux swung around to Alexandre Thienpont’s thinking. I aver that the garagistes served a useful and timely purpose in questioning Bordeaux's orthodoxy and immutable hierarchy. Still, over time, these wines vanished or morphed into something different. Bordeaux turned away from maximal low yields and late pickings, lacquered in toasty new oak or coveted decadence. Did any of those wines age like a post-war VCC?

In Etikhove, tasting vintages of VCC circa the millennium, Alexandre comments that he was trying to maintain authenticity in his wine. In subsequent correspondence, he remarks that he never felt alone during that period of “ephemeral recipes”. Alexandre was convinced he had his own story to tell, not the imprimatur of a hired consultant.

2011

It had been a frantic day. The clock was ticking. Under a slate grey sky, my photographer Johan and I ran around like March hares, foraging photographs with winemakers for my Pomerol tome whose submission deadline loomed. These were the final pieces of the jigsaw. The only feasible time to complete the task was when everyone was there, in other words, during harvest. The flip side is that everyone is remarkably busy. The last thing they needed was a pesky writer demanding to know the middle name of the chef de culture in 1912 or Michel Rolland’s inside leg measurement. However, failure to obtain these crucial images would capsize the book since its design mandates one photograph per chapter. It’s late afternoon. There’s not much time left.

We pull up outside Vieux Château Certan. Whenever I visit the property, I am reminded that this is a home as well as a place of work. Though modest in size, the chartreuse conveys a palpable sense of history, a reminder that this is one of Pomerol’s founding fathers, “vieux,” not only in name. The wisteria-clad façade adds to its character. The reception has a worn-in ambiance, an antique desk and bureau, and a mantelpiece with old black-and-white photographs. Its interior seems unchanged since the first time I visited.

“Alexandre isn’t here,” his secretary informs us. Her words make the VCC chapter implode in my mind.

“Where is he?” I ask. I pray that Alexandre is not surfing above the clouds in his glider. When Alexandre wants to escape, he does that literally.

“It’s the last day of picking, so he’s somewhere in the vineyard. Go and look for him if you want.”

Now, it might sound easy, spotting a winemaker amongst his vines, but it’s a bit like trying to spot a person lost at sea. It’s only then that you appreciate its expanse. Fortunately, Alexandre has a sartorial ritual that makes our task easier. During harvest, he dons a wide-brimmed hat. Perhaps he should stick a peacock’s feather in it like Mme Loubat? I see his signature chapeau bobbing up and down towards La Conseillante and feel guilty disturbing him at this crucial moment. Needs must. Thankfully, he gives his customary salutation, welcoming smile and his usual phlegmatic self. As we discuss the prospects for 2011 and whether it will live up to 2009 and 2010, Johan’s Leica fires away and takes the only image in the book of a winemaker picking fruit.

“Why don’t you go to the winery reception where they’re sorting?” Alexandre suggests. “Guillaume is there.”

“Guillaume?”

“My son. He’s joining me at VCC. It’s his first vintage.”

This news comes as a surprise, a pleasant one because the passing of a château from one generation to the next is rarely straightforward, a relay race where the baton can be dropped due to the Napoleonic Code and all its attendant intra-familial disputes. Thanks to his Thienpont’s penchant for large families, Georges Thienpont’s son George (no “s”!) fathering thirteen children, their family tree has more branches than the Black Forest. It, therefore, requires an anchor to make critical decisions, provide stability and chart the way forward. (Earlier that day, I had visited Catherine Moueix at Taillefer, expressing relief that her daughter Claire would eventually take over the estate since her husband Bernard, the nephew of Antoine Moueix, passed away in 1996.)

Thankfully, without similar tragic circumstances, I am certain that Alexandre must feel comfort in the fact that his own flesh and blood will navigate Vieux Château Certain in the future, just like Léon and Georges before him, once he decides to hang up his wide-brimmed hat. And Guillaume already seemed perfectly at ease manning the sorting table and directing his team of sorters. I guess I’ll be seeing him a lot more in the future.

Alexandre and Guillaume Thienpont pictured in the vat-room.

The Wines

After the tasting, Jacques Thienpont admits that he expected more “dead” bottles given their antiquity. Despite provenance, that is expected. Apart from a magnum of 1928 that ignominiously went straight down the sink, they had all shown well. That does not connote that every bottle was exemplary. There were instances where I encountered superior bottles in the past. Keep in mind that wines were manually bottled barrel-by-barrel, which ineluctably leads to variation. To reiterate, this was no beauty pageant designed to show Vieux Château Certan in the best possible light, but rather an accurate vinous record of a storied estate with all its highs and lows whose juxtaposition led to a more fascinating and truthful representation.

I purposely have not discussed the actual performance of the wines in this article. My tasting notes translate my sentiments, and I also provide additional background information regarding the growing season, picking dates or first-hand anecdotes within some of the notes. But it would be remiss of me not to make a few observations…

You’ll never see these two side-by-side again. On the left is the only pre-Thienpont bottle of Vieux Château Certan that I’ve seen. Like many bottles of that era, the label mentions awards, not least in Belgium, its core audience. The 1925 predates formal AC rule, so like many, Georges Thienpont declares it ‘1er Grand Cru’. It looks as if a typewriter was used to write the vintage.

Firstly, the astounding oldest vintages, 1923, 1925 and 1928, are a century old, yet unequivocally no fossils or curios. Aside from the decrepit 1926, these genuine time-buckling wines satisfied the senses. Perhaps most beguiling, the 1936 and 1940 that theoretically ought to be in the morgue long ago given antiquity and poor growing seasons. On the contrary, their historical context lent profundity, and they exceeded all our modest expectations.

Given the mythology built around these vintages, it seems scarcely believable that they struggled to sell during post-war austerity.

Venerated post-war vintages such as 1945 and 1947 were sensational and, to this end, as if these 57 vintages were insufficient, I have added notes taken at a fabulous dinner in Hong Kong last September. So, you have two entirely different takes on the 1947, 1948 and 1950 written six months and 5,000 miles apart.

With perfect scores raining like confetti these days, these immortals are what perfection really tastes like. Georges Thienpont oversaw a purple patch between 1945 and 1952 that ranks as one of the greatest succession of vintages of all time. In case you are wondering, Thienpont did produce a 1951. I spotted three or four dusty bottles while inspecting their cellar, and no, I didn’t steal one (honestly). This off-vintage was not poured, but we were treated to the 1946 Vieux Château Certan since it is Jacques Thienpont’s birth year. Suffice it to say that Jacques has aged far better than the wine, though it was still a privilege, not least as it was the last bottle. I doubt there’s any more out there.

Ever the objective critic, the 1950s could have shown better since I’ve encountered better examples of 1955 and 1959. I revised my estimation of the 1960s after Jordi Oriol Gils’ illuminating vertical in 2020, which proved Léon Thienpont oversaw great vintages like 1964 and 1966, not to mention the wonderful 1970 and 1971. They all attest to a very able winemaker, but for reasons explained, VCC struggled to reach anything close to its potential. Léon had to just muddle through with meager resources.

Alexandre Thienpont’s appointment is a pivotal moment and marks the beginning of its renaissance. It was a long-term process despite the 1988-1990 triumvirate. Purportedly, the 1986 vintage was plagued by poor-quality corks, and both bottles pulled out at the tasting showed signs of TCA. It took years to implement changes in the vineyard and update the winery, despite miserable seasons in the early 1990s, none presented here.

The first session, whose purview was from 2000 to 2020, demonstrates a wine gaining consistency, transcending growing season limitations instead of achieving them. Alexandre began minimizing spraying five or six times each season, whereas it could be up to 15 in the 1970s. He began taking risks, for example, refusing to expedite picking in 2006 after 100mm of rain during harvest, hedging his bets that clement weather would allow the fruit to ripen fully, resulting in one of the most successful Right Bank wines of that year (see tasting note for details). This run of vintages culminates in the spectacular 2020 Vieux Château Certan that, even within the context of Everest-like peaks, represents one of this vertical’s high points. This is partly due to Guillaume Thienpont joining his father and giving the estate fresh impetus. “[Guillaume] brought his knowledge of the latest research acquired during his studies in the 2000s,” Alexandre explained. “For example, more details about intra-plot [viticulture and harvesting] and from 2014, using geolocation technology to identify the precocity of grape maturity. Also, building an oenological analysis laboratory and acquiring a complete bottling line that allows complete autonomy, a great luxury for such a small property.”

Final Thoughts

This article had to justify the magnitude of this tasting. Therefore, instead of trotting out tasting notes and ready-known facts, I resolved to research and write a piece befitting the occasion. In dramatizing episodes, I aim to convey that this story is about a family as much as a château. Using artistic license, I imagined situations and conversations. However, they are rooted in historical detail, some of which have never previously come to light. Several are inspired by anecdotes that Léon Thienpont once told Alexandre, a reminder that the numerous missing reels of Pomerol’s history can often only be filled in by personal memories handed down from one generation to the next. To this end, I am grateful to the Thienpont family for putting up with my persistent questioning and requests for clarification.

Taken after the vertical, it was not easy shepherding all family members to pose with the bottles. From left to right: Alexandre and Jacques Thienpont, 57 empty bottles of VCC, Fiona Morrison MW, Alexandre Thienpont, their nephew who helps run the business, and Georges Thienpont, one of Jacques and Fiona’s two sons currently making wine in Australia and due to return to Bordeaux for the 2025 harvest. Alexandre and Georges both did an impeccable job as sommeliers.

Perhaps the most intriguing revelation is Georges Thienpont’s wife, Joséphine, concerning her instigating Vieux Château Certan’s acquisition. Did her husband already have an eye on the estate through business dealings? Was it her expressed wish that motivated negotiations? Whatever her role, it is another woman to add to the matriarchs that shaped Pomerol both historically (Cathérine Conseillan, Mme Loubat, Marie and Thérèse Robin at Lafleur) and the present day (Dany Rolland, Julie Guinaudeau and Noëmie Durantou at l’Église-Clinet.) Consider VCC’s neighbours: Marielle Cazaux at La Conseillante; Juliette Couderc/Saskia de Rothschild at l’Évangile. Joséphine Belliet’s name appeared for the first time during this tasting, yet would we have gathered to celebrate a century of ownership without her?

Was it her idea about the pink capsule?

We will never know. I’d like to think so.

Georges Thienpont really did make that dangerous cycle ride through occupied France for the reasons stated in my fictitious exchange with the German soldier. The heart of the vineyard is indeed made of parcels of old vines planted in 1942/1943, the oldest dating back to 1932. The vineyard managers mentioned were real people and, to repeat a point made in my Clos des Lambrays piece, these men and women are oft-forgotten and omitted from wine literature, even though we drink and praise the fruits of their labor.

Perhaps the figure I learned the most about is Léon Thienpont, who made the wines between 1962 and 1984, often seen in his signature fedora. His tenure coincided with a challenging period, like many, disadvantaged by an outmoded winery, an indifferent market and low prices that stymied reinvestment. You could argue that he picked a chronological short straw that besmirches Léon’s reputation. To quote one who regularly dealt with him, those who knew him speak highly of the man: honorable, hard-working and with wry humor. At least his son could take over with more benevolent seasons and the fortitude to implement changes, some to the chagrin of shareholders, captaining a renaissance that ultimately led to recent magnificent wines.

Fiona Morrison MW provided booklets for attendees with images and background details of the growing seasons for every vintage tasted.

One participant made a perspicacious remark…Many Bordeaux wines impose their style upon the drinker. VCC leaves itself open to interpretation. I reflected on that comment. It is analogous to standing back and admiring a Monet or Magritte, hitting the pause button to form your impression. What does it mean to you? With respect to VCC, I feel this derives from its propitious terroir and the alchemical interplay of grape varieties, such as Merlot, Cabernet Franc and Cabernet Sauvignon. Come the new vintage, more than others, you never quite know what you will find; fundamentally, it is a Manichean question whether it is a “Merlot” or a “Cabernet” VCC. This predicates how it will evolve. Quality notwithstanding, VCC’s trajectory is always fascinating to follow. Essentially, it’s a wine that puts its heart on its sleeve, a virtue elucidated by this vertical. It has never tried to mimic others. It underlies stylistic continuity throughout the decades, leaving the season and the composition of grape varieties to create the panoply of individual wines.

The Eurostar back to London offered further time for thought. Yes, it had galvanized my appreciation for Vieux Château Certan, not in banal terms of points or even intrinsic quality, but rather a wine with the preternatural duty to articulate its terroir.

Every bottle had something to say.

VCC is always poetry, never prose.

© 2024, Vinous. No portion of this article may be copied, shared or re-distributed without prior consent from Vinous. Doing so is not only a violation of our copyright, but also threatens the survival of independent wine criticism.

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