There are parts of Jumilla that resemble nothing so much as a moonscape. Tread into the powdery soil and you leave a print like Neil Armstrong’s. There are myriad different soils in this arid corner of Spain, from sandy loams, silt and clay to marl and hard limestone but the abiding impression is one of whiteness: white stones on pale ground reflecting the cold white glare of an April sun.
Jumilla lies in the province of Murcia in eastern Spain, about 100km inland from Alicante and the Mediterranean coast. Rainfall here is minimal – about 300mm a year – and in the high parts of the appellation, summer temperatures are desert-like, plummeting from 30°C at midday to a chilly 5°C at night.
It doesn’t look like promising agricultural land. ‘They used to say, “if you’re born here and you want to do anything with your life, go away and stay away. Never come back”,’ Juanjo Cerdán says with a smile.
Cerdán and his brother Carlos run the celebrated Bodega Cerrón in the town of Fuente Alamo. The brothers, who were born here, took the advice of their elders and left to pursue business careers in Brussels and elsewhere. But in 2011 they decided to come back, in part because they were incensed at the absurdity of EU regulations that rewarded the grubbing up of old Monastrell vineyards. ‘It’s like taking the roof off a church. It’s crazy.’
They now farm 45ha of own-rooted Monastrell vines dating from 1911 and 1967; they also buy up former vineyards to replant them with cuttings (massal selections) of their vines. ‘We know where the best vineyards were,’ Cerdán says. They have bought seven hectares so far.
There is much that is rare and precious in the Jumilla terroirs
Cerron’s award-winning reds – delicate, intense, with lifted cherry fruit and fine acidity – have played a major part in the surge of interest in the old Monastrell of Jumilla. They are part of a cohort dedicated to preserving a vine-growing heritage that goes back centuries that is transforming the image of Monastrell, from ripe, rustic wines high in alcohol to one of elegance and structure.
The uniqueness of old-vine Monastrell is what has brought the Old Vine Conference (OVC) and a group of international journalists and educators down here. The aim of the OVC, a non-profit organisation founded in 2021, is to preserve old vines, to deepen our understanding of how they survive and – crucially – to safeguard the agricultural, social and economic ecosystem in which they thrive. ‘To preserve our culture and our way of life,’ as Cerdán puts it.
There is much that is rare and precious in the Jumilla terroirs. The diverse soils have common characteristics that allow them to preserve water. The top layer of white stone, for example, reflects heat, allowing the layers below to retain moisture and coolness, much like an earthenware jar will keep water cool. Old Monastrell vines are highly adapted to this terroir. Phylloxera can’t live in these soils, so there are about 800ha of what are called ‘pie franco’ or own-rooted, ungrafted vines, many over 100 years old. They send down deep roots – an 80-year-old bush-grown vine might go down nine metres. Studies show how efficient the tendrils of old vines are at finding moisture. ‘They explore the soils’ says soil consultant Dr Joaquin Cámara. By contrast, trellised vines on grafted American rootstock will be shallower, and while they will produce more grapes, these won’t have the intensity of a deeper-rooted vine.
The vines at Hoya de Santa Ana are survivors in a desert land
At Bodegas Olivares in the north-west corner of the appellation, 100-year-old Monastrell grows at altitudes of 850m. Temperatures here can be dramatic. The finca’s highest vineyard is Hoya de Santa Ana, where there can be summer drops of 25°C between night and day. In early October 2020, they recorded 30°C at midday and zero at sunrise. ‘These are desert temperatures,’ Cámara notes. This terroir means extremely long ripening and the slow accumulation of sugars without losing acidity.
The sweet wines of Olivares are celebrated. Dubbed the Sauternes of Jumilla, they are a seductive yin and yang of intense sweetness and spicy, bitter acidity, with aromas of figs, quince and ginger and textures of rock salt, wet stone and leather. The parched landscape, baking days and cold nights, heat and cold, shows in the wine. ‘The vines are ungrafted so they have no influence of any other place. This is wine from here,’ export director Ana María Martínez says.
Hoya de Santa Ana gives a sense of both fragility and hardiness. The vines are fat-boled, the bark flaking off gnarled trunks. They are survivors in a desert land, perfectly adapted to the Jurassic soils (in the tasting room at Olivares, there’s a perfect ammonite as big as a scooter wheel, 60 million years old).
But as in so many ancient wine regions, they are under threat. The Jumilla vine economy depends on a multitude of smallholders: about 1,500 growers supplying 38 wineries. The major producer Juan Gil, for example, owns 80ha but buys grapes from another 300ha; CVNE of Rioja produces its Parcela Particiones (a clarete, a Monastrell-Airén red-white blend) from a 65-year-old plot whose owner is about to retire.
Lack of generational replacement – children unable or unwilling to take on their parents’ vines – is just one of the threats the OVC lists. Old vineyards have extremely low yields – less than 1,500kg per hectare on average (tiny compared to Rioja, say, where 5,000kg is the permitted maximum); they must be hand-picked, which is expensive, and labour is scarce.
Then there are all the other ways to make money from the land. Mechanised crops like almonds and olives are far less labour-intensive, as are table grapes, lettuce and broccoli, which demand intensive irrigation and use of fertiliser; solar panels are increasing (Jumilla gets 3,000 hours of sunlight per year). Carolina Martínez of the Jumilla consejo cites examples of vineyards being uprooted as their owners retire and find leasing the land for solar panels more profitable.
‘We are losing vines at the rate of about 400 hectares every year,’ Martínez says. It’s estimated that between 2001 and 2023, Jumilla vineland has been reduced by more than half, from 45,000 to 21,000 hectares. As Sarah Abbott MW, founder of the OVC puts it, ‘we’re sitting on a gold mine and it’s going to be stolen from under our feet.’
There is increasing understanding of the importance of old vines
But there’s palpable optimism nevertheless. Monastrell, which makes up 75% of the total vineyard, is recognised as the principal grape of Jumilla (Tempranillo and international varieties such as Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah haven’t gained a foothold here). There is increasing understanding of the importance of old vines, thanks in large part to the efforts of organisations like the OVC. The terms ‘viña vieja’ and ‘pie franco’ will soon be protected and the appellation is working to further differentiate old, dry farmed and traditional bush vines. ‘We are making progress,’ Martínez says. ‘Are we optimistic? Absolutely we are.’
Others agree. ‘We need to reflect, and protect what we have,’ says Juanjo Cerdán. ‘Twenty years ago, they said wind farms were the future. Now they say it’s solar panels. It’s not: the future is agriculture.’
