'95 Points - Phillip White

Now I reckon I know it, pretty much inside-out, I can recommend this majestic wonder as a perfect wine to drink alone, especially if you have a good window to gaze through. Treat yourself to a bottle, pick the right time of day, and savour one slow glass per day until the job is done. It's transporting, but also capable of great reassurance and contentment in where you already sit. Away back at the beginning, I thought it was one of the most approachable Roennfeldts ever. It was stunning from the start. It was never hot, but it had the tantalising warmth of the steaming Christmas pudding in its linen sack, coming out of the wood-fired oven. Sometimes it seemed a bit short. But its viscous syrup grew in a slow wave. It gradually grew more Cabernet like, with tweaks of black tea and roast basil leaves. It also grew more fruitcake than pudding, with raisins, fruit mince, soft-soaked brazil nuts and walnuts. Ginger. It was doughy, like almond meal. It always seemed riper than that alcohol number indicated. And now the bottle's done, it leaves me teased about whether or not it would have been better with company. I'm not fretting, mind you. Permit me an indulgence. I wrote this for one of the writers I respect the most, having found again a book he'd done that I'd lost for years in storage. It had been a gift from that most erudite of readers, Tony Brady of Wendouree. I can think of no better summary of how this past week, in the company of this bottle, has made me feel.