ByKerry Walker
Photographs ByDaniel Alford
Published December 6, 2023
• 20 min read
I hold up a glass of rosé the colour of the setting sun. It’s summer in a glass, with fresh strawberries on the nose and ripe fruit in every fizzy sip. Vines roll into the distance, bees hum drowsily, the hills look parched. As I sit on the terrace at White Castle Vineyard in Monmouthshire on a scorching June day, it feels like I could be in the South of France. It seems to me the least Welsh of settings.
But there’s no mistaking the lilt of owner Robb Merchant, who hops breathlessly off his tractor to give me a spin of one of Wales’s most progressive wineries. “Not a bad day,” he grins, wiping his brow. “It was even hotter last year. We had the challenge of sunburnt grapes.”
In 1995, Robb, a retired postal worker, born four miles over the hill, and his wife, Nicola, a former nurse, bought the 12-acre small holding on the Welsh-English border, naming it after a nearby medieval fortress. “Nicola had always dreamed of a vineyard. I managed to put her off for 13 years, but she got her way in the end,” laughs Robb. “In 2008, we planted our first 4,000 vines: rondo, regent, seyval blanc, phoenix and early ripening pinot noir précoce, the world’s most difficult grape.”
Red grapes? In Wales? “Yep, we’re pretty unusual in the fact that 75% of our wine is red,” admits Robb. Welsh wine has undergone a huge image change over the past decade, with around 40 vineyards now popping corks on thoroughly decent drops. But red is still virtually unheard of. You need sun for that, surely?
“You do,” says Robb, peering up at the flawless blue sky. “We’re in a nice bowl that generates heat and is protected from westerlies.” Robb and Nicola went into winemaking with all guns blazing: hand-harvesting grapes, ageing in oak barrels, studying viticulture at college. Their gamble paid off. In 2021, they shocked old-world wine connoisseurs when they won gold at the Decanter World Wine Awards with their pinot noir reserve.
“It was a first for us and for Wales,” says Robb, proudly. The awards keep coming: in 2023, their pinot noir précoce reserve picked up gold at the WineGB Awards. I try a glass. I’ve been told it’s good, but still, what a surprise: it’s deliciously full bodied, with velvety tannins and aromas of blackberry and smoky vanilla that ripen on the palate. But at £32 a bottle, it doesn’t come cheap. Robb gives a wry smile. “People think Welsh wine ought to be cheap, but why should it be when it’s being compared to burgundies in blind tastings — and winning.” Fair point.
Swinging south along narrow hedgerowed lanes fringing the Black Mountains, my GPS draws a blank. I pull over to check directions. The heat is mounting to 30C and even the sheep look hot and bothered, huddling in the shade of great oaks. Ahead, the distinctive volcano-like peak of Sugar Loaf looms on the horizon.
Entering the cool confines of The Hardwick is sweet relief. Hazy light, like something from an Old Master painting, slants into the rustic space, bouncing off crooked beams and bare wood tables.
Ask any food critic to recommend a Welsh gastropub and there’s a good chance they’ll send you here. At the helm is Stephen Terry, whose easygoing nature belies his plaudits: he learned the ropes from Marco Pierre White at Harveys, then, at the age of 25, led The Canteen in Chelsea Harbour to a Michelin star, before heading up Monmouthshire’s Michelin-starred The Walnut Tree. Together with Shaun Hill, his successor at The Walnut Tree, Terry has properly put Abergavenny on the culinary map.
The food here at The Hardwick sings gustily of Wales and nods to the clean, bright flavours of the Mediterranean, with dishes such as gloriously smoky chargrilled Wye Valley asparagus with a silky swirl of Black Mountain salmon, capers and Amalfi lemon, and slow-cooked Brecon lamb shoulder with lamb ragu, crispy lamb belly, deep-fried polenta, braised greens, black olive tapenade and salsa verde.
“I like to use local where possible,” says Stephen, modestly, as he brings me a knockout raspberry bakewell tart with blackcurrant and vanilla ice cream. “Local venison, Brecon lamb and Welsh beef are excellent. We get our monk’s beard from a local forager and our bass from a chap who fishes for it in the Severn Estuary. There’s so much, food-wise, in these borderlands.”
But why so remote? Stephen shrugs. “Because it’s a nicer place to have a bad day,” he grins. “There’s none of the stress. On my day off, I can walk my dog up at Sugar Loaf and watch the sun go down over the hills.” Which is exactly what I do later — until, eventually, the hot day fizzles out into a star-spangled night.
Holy smoke
The next day I head west along the A40, tailgating a tractor. But I’m in no rush: the weather is glorious, as are the views as I drive deeper into Bannau Brycheiniog National Park. Astride the River Usk, Crickhowell is a heart-warming glimpse of a bygone era, with its Georgian high street, trails that clamber into patchwork-quilted hills and a nearly 600-year-old pub, The Bear, weighed down by hanging baskets. My destination is the Black Mountains Smokery, just outside of the town, and, when I arrive, I’m greeted by the smell of wood smoke.
The smokery was set up in 1996 by Jo and Jonathan Carthew, who, after 10 years of living in Botswana, decided to fulfil their dream of moving to rural Wales, where Jo had spent many happy childhood holidays. “Our beautiful, lean salmon are smoked over Welsh oak,” explains Jo, as we peek at glossy fillets arrayed in a traditional kiln, adding, “We use shavings from a local cabinet maker.” Besides salmon, the duo also smoke duck, chicken, trout, haddock and sea bass, as well as pork-leek-chilli Welsh dragon sausages from the butcher in Crickhowell.
Having skipped breakfast, I’m ready for a tasting of the cold-smoked salmon, which is sweet, oaky and melts in the mouth. Treacly and succulent, the hot-smoked salmon is even better — I could eat it forever. On my way out, I’m side-tracked by the deli shop, where I briefly eye up smoked fish pâtés, local cheeses, honeys and charcuterie… but I also need coffee.
Fortunately, coffee is what Rhys Iley lives and dreams. His 17th-century country pile in the hills near Brecon was once home to Welsh metaphysical poet Henry Vaughan, and looks ripe for a bodice-ripping period drama, with flowers running riot and mood-lifting mountain views.
“Vaughan saw God in nature,” smiles Rhys, bubbling with enthusiasm as he ushers me across the courtyard to his restored coach house roastery, Cribyn Coffee Company, and soon-to-be visitor centre.
Rhys sees God in beans. Most notably, single-origin beans from an ethically minded family farm in Brazil, from where 95% of his coffee hails. His roastery has only been up and running for 18 months, but Rhys has honed his taste for coffee over decades, including six years as EMEA retail and operations vice president at Starbucks. “All the pretension around coffee does my head in,” confesses Rhys. “I’m not a hipster. I don’t have tattoos or a beard. I don’t make coffee in test tubes. I just want to bring people together over great coffee.”
As his shiny Probat roaster begins its chorus of popping, and the toasted, nutty smell of coffee fills the air, he hands me a cup of his signature Coach House No. 1, a caramelly brew with deep chocolatey notes and a touch of mandarin. I tell Rhys I normally never drink coffee without milk, but that this is a very welcome exception. He seems pleased. As I push on to lunch, Pen y Fan and its sidekicks, Cribyn and Corn Du, offer distractingly lovely views, swooping above a chequerboard of green-gold fields.
The Felin Fach Griffin is as perfect as any country inn you can imagine, with an atmosphere as warm as a mother’s hug, low beams, an inglenook fireplace and wildflowers on barley-twist tables. Gwenann Davies has just seized the apron strings as head chef when I visit. Previously senior sous chef at Lush by Tom Kerridge, she found the tug of Wales too strong and returned home, bringing talent and imagination to an already thriving kitchen.
She’s out to impress. The brown crab rarebit on sourdough is rich and satisfying, offset nicely by the sharpness of charred lemon and sweetness of honey. Mains are outstanding, too. The summery pearl barley risotto has proper bite and is sticky with local heritage beetroot and creamy Perl Las cheese. Butter-soft, caramelised braised lamb, which tastes profoundly of these hills, comes with roasted new potatoes, wild garlic and Tenderstem broccoli. Pert rhubarb from the garden appears al dente in a puff with chantilly cream and strawberry sorbet.
Into the woods
Eating great food is all very well, but finding it in the wild deepens an understanding of place. And if anybody knows the hedgerows of the Bannau Brycheiniog National Park, it’s Adele Nozedar, who I meet in a layby in Cantref. A softly spoken lady in gold trainers and a tulip-print skirt, she has the aura of a mystic and the litheness of a sprite. Raised in Hull and formerly a singer in 1980s synth-pop band Indians in Moscow, Adele has long felt at home foraging in these hills and has authored books on the subject.
“Here, taste this,” she says, eyes sparkling, handing me a weed. “It’s greater plantain. It grows everywhere. Spit, rub it and what are you getting?” Mushrooms, I venture. “Spot on,” she says, delighted. “Add a few leaves to a risotto for a truffle-like flavour.”
I follow her deep into broad-leaf woods flecked with ferns and buttercups, fairy-like in the dappled June morning light. The crystal-clear Nant Menasgin stream rushes by. Every few metres, there’s something else edible: pungent wild garlic seeds that pop on the tongue; mustardy hairy bittercress; jack-by-the-hedge with a horseradish kick; and herb bennet, whose clove-like taste can spice up a Christmas cake, apparently.
“Covid taught us to stop and smell the daisies. We need to keep doing that,” says Adele, as we spread a blanket under the branches of a huge lime tree in the churchyard of St Brynach’s in Llanfrynach. She unpacks her basket of jars filled with spices, herbs and locally foraged botanicals, then cracks open a bottle of the small-batch gin she’s made in collaboration with the Gower Gin Company. “Go ahead,” she smiles. “Choose three.” With the excitement of a little girl making magic potions, I add a blend of elderflower, lemon verbena and nigella, bottling a taste of the Bannau Brycheiniog.
After a nature-immersed morning with Adele, I can’t resist briefly stopping in Defynnog, a short pootle west along single-track lanes. Here, in an overgrown churchyard, stands a 5,000-year-old yew, one of Britain’s oldest trees. There are no crowds or hype: you can touch its near-fossilised branches, climb right into its hollow and ponder the mysteries of our ancient ancestors.
Next, I head around the corner for lunch at the International Welsh Rarebit Centre. Sometimes it takes fresh eyes to see potential. And so it was with Roos Geraedts, who pulled a rabbit out of a hat when she took on a dilapidated schoolhouse in 2017. Where others saw rising damp, Roos saw the distant glow of rarebit heaven. She limed the stone walls, sanded the old school benches and turned up the cultural scene in Defynnog overnight with this cafe-gallery that hosts music sessions, feast nights and art events.“
Welsh rarebit is the ultimate cheese on toast: creamier, way more moreish and more comforting,” enthuses Roos, whose Dutch nationality accounts for the ‘international’ bit in the name. “I wanted to revive and reinvent it. Nowhere else can you eat a Spanish chorizo rarebit or a peppery Patagonian version with jalapeños, cumin and lime.”
The blackboard menu is school dinner fantasy stuff. I could eat the lot, but the rarebit with wild garlic is a done deal. As Roos bustles from kitchen to table, I browse vintage posters explaining the origins and etymology of Welsh rarebit. The name — originally ‘Welsh rabbit’ — plays on the fact that meat was once an unaffordable luxury. Cheese, however, was plentiful. In his 1725 private journal and literary remains, poet and inventor John Byrom wrote: ‘I did not eat of cold beef, but of Welsh rabbit and stewed cheese.’
Outside, rain begins to give the mountains a good thumping — the South of France spell has finally broken. But it doesn’t matter, because just then my rarebit arrives like a golden prayer: an inch-high doorstop of toasted bread holding aloft a topping that’s silken and intensely cheddary, with a warming hit of wild garlic and a perky garden salad fresh as the morning dew. It’s all very, very Welsh.
Three local Welsh dishes to try
1. The Walnut Tree
Shaun Hill has been shaking the pans for the past 15 years at this rustic, Michelin-starred dream of a country inn, right at the foot of the Skirrid. The menu plays up seasonal Welsh produce in deceptively simple dishes, but don’t be fooled: Shaun’s talent dazzles with the likes of twice-baked cheese with Welsh truffle, and filet and hash of beef with quail’s egg and butter-soft Pembrokeshire early potatoes.
2. Hills
This small, family-run restaurant celebrates all things burger. Owners Owain and Emily Hill turned a campsite into a food hotspot, championing local produce in towering sensations like slow-cooked lamb burger with feta, sundried tomatoes and tzatziki served alongside fries (try the truffle-butter ones with crispy onions and parmesan). They pair well with the Welsh booze on offer, from Aber Falls gin to Tiny Rebel craft brews.
3. Welsh Venison Centre
Located at Middlewood Farm, near Crickhowell, this is a cracking place to stop for succulent venison burgers topped with Welsh cheddar and melt-in-the-mouth venison chilli. Nip into the farm shop for farm-reared meat and deli treats, from Black Mountain Roast coffee to Talybont apple juice, Blaenavon cheddar and locally milled Talgarth flour.
Where to stay
The Bear in Crickhowell oozes history with every creaking beam. Rooms are elegantly old-school. The kitchen sources vegetables from local organic gardens, meat from the nearby butcher and salmon from Black Mountains Smokery. The highlight of the Sunday roast is the slow-cooked Welsh lamb served with mint sauce, roasted roots and cauliflower cheese. Doubles from £142, B&B. bearhotel.co.uk
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