Standing atop Table Mountain this past weekend, I found myself constantly adjusting between wearing a sweater and taking it off as the clouds rolled in and lifted again, shifting the temperature throughout the day. That simple act of adapting to the mountain’s changing conditions sparked a conversation that inevitably turned toward the influence of terroir. It is a term that resists neat translation into English, because it encompasses far more than just soil, terrain, and climate. Terroir also embodies the cultural, social, and human elements that shape how wine is grown, made, and ultimately experienced.
We were fortunate to be able to demonstrate this concept in a vivid and tangible way to consumers right there on the mountain. Two Sauvignon Blancs were poured: one from Noordhoek, a cool coastal climate, and another from Sutherland, a cool inland climate. Both wines carried the same cultivar name, yet they might as well have been different varieties altogether. The contrast was striking. The average temperature between the two regions differs by only about two degrees Celsius, so the question naturally arose: why are the wines so different? The answer lies in the broader dimensions of terroir, those cultural and sociological influences that English lacks a single word to capture.
For decades, winemakers were famously secretive about their methods. Recipes, cellar practices, and blending decisions were guarded closely, as if the mystery itself was part of the magic. In recent years, however, there has been a welcome shift. Many winemakers are increasingly open to sharing their techniques with younger colleagues, recognizing that transparency strengthens the industry rather than weakens it. Yet even with this openness, one truth remains, you can be shown every detail of how a wine is made, from fermentation temperatures to barrel regimes, and still, if you make it yourself, it will turn out differently.
This difference is not simply technical. Grapes harvested from the same block, vinified with the same equipment, and guided through the same process will still yield wines that reflect the hand of the winemaker. The individuality of the team, the cultural background, the lived experiences, and the philosophy of the person in charge all leave an imprint on the wine. In this way, terroir is not only about the land and the climate but also about the people who interpret and express it.
Wine is shaped by the choices of the winemakers, the traditions they draw upon, and the communities they serve. One day winemaking might finally be fully integrated into integrated food production systems with gleaming production lines running unending under spotlights, but for now the hand of the makers still leaves a strong imprints on the wine being made, sometimes to the irritation of multinational retailers.
This is why terroir remains such a powerful, if elusive, concept. It reminds us that wine is not a product manufactured to specification but a living expression of place and people. The soil and climate provide the canvas, but the brushstrokes belong to the winemaker and the community around them. To taste a wine is to engage with this layered narrative, to experience geography, climate, culture, and human intention all at once.
Standing on Table Mountain, with the city spread out below and the ocean stretching beyond, the lesson felt immediate and visceral.
That is the enduring beauty of terroir: it is never just about the vineyard. It is about the people who walk it, the traditions they inherit, the innovations they pursue, and the way they choose to express all of this in the glass. To understand terroir is to recognize that wine is both nature and culture, both earth and human spirit. And to taste it, whether on a mountain or at a table (or Table Mountain), is to be reminded that every bottle carries far more than grapes, it carries a world in a bottle.
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