The end of isolation in the early 1990s suffused the Cape wine industry with a spirit of optimism. The dead hand of the old KWV, which for three quarters of a century had determined where vineyards could be planted, finally yielded its statutory authority. A plethora of new appellations began to emerge: Elim, Sutherland, Plettenberg Bay and KwaZulu-Natal (to name but a few) were now places where grapes could be grown and wine (legally) made, each claiming (briefly) to be the vanguard.
When the dust of the new frontier finally settled it revealed a place little more than an hour’s drive from the Mother City. Van Riebeeck called it “Het Zwarte Land”. We know it as the Swartland — a warm and arid landscape richly endowed with older vineyards owned by resilient farmers who survived more on a mixed agricultural model than by viticulture alone. Many of the sites were inaccessible. Young winemakers imbued with the optimism which defined the SA of 1994 were able to lease the best of these blocks and create wines that expressed their new aesthetic.
They were first identified as the frontiersmen (and women) — which was how they had always seen themselves — by an event launched in 2010 and hosted in various formats until 2015: the Swartland Revolution. It was a celebration of their survival against the odds, of the excitement of discovering how far they had come in so little time, of the power of the gravitational pull that brought them (and kept them) together, coupled with the madness of youth, and the endorphin high of success.
Of course it was unsustainable in its original form: revolutionaries grow up, they have mortgages to pay, children to bring up, communities to support. In 2015 they wisely called an end to the once-a-year weekend at which followers could meet their Che Guevaras, and drink their particular brand of Kool-Aid before returning to their sedate lives, satiated but reaffirmed. Many sober voices said that any attempt to reignite a flame fuelled by the kindling of another era was doomed.
But madness is in their blood and they decided to give it one more go. To the surprise of the many naysayers, the Swartland Revolution of 2025 turned out to be bigger and better than anything that had come before. Set in the shadow of the Paardeberg, hosted under a vast Bedouin tent, surrounded by hundreds of hay bales (“We’re in the middle of a giant tinderbox,” announced Adi Badenhorst cheerfully to the assembled guests), with a village of tents for those who chose glamping instead of the 25-minute drive from Riebeek-Kasteel, it was wonderful and wild, supercharged with the energy that comes from discovering that what binds them together is vastly more powerful than the differences that define their individuality.
The wines are better, the knowledge of their sites more nuanced, the world of wine better understood. All the revolutionaries are more financially stable. Eben Sadie has just completed the construction of a winery that would not be out of place in Tuscany or Bordeaux. Badenhorst owns many of the vineyards he originally leased. Chris and Andrea Mullineux, proprietors now of Roundstone, have an international partnership that reaches into some of the world’s most exclusive establishments. Marc Kent and Callie Louw have transformed Porseleinberg from a bleak hilltop site to the country’s most important source of high-end shiraz.
What struck me most, however, this time round was the sense of certainty: that they have travelled enough of the route to believe in the destination. They are not competing with anywhere else, and they avoid comparisons — with each other and with the wider world of wine. In that sense they are the frontiersmen who set out across mountains and deserts not knowing what lay ahead. Much to their surprise they happened upon El Dorado, where what they hoped for (but never quite believed would happen) is the place they have arrived at, and they are still not quite accustomed to the feeling.
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