Part 1. Bordeaux
Chapter 3
The Seventeenth Century—Bordeaux Reaches England
Introduction
“…a very good and most particular taste that I never met with”
— Samuel Pepys, 1663
The elderly Lord B—t was taking a leisurely walk through the carefully maintained park surrounding his estate, Blackwood Hall, in southern England.
A gentle breeze from the Channel brushed against his weathered face. His eyes, which had seen many countries and many people over the course of a long life, were half-closed.
Behind him lay decades of fascinating experiences, a lifelong passion for wine and everything connected with it. He took pride not only in his extensive wine collection but also in an assortment of historical artifacts gathered over many decades.
Suddenly, he felt the familiar urge to descend once more into his cellar—his favorite place in the vast house. He enjoyed wandering among the shelves and cabinets packed with objects and relics, each one carrying a story he could happily recount for hours.
This time he approached one particular box, lifted it carefully, and placed it on his worktable.
From it he gently removed two old objects:
► a yellowed sheet of paper—a bill from the London tavern Pontack’s Head dating from the late seventeenth century;
► a copy of Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica, published in 1687 and written by the great Sir Isaac Newton. It was in this work that the famous English physicist first formulated the laws of motion and universal gravitation.
Why were these two historical artefacts stored together in the same box?
There was a good reason.
And that is the story we are about to tell.
— 🍇 —
England and Bordeaux Wine: The Market That Changed a Region
By the seventeenth century, the fate of Bordeaux wines had already been closely tied to England for several centuries.
The relationship had begun nearly five hundred years earlier, in 1152, when Eleanor of Aquitaine married the future King Henry II of England. Aquitaine came under English rule, and Bordeaux gained direct access to the English market.
Even after the end of the Hundred Years’ War in 1453, when Bordeaux finally returned to French control, the trade did not disappear. England remained the principal buyer of Bordeaux wine, receiving a substantial share of the region’s exports—by some estimates, as much as two-thirds of the total volume.
Ships regularly departed from the mouth of the Garonne for London, Bristol, and other English ports. Large casks of roughly 225 liters—barriques—were loaded directly along the quays of Bordeaux.
For many winegrowers in the region, the English market was their primary source of income, and it was England that largely dictated the style of the wines they produced.
Medieval wine trade between Bordeaux and England revolved around the so-called claret wines—light-colored red wines that were easy to drink and intended for immediate consumption rather than long ageing.
They were consumed young, travelled poorly over long river and sea journeys, and almost never possessed an individual identity or specific origin. To English buyers, they were simply “Bordeaux wine” or “claret,” not wine from any particular estate.
💡 Medieval and early Bordeaux wines were known in England as claret, from the French vin clairet (“light wine”). Their colour was much paler than that of modern Bordeaux. The reason was simple: grape skins remained in contact with the juice for a far shorter period than they do today. As a result, the wines contained fewer tannins, less concentration, lighter structure, and considerably less colour. They were intended to be consumed within a year, both to make room for the next harvest and because after twelve months they often became barely drinkable. These wines were made for rapid turnover rather than long maturation.
Yields were often high, quality control limited, and grape varieties mixed together. Vineyards were rarely planted with a single variety. Different grapes typically grew side by side—early-ripening and late-ripening, red and sometimes white, hardy and delicate, each contributing different aromas and characteristics. All were usually fermented together.
The principal factor shaping the style of the wine was not the grapes themselves but the realities of transport and trade.
England was Bordeaux’s largest market. The wine had to survive shipment along rivers and across the ocean before reaching London—usually within ten to eighteen days under favourable conditions, though delays could extend the journey to three or four weeks.
Throughout that time the wine continued to evolve in the cask. Under such circumstances, distinguishing between different terroirs made little commercial sense. The priority was simply to deliver the shipment as quickly as possible.
Once it arrived, the wine was sold rapidly and at relatively modest prices.
…Bordeaux, Port of the Garonne: How Claret Sailed to England
An ordinary autumn day in Bordeaux in the middle of the seventeenth century.
The quays along the Garonne have been bustling since early morning. From the narrow streets of the old city, carts laden with wine casks emerge one after another. Oak barriques roll along wooden planks and gangways toward the docks, where ships already stand ready to sail downstream to the Gironde estuary and then across the Bay of Biscay toward the English coast.
A vessel leaving Bordeaux could carry hundreds of barriques of wine. In effect, these ships were floating wine warehouses.
The casks bore only simple markings—usually the initials of a merchant or the symbol of a négociant. There were no château names on them. Wine was sold as a commodity, much like grain or salt.
Once unloaded on the London wharves, the casks were distributed among taverns, aristocratic households, and commercial warehouses throughout the city.
…A London Tavern, Late Sixteenth–Early Seventeenth Century
The dim glow of candlelight flickers across the dark oak beams overhead.
The tavern is crowded. Merchants, sailors, and craftsmen sit shoulder to shoulder at long wooden tables. Straw covers the floor, a fire smoulders in the hearth, and the innkeeper rolls another wine cask toward the counter.
— Another round of claret for us! — one of the patrons calls out.
The landlord quickly obliges.
In their earthenware mugs, the wine appears pale and almost translucent—closer to dark rosé than red wine—with an alcohol content of around 8–9 percent.
A mug of claret costs roughly a penny, a price that an artisan could afford without much thought. For a day’s wages, a man could drink several mugs.
That was precisely why this light Bordeaux wine had become an almost everyday drink in London.
His companion takes a sip and shrugs.
— Quite decent.
He strokes his beard thoughtfully.
— Not the sort of thing you’ll remember for long… but perfectly drinkable.
The first man laughs.
— Ha! As light as rainwater! You drink it, exchange a few words, and by tomorrow morning you’ve nearly forgotten it.
— That is precisely the point, — replies the second. — Besides, it’s still better than the water in this city.
Both men know exactly what he means. London’s water is often of questionable quality, while light Bordeaux wine is considerably safer.
— And besides, — adds the first, — А little cheerfulness in a man’s head has never done any harm.
They raise their mugs once more.
This is claret: the simple Bordeaux wine that London drinks every day—light, uncomplicated, and without much character.
Yet within a century another Bordeaux wine will appear in this city, one that people will find impossible to forget.
For the first time, a specific estate in Bordeaux will sell wine under its own name.
And that name will be Haut-Brion.
— 🍇 —
The Birth of the First Great Wine—Haut-Brion
(The Man Who Made the Name of a Wine More Important Than the Name of a Region)
At the centre of this story stands Arnaud de Pontac.
He came from a wealthy parliamentary family in Bordeaux and owned several estates, including Haut-Brion as well as the future Château Haut-Bailly and Château Pape Clément.
His greatest pride, however, was Haut-Brion itself. The estate lay in the Graves district south of Bordeaux. The French word grave, meaning gravel, already hints at the nature of the soils that dominate the area.
What exactly was de Pontac’s achievement?
He introduced several practices that, taken together, effectively created the modern model of a great wine.
► A focus on a specific site. Arnaud systematically worked to improve the quality of the estate’s wine. He concentrated on a particular vineyard area—an early expression of what we would now call terroir.
In the seventeenth century, most wines in the region came from mixed agricultural properties where vines grew alongside grain fields, orchards, and pastureland.
De Pontac chose a different path. He concentrated on grape growing on the finest gravelly parcels, gradually transforming his property into a specialised vineyard estate. For the seventeenth century, this was a remarkably innovative approach.
► Riper fruit and later harvesting. Family records suggest that vineyard work was closely supervised and that strict controls governed the harvest. The grapes were picked by hand and sorted—a practice far from universal at the time.
Arnaud willingly sacrificed volume in favour of quality, another principle that would become commonplace only much later.
► Extended barrel ageing. One of Haut-Brion’s defining characteristics was the longer maturation of its wines in oak casks. This stabilised the wine, softened the tannins, deepened the colour, and produced greater complexity of flavour. It also helped the wine withstand the sea voyage to England.
► Control of sales and reputation. Most Bordeaux wines were sold through négociants and quickly lost any connection with their producer.
De Pontac pursued the opposite strategy. He sought to associate the wine directly with the estate itself. That is why he chose to market his wine in London as Haut-Brion, rather than as a generic Bordeaux wine sold through intermediaries.
In doing so, he transformed wine from a simple commodity into a reputation-driven product.
💡 Arnaud de Pontac did not invent a new winemaking technology. His innovations were different. He was among the first to apply systematically what today seems obvious: the best vineyard sites, riper fruit, careful harvest selection, barrel ageing, and protection of the estate’s name in the marketplace.
Compared with most wines of the period, Haut-Brion appeared almost anomalous. It was darker, fuller-bodied, and possessed an unusually complex flavour profile.
For the first time on the British market, a wine was being sold not merely as “wine from Bordeaux” but as wine from a specific place
► A High Price
This wine cost two or sometimes even three times as much as ordinary Bordeaux claret. Why was Pontac not afraid that such a price would discourage buyers?
Because the high price was part of the strategy. Pontac was not selling a mass-market product consumed by sailors, craftsmen, and modest merchants. He was targeting a different clientele: gentlemen of the city, wealthy merchants, government officials, and members of the aristocracy. These people were not looking for the cheapest wine.
They were looking for the best.
💡 A high price helped create a reputation. For centuries, people have understood a simple principle: if a wine is expensive, it must be special. The price itself became a signal of quality.
It is the very same principle by which great wines are marketed today.
Quality created reputation. And reputation began to shape price
…Bordeaux, Around 1660: The de Pontac Family Residence
We can easily imagine an evening in the home of the de Pontac family.
Darkness has already settled outside. From the harbour comes a muted chorus of sounds: casks rolling across the quays, carts creaking under heavy loads, dockworkers calling to one another along the waterfront. The autumn wine-trading season is at its height.
Arnaud de Pontac sits at a table covered with letters and commercial accounts. Before him lies a map marked with ports and sea routes. England has long been the principal market for Bordeaux wine, yet Arnaud understands that selling through négociants alone brings little real advantage.
His wine differs from most of what is shipped to England. It is fuller, more complex, and capable of improving with time. Yet once loaded into casks and dispatched from Bordeaux, it disappears among hundreds of other, far more ordinary wines.
So he decides to take a step that, for his era, borders on audacity.
London in the middle of the seventeenth century is one of the wealthiest and fastest-growing cities in Europe. Merchants, government officials, courtiers, diplomats, and wealthy gentlemen gather there—people willing to pay for fine wine.
Arnaud turns to his son, François-Auguste, with a proposal. He will send him to London with start-up capital and letters of introduction, enabling him to establish a tavern of his own.
Not merely a wine shop, but a place where members of high society can gather—people capable of appreciating exceptional wine and willing to pay for it.
And there, Haut-Brion will not be served as ordinary claret. It will be presented as something special: a wine with its own identity and a price to match.
Arnaud promises his son one crucial advantage: a reliable supply of wine from the estate.
Every year, several casks of Haut-Brion will leave Bordeaux along the same routes as hundreds of other wines. But once they arrive in London, they will be separated from the general trade and placed in a very different setting.
For the seventeenth century, this was a bold experiment. Most Bordeaux winegrowers sold their wines to négociants and lost control over what happened afterwards. Price and reputation were determined by merchants.
De Pontac’s plan challenged that system. He intended to control the sale of his own wine, shape its reputation, and determine the price that wealthy customers would be prepared to pay.
In essence, it was one of the earliest attempts to transform wine from a commodity into a recognisable brand.
— 🍇 —
The New Tavern
…London. Guildhall, Around 1660
Morning comes early in the City. The narrow streets around Guildhall are already crowded with merchants, clerks, brokers, and traders. Inside the stone hall of the city administration, officials receive those seeking permission to conduct business.
Among them stands a young Frenchman—François-Auguste de Pontac. In his hands is a leather portfolio containing letters of recommendation and descriptions of wines. He arrived from Bordeaux only a few weeks earlier.
Across a long table sits a city official, one of the men responsible for issuing trading licences and collecting duties.
The official looks up from his register.
— Your name?
— Pontack, — replies the Frenchman, his accent still noticeable. — François-Auguste de Pontack, of Bordeaux.
The official writes down the name, frowning slightly at the unfamiliar spelling.
— And what trade do you intend to conduct in the City of London?
François pauses for a moment. The answer has already been rehearsed many times with his father.
— Wine, sir. From Bordeaux.
The official smiles faintly.
— Wine from Bordeaux? Why, half the ships on the Thames already carry it.
François shakes his head.
— Not quite this sort of wine.
He opens the portfolio and places a letter on the table. The heading immediately catches the official’s attention:
“Wine from Our Estate—Haut-Brion”
The official looks puzzled.
— An estate?
— Yes, sir, — François replies. — Not merely wine from Bordeaux… but wine from a particular place.
The official makes a brief note in the register. To him, the idea sounds unusual. Wine is normally sold by cask and by shipment, not by the name of an estate.
Still, another matter concerns him far more.
— You will, of course, pay all duties and excise taxes on every cask brought into the city?
François inclines his head slightly.
— Certainly. And there will be many casks.
The official sets down his pen.
— Excellent. And when do you intend to open your establishment?
For a moment François appears to be looking beyond the room, already imagining the future sign hanging above the tavern door.
— I hope very soon. It will be located on Abchurch Lane.
He lowers his voice almost confidentially.
— When we open, sir, you must visit us and try our wine.
The official chuckles.
— You say this wine comes from a particular place?
— Yes, sir, — François replies calmly. — And I am certain London will remember our name.
The tavern was soon opened on Abchurch Lane, a small street in the heart of the City of London, not far from Lombard Street and Cannon Street. Today the location is little more than a narrow lane within London’s financial district. In the seventeenth century, however, it was one of the busiest commercial areas in the city.
The choice of location was both precise and strategic. The neighbourhood contained banking houses, trading offices, warehouses filled with imported goods, the premises of merchants engaged in international commerce, and the homes of wealthy citizens.
The Thames lay nearby, bringing goods from across Europe—including wine.
The tavern therefore found itself at the very centre of England’s commercial elite, precisely where the greatest concentration of potential buyers for expensive wine could be found. The district already contained several high-end drinking establishments where business lunches were held, merchants negotiated deals, and political discussions unfolded. The new venue quickly became one of the most prestigious establishments of its kind. Before long it acquired a reputation as one of London’s most fashionable places to dine. Contemporary accounts describe exceptionally expensive meals, priced well above those offered in ordinary taverns.
The family chose the name Pontack’s Head for their new French establishment. No surviving document explains exactly why the name was selected, yet historians have reconstructed its likely origin from the context of seventeenth-century London taverns. At the time, most taverns were known not by the owner’s official name but by the image displayed on their signboard. The reason was simple: a large part of the population could not read well. As a result, vivid visual symbols were preferred:
The Crown, The Red Lion, The Golden Fleece, The King’s Head.
The word Head literally referred to a head or portrait displayed on the sign. Thus, Pontack’s Head almost certainly meant “Pontack’s Head” in the most literal sense—a sign bearing the likeness of Pontack himself. It may have shown the head or bust of Arnaud de Pontac, or perhaps an idealised portrait of a distinguished French proprietor.
This too was unusual for the period. Most taverns were not named after individuals, yet in the case of Pontack’s Head, the owner’s name became part of the brand itself. The association was powerful:
Pontack → French wine → Bordeaux → quality.
In effect, it was one of the earliest examples of wine marketing built around a personal name. To Londoners, the establishment became known as a distinctly French house.
— 🍇 —
Samuel Pepys—The Man Who Wrote Everything Down
Fortunately for historians, seventeenth-century London had one particularly observant chronicler who recorded the daily life of the city almost day by day.
His name was Samuel Pepys.
Pepys was an Admiralty official and an ambitious man. He played an important role in the reform of the English navy, moved within government circles, and regularly attended receptions, dinners, and business gatherings.
Yet his greatest legacy was something else entirely: the diary he kept between 1660 and 1669. Today, that diary is regarded as one of the most vivid sources for the history of seventeenth-century London. Its pages contain everything: politics and court intrigues, the Great Plague of 1665, the Great Fire of London in 1666, social events, theatres, music, dinners, and the wines that Pepys either drank himself or heard discussed by others. He recorded his impressions almost every day, often with remarkable honesty. As a result, his diary became a unique portrait of Restoration England.
The Diary Entry That Made a Wine Famous
On 10 April 1663, Pepys made a brief but celebrated diary entry. That day he was dining in a London tavern and decided to try a wine he had recently heard about.
He wrote:
“I did send for a bottle of Ho Bryan, which is a very good and most particular taste that I never met with.”
“Ho Bryan” was the contemporary English spelling of Haut-Brion.
“…a very good and most particular taste…”
💡 An interesting detail: in this entry Pepys never mentions the tavern itself. He simply records that he ordered a bottle of the wine. Historians believe the wine was almost certainly associated with Pontack’s Head, since the de Pontac family’s wines were actively promoted there during those years. However, the diary contains no direct reference to the establishment.
Nevertheless, Pepys’s remark became one of the earliest recorded descriptions of a specific wine identified by name. Not simply “Bordeaux” or “claret,” but Ho Bryan—a wine from a particular place.
For Pepys, it was merely a note about an enjoyable meal.
For wine history, however, it marked an important turning point. In his diary we witness a moment when wine begins to be perceived not as an anonymous commodity but as a drink with character, identity, and origin.
Yet this was not a matter of chance. Behind it stood a particular estate and a particular family.
This is how the reputation of Bordeaux’s great wines began
— 🍇 —
Artifact from the Lord’s Collection: A Bill from Pontack’s Head
Among the artifacts owned by the English lord we met at the beginning of this chapter is a particularly intriguing document. It is a small sheet of heavy paper, yellowed with age. The ink has faded in places, yet the careful handwriting remains surprisingly legible.
Across the top is written:
Pontack’s Head, Abchurch Lane
Beneath it appears a list of dishes and wines. It is a dinner bill issued by the famous London tavern during the second half of the seventeenth century. At the time, food and drink were not listed separately. Everything appeared together as a single account for the evening.
The document records:
Supper for four gentlemen
A dish of roasted capon
Oysters
A pie of venison
Bread and butter
Two bottles of Ho Bryan
One bottle of Canary wine
Total: 6 shillings and 8 pence
💡 A bill of 6 shillings and 8 pence represented a substantial sum at the time—equivalent to several days’ wages for a skilled craftsman. Such a dinner at Pontack’s Head was affordable for prosperous townsmen and gentlemen, though it was not the sort of extravagant luxury associated with the highest aristocracy. In other words, it was not a casual snack, but neither was it a royal banquet.
► How the Bill Reached a Collector
The document survived largely through chance. In the eighteenth century, papers like this were rarely discarded immediately. Paper was expensive, and old documents were often reused—for notes, calculations, or even as bookmarks inside books. This particular sheet is believed to have ended up inside the binding of an old accounting ledger belonging to a London merchant house. There it remained for nearly two centuries. In the nineteenth century, when the book was dismantled and rebound, the sheet was discovered and preserved alongside other loose papers.
Another century later, the document appeared at a small antiquarian auction specialising in old commercial records. There it was acquired by our collector, Lord B—t.
► Another Artifact: Newton’s Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica
But what connection could a copy of Newton’s Principia possibly have with a wine called Ho Bryan? The answer lies with Samuel Pepys.
When the book was published in 1687, Isaac Newton was already a respected scientist. Yet publication depended upon approval from London’s leading scientific institution—the Royal Society. At that very moment, the President of the Royal Society was none other than Samuel Pepys. Under the Society’s rules, the president was required to grant official permission for publication. That is why the title page of the first edition bears the Latin formula:
Imprimatur
S. Pepys, Reg. Soc. Praeses
(“Approved for publication. S. Pepys, President of the Royal Society.”)
💡 It is important to understand that Pepys was not a co-author of the book, did not edit its contents, and played no role in Newton’s scientific discoveries. In fact, he probably could not fully understand the mathematical sections of the work. Nevertheless, he formally authorised the publication of what would become the most influential scientific book of the age.
When Newton completed the manuscript, an unexpected problem arose. The Royal Society had no money left to print it. Shortly before this, the Society had spent much of its budget publishing an elaborate scientific work about fish: De Historia Piscium (The History of Fishes). The book was expensive to produce and sold poorly, leaving the Society’s finances in serious difficulty.
At that point another renowned scientist intervened: Edmond Halley. The same Halley whose name is now immortalised by Halley’s Comet. Halley persuaded Newton to publish the manuscript, supervised the editing process, oversaw the printing, and effectively financed the publication from his own pocket.
Our collector, Lord B—t of Blackwood Hall, reflected for a moment and smiled.
— Remarkable, — he thought. —The same man authorised the publication of the book that explained the motion of the planets… and also left us the first description of the taste of Haut-Brion. History has a curious way of weaving its threads together.
— 🍇 —
To be continued…
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