We drank this the other night in the dying days of 2013's summer, sitting outside and gazing up the long valley view to Devizes in the distance.
And not to put too fine a point on it, it was a fruit bomb. I was borderline shocked. One encounters so few wines of this style these days. It is almost as if they've become somehow infra dig.
Example: remember white burgundies that tasted of peach? And remember those examples of Meursault that were all about honey and nuts? Times - and tastes - move on. Fruit is seen as being insufficient in a wine of quality. There needs to be more. And the perception of quality has, for the last few years, been all about minerality: drier wines of the soil.
Which is why the wine above (made, as I was told, by an expat Kiwi) stopped me in my tracks. and you know what? I really enjoyed it. It stank like summer's eau de cologne; a joyous thing more juice than wine. It was there and then it was gone.
Perhaps we'll celebrate such wines again one day. Maybe we'll see a time when the pleasures of the flesh aren't seen as something somehow shameful, when vinous nudity is deemed to be acceptable by those now craving stimulations more cerebral.
There's a place for all this stuff on the table of life.