Outward journey: to New Zealand
Getting to New Zealand from the UK is the kind of trip that turns your sense of time into soup. Thirteen hours to Hong Kong, a few airport hours, then another long-ish haul to Auckland… left me landing pretty scrambled. So I did what I always do after a long haul: I walked until I felt vaguely normal again. Thankfully, Auckland harbour is a fairly spectacular place to de-scramble.
The point of the trip was to spend time with as many of our winemakers in New Zealand and Australia as I could. I wanted to see the impact of the recent bushfires in Victoria for myself – and check in on Sam Plunkett in particular – and I also wanted to taste what our brilliant winemakers in these brilliant countries are producing. But before the “business” part kicked off, I stole a couple of days for myself to visit Waiheke Island – a short ferry from Auckland and a paradise for wine geeks. I messaged winemaker Rod Easthope for a few suggestions and spent a very enjoyable day bopping between vineyards as a shameless tourist.
I could’ve stayed a lot longer. But I wasn’t about to keep our winemakers waiting…
The North Island: Rod Easthope’s moustache (and Hawke’s Bay)
On Sunday afternoon, I hopped on one of those little De Havilland prop planes that seem to zip all over New Zealand – they’re like flying minibuses – and headed down to Napier in Hawke’s Bay.
That’s where I met Lucy, Naked’s VP of Wine (based in the US) and my travel companion for this trip. We’d come in from opposite ends of the world, and somehow managed to land within five minutes of each other. Either excellent planning or sheer dumb luck (probably a bit of both).
Waiting for us was Rod Easthope, sporting a new-look moustache (the kind that adds at least 10% to your winemaker aura), ready to show us around. That evening we had dinner with Rod and his wife, Emma – and it hit me just how important she is to the whole Easthope operation. Rod’s the creative engine, but Emma keeps everything moving: business, logistics, social, the “how are we going to make this work?” side of winemaking that doesn’t get written on the label.
The next day we toured the Two Terraces vineyard where Rod’s Sauvignon Blanc comes from. It’s an exceptional site, and it reinforced something we saw again and again across New Zealand: so much of the industry is built on long-term relationships between winemakers and growers. It’s not like parts of Europe where many producers have the whole set-up in one place. More often, winemakers build deep partnerships with growers who know their land inside out.
Quick side note: I’d never seen so much netting in vineyards as I did in New Zealand. Whole blocks covered. Without it, the birds would have an absolute field day.
That said, we did get to see Rod’s own patch – a beautiful little pocket of vines by the river that makes you go: yes, I can see why you live here. This is where he makes his Easthope Family Wines, and we tasted some seriously good Pinot Noirs and Chardonnays (including Emma’s Chardonnay, from the block closest to the house).
You also can’t spend time in Hawke’s Bay without seeing what the region’s been through. Even though it’s a few years on from Cyclone Gabrielle, there are still signs everywhere – pockmarks across hillsides where slips have happened, old roads and old bridges that aren’t usable anymore. Rod pointed out places where the army put in temporary fixes, and those “temporary” bridges and roads have quietly become the new normal. There are parts of the region – like Esk Valley – that are still buried in silt.
The South Island: Marlborough (where the sheep earn their keep) and Waipara
From there, the plan was to fly down to the South Island… but the fog had other ideas. We were on descent when the pilot pulled up sharply and we ended up landing in Palmerston North (or “Palmy” to the locals). After an eternity in airport limbo, we set off again and made it to Wellington – by which point we’d missed our connection. Blast.
Eventually we arrived in Blenheim and were picked up by Bill and Claudia Small – who make our best-selling Kiwi Sauvignon. We only enjoyed a quick stop at their house because of the travel chaos, but it was still one of those “this is why I love my job” moments: tasting samples in a busy kitchen while family life carried on all around you.
We met their kids – Theodore, Sylvia and Penelope – whose names you’ll recognise from their labels. Theodore had just been accepted to medical school, so everyone was over the moon (and he’d baked a celebratory cake). Sylvia was mowing the lawn. Penelope was about to go to boarding school. It was all wonderfully familiar and cosy – the sort of welcome that makes you feel less like a visitor and more like part of the furniture.
We nipped over to see Nicky Parish too. Blenheim is tiny, so the Smalls and Nicky see each other all the time. In fact, a lot of our New Zealand winemaking family came through the same university circles. We got together with Bill and Claudia, Mike Paterson, and Nicky for dinner and it genuinely felt like being dropped into a small community where everyone’s known each other for years. Because they have.
The next day we met Ben Glover, who showed us something I’d never seen before: vineyards where sheep do the leaf-stripping. They roam through the rows eating leaves at just the right height, exposing the grapes without machinery. It’s organic winemaking, yes – but it’s also just smart.
Ben’s vineyard crew: woolly, efficient, and very motivated by snacks. Brilliant organic winemaking in action.
Then Mike Paterson took us out on a mule (as in, a little off-road vehicle – thankfully not the animal) to see growers and taste in the vineyards. He came out with one of my favourite lines of the trip: “In New Zealand, grapes aren’t ripened by heat – they’re ripened by light.” If you’ve been there – with that intense blue sky and that bright, clear sunlight – you get exactly what he means.
We also met Anna Paterson – someone I’ve swapped an absurd number of emails with over the years. Anna was a big part of the team that made Cloudy Bay a global name, and she’s now a big part of the business behind Mike: just like Emma Easthope, she’s one of those people who quietly keeps everything running.
The next day, Bill and Claudia drove us south towards Christchurch. The drive itself was ridiculous in the best way – every corner a different landscape. Bill and Claudia talked about the frequent storms and earthquakes that literally change the topography of the place: land rising by feet in seconds, roads shifting, coastlines redrawn.
We were handed over to Dom Maxwell in Waipara, about an hour north of Christchurch. A totally different environment. Where Marlborough is vineyards in every direction, Waipara is a rolling patchwork – it’s almost like someone slipped a little slice of the Cotswolds into New Zealand.
We tasted with Dom in the vineyard and he talked us through how he makes Pinot Noir – including doing open-top ferments in the vineyard, so the wild yeast comes from that exact place. It’s a bit geeky (okay, incredibly geeky), but for wine nerds like myself and Lucy it was fascinating. It’s exactly the kind of unique wine that could be a dream for our Fine Wine Club.
Australia: Sydney beach life and Daryl Groom (the most interesting winemaker alive)
After New Zealand we flew to Sydney, and the first stop was checking in with the Naked Australia team at their office in Manly – which is one row back from the beach (related note: I’ve just put in my request to transfer to Naked Australia…)
We grabbed lunch and sat on the sand watching people surf, swim, run, paraglide – and it felt like a much-needed breather before we hit the road again. Before leaving Sydney, we had dinner with Daryl Groom and his wife Lisa. Daryl is one of our longest-standing winemakers and he’s got an interesting story about absolutely everything. If we ever run a “winemaker after-dinner speaker” circuit, I’m putting him top of the bill – he’s lived many lives, and he knows how to tell a story.
Rutherglen: Jen Pfeiffer, fortified magic, and the best pie I’ve ever eaten
Next we flew to Albury – basically halfway between Sydney and Melbourne, in the middle of nowhere – and drove down to Rutherglen, famous for fortified wines like Muscat and Topaque. And famous in Naked circles as the home of Jen Pfeiffer.
Her winery is everything you hope an old-school fortified place will be: huge barrels, old oak smells, a sort of historic “let’s taste this 50-year-old vintage” atmosphere. Jen was clambering around barrels like health and safety had never been invented, pulling samples and telling stories.
Fortified winemaking is part science, part patience… and part acrobatics. Because apparently the best samples are always the ones at the top.
Fortified wine is a completely different art to dry winemaking: the age, the sugar, the oxidation, the way you blend and build complexity over time. Going through barrel after barrel with Jen was properly educational – and it also reminded me how rarely you get to see this kind of craft up close.
We were also there on the day of their harvest party. Every year Jen brings in winemaking interns (she’s really passionate about training the next generation) and the last one had arrived the day before – so they were celebrating. We met her legendary dad too – the man who built the business – and ended up eating by the river, hearing kookaburras and all sorts of birds. It felt very warm, very welcoming, very Aussie.
Oh and yes… the pie. On the way down to Jen’s place I finally got my hands on something I’d been craving all trip: a proper Aussie meat pie. I’m sorry to every pie I’ve ever eaten before that moment, but this was the best one I’ve ever had. So shout out to Parker’s Pies. If you ever find yourself anywhere near Rutherglen, do yourself a favour and make the detour.
Sam Plunkett: after the bushfires…
After Rutherglen, we got back on the road and drove down towards Sam Plunkett – through eucalyptus trees, through bush, taking turns at the wheel for hours. We’d always planned to see Sam on this trip, but after his community in Victoria was hit hard by bushfires, we didn’t know what we’d find.
Which is why we were so confused when we pulled up at his winery and it looked… normal. People working. Tanks. Forklifts. No smoke. No obvious signs of fire. Lucy and I looked at each other like: are we in the wrong place?
Sam could tell what we were thinking. He just said, “Let’s go for a drive.”
Twenty minutes later, we crossed a line – and it genuinely felt like stepping into No Man’s Land. One minute you’re driving through standard country roads, trees and paddocks. The next minute it’s black: burnt tree stumps, ash, piles of dead timber pushed to the side of the road. A place that used to be a forest, now just the skeleton of one.
Sam’s family aren’t just winemakers – they’re sheep farmers too. Their farm is around 5,000 acres, and the fire ripped through almost all of it. It took vineyards as well – including the block that used to make his Whitegate Shiraz. He showed us where the vines had been. There were posts still standing in places, but the vineyard itself was gone.
Before the bushfires, this was all vine rows and green growth. Now it’s the bones of a vineyard.
What hit me most wasn’t even the sight of it. It was the sound (or the lack of it). Normally in rural Australia, there’s always noise: birds, insects, cicadas. Here, there was almost nothing. All you could hear was the wind.
Sam told us what it was like when it happened. They saw the glow on the horizon and knew it was coming. Bron, his wife, got the family out – including Sam’s parents – and took them into town. Sam stayed behind to defend the house. His youngest son Ed was there helping him. They’d set up what they could: pumps, hoses, water from the pool, anything that might give them a fighting chance.
His eldest son Felix was away when the fires hit. He got on a flight to Melbourne, grabbed an Uber as far as it would go – and then the roads were closed. He was stuck, frantic, trying to get home while it was all unfolding. In the end, someone drove him the last stretch in a ute (for non-Aussies: that’s short for utility vehicle – basically a pickup/flatbed truck). That seems to be how things often work out there – through people helping, without being asked.
Sam said you get a lot of “leave, leave, leave” warnings from officials when fires hit – and of course, that’s usually the safest call. But he also said the homes that made it were often the ones where someone stayed to defend them. Around their place, neighbours’ houses had been lost. But Sam and Bron’s home survived – a circle of green in a landscape that looked like it had been erased.
The losses weren’t just vineyards. The farm lost thousands of sheep – around 8,000. And the practical reality afterwards is grim. You can’t burn carcasses because you risk starting another fire. Some were buried. Some couldn’t be dealt with quickly enough and were left where they were, drying out in the heat.
I asked Sam how he was doing – was he angry, in shock, exhausted? But he was simply philosophical: “It’s fire season, Toby. It gets someone every year. This time it got us.”
The thing he kept coming back to wasn’t the destruction. It was the response. People turning up not because they were asked, but because they’d heard. Someone arrives with a digger. Someone arrives with hay bales. Someone arrives with time and hands and practical help. No one wants payment. Sam said the only “currency” that seemed to work was a cold beer.
Then there’s the support that came from much further away. The money Angels raised through buying Bushfire Relief Cases will go towards getting people back on their feet. When we asked Sam if there was anything we could help him with directly, he wouldn’t hear of it. He’d rather the money go towards volunteer charities like BlazeAid, who’ve been doing so much hands-on work supporting the recovery, especially for people who lost even more than he did.
That’s Sam, and Aussies in general. He doesn’t want the attention on himself. His first instinct is to point towards others who need help.
Victoria: Nina Stocker and the Santolins
From Sam, we went to see Nina Stocker, another of our Australian winemakers, based in Victoria. Nina had been closer to the fire front than anyone would like to be – around five kilometres at one point – with smoke coming through and that horrible uncertainty of watching wind direction and hoping it blows in your favour. Thankfully, it did.
Nina’s place is very Australia: open land, rows of vines, kangaroos bouncing around like they own it (they do), and a house down by the river. We talked through her vineyards and where her head is at. Like a lot of winemakers, she’s constantly comparing what’s planted with what the climate is asking for. She’s considering pulling out an old block and planting something different – potentially a heat-hardy variety that isn’t common in Australia (mum’s the word).
That’s not a quick change. It’s years of work: grubbing up vines, improving soil health, planting, then waiting for the vineyard to come into its stride. But it’s also the sort of long-term thinking that keeps a winery alive.
Next we spent time with Adrian and Rebecca Santolin – the couple behind our Boy Meets Girl wines. If you’ve followed their story, you’ll know how much Angel support has helped them take big steps forward. When they started out, they were working regular wine jobs. Your funding helped them grow their own business and now they’ve got a winery space of their own. It’s the kind of leap (from steady job to building something yourself) that’s a lot easier to make when you know you’ve got backing.
Only the Santolins would put a genuinely stylish vintage sofa in a working winery (and completely rock it too)
Barossa and beyond: Josh Pfeiffer, Adam Barton, and Juicy in the bush
From there we headed into South Australia – including the world-famous Barossa Valley – where we spent time with Josh Pfeiffer. Josh is one of those people who seems to know everyone. If you asked him almost anything about Barossa, I’m fairly sure he’d either know the answer or know the person who does. He grew up in the thick of it – his dad was a viticulturist for Penfolds (in other words, he managed vineyards and grape-growing for some of Australia’s greatest wines).
Josh showed us lots of interesting things he'd been working on: like a verjuice – grape juice pressed from fruit picked early, when acidity is high and sugar is low. It tastes like biting into a grape in the best possible way, and it’s a great non-alcoholic drink to have around. And there was a Grenache made from over 100-year-old vines that caught my attention (another potential Fine Wine Club bottle perhaps?). We also met up with Adam Barton – who took us through a barrel tasting of Cabernet in at least a dozen different cooperages (barrel makers) – all with different toast levels, ages, and spices… and I never thought I’d say this sentence, but I could even pick my favourite cooper by the end.
Finally, to conclude our Australian leg, Peter “Juicy” Gajewski took us out to the Riverland, where he makes wine in a landscape that feels properly remote. You drive and drive through bush, and the only reason vines can exist at all is because of the river. He talked canopy management (including the very real problem of sunburned grapes), and took us out to a wetlands area they’re trying to encourage back to life.
We tasted a spread of his wines there with his wife Kerry, who (once again) keeps everything organised behind the scenes and knows the details before you even ask. It was another reminder of a theme that kept returning all trip: winemaking might look like one person on a label, but it almost never is.
Homeward bound: what I’m bringing with me
If there are three big takeaways from this trip – beyond “never trust small prop planes with tight connections” – it’s this:
1) Great wine is almost never a one-person show: the bottle might have one name on it, but the reality is a web of people – partners, growers, family, organisers, doers. People like Emma Easthope, Bron Plunkett and Anna Paterson, who keep the wheels turning so the creative work can actually happen.
2) Angel funding doesn’t just make wine – it makes room for ambition: winemakers thrive when they’re given breathing space. Whether it’s making a tiny parcel from a single vineyard, planting a new grape, or starting a ferment in the vineyard because it’s truer to the place. Because they know they have a safety net behind them (thanks to you) Naked winemakers are able to pursue passion projects and make truly extraordinary wines.
3) The land is tough, but the people are tougher: from storm-scarred Hawke’s Bay to the bushfires of Victoria, winemakers down here deal with curveballs as part of the job. They just get on with it. The thing that stood out most tough wasn’t the devastation – it was the response. People turn up to help, because it’s the right thing to do.
Check the forecast of course, but if reading this has made you want a front-row seat, you can always go and meet them yourself. Loads of our winemakers down under love visitors – and you can book tastings and visits through our Cellar Door page. It’s the best way to understand the full picture: the people behind the wines, the weird and wonderful bottles that never leave their home turf, and the realities of what they’re dealing with year to year.
And if you want a few “watch this space” highlights from my notebook: I’m very excited by what Rod’s doing with his Easthope Family wines, Dom’s “hands-on” Waipara Pinot, some of the Barossa barrel samples we tasted with Josh, and a couple of Juicy’s Riverland wines that were tasting particularly good in situ. No promises – but plenty to chase.
Right. That’s enough from me. I’m off to find a cup of tea and pretend my transfer to Manly didn’t just get denied.
