Jonathan Ray

A lovely, summery offer this, with some great wines chosen especially for outdoor drinking; for barbecues, picnics, lazy afternoons and long evenings idling in the garden and for stashing in the Glyndebourne or Garsington hamper. And just to be fair, the wines — which took an age to whittle down — will also suit perfectly those armchair sportsmen likely to be unavoidably detained indoors by the World Cup, Wimbledon or the Test Matches. Best of all, every bottle, bar the fizz, comes in under a tenner. And the fizz — Champagne Delamotte Brut NV (1) — really is rather fabulous. Delamotte is one of the oldest of all champagne producers (established 1760) and sister house to the legendary Salon.

There are mixed views — to put it mildly — concerning the quality of the 2013 Bordeaux vintage. It’s not a complete write-off by any means, for there are certainly decent wines to be had that will make enjoyable mid-term drinking. But in the main the wines are pricey, they’re not for keeping and it’s not a vintage to invest in. Instead, I strongly recommend looking back at the previous fine vintages that are still on the market, particularly at the so-called ‘second wines’ of the great châteaux. This is where the smart money is heading.Such wines are made with fruit from the same vineyards, with the same love and care, by the same winemakers, using the same facilities as their big brothers. And they’re a heck of a lot cheaper.

We’re thinking ahead with this offer, with summer firmly in our sights. Think of barbecues, picnics by the river, summer fêtes and lazy days on the beach. And think of red wine. Chilled. I’ve never understood our obsession for serving red wines at room temperature or even warmer. The habit started long before the days of central heating — what was room temperature then would be considered jolly parky now. Of course, big, butch, bold reds need a bit of coaxing to open out and shake off their tannin. But this can be taken to extremes. Only recently I was served an uncomfortably warm Aussie Shiraz that had been well and truly mulled. I swear there was a puff of steam as the sommelier opened it.

For many years, Languedoc-Roussillon was a byword for lousy wine. The region was infamous for producing vast amounts of grim fare which appealed to nobody except the French army who bought the rough local reds by the container-load, for cleaning their rifles with or running their tanks on or something. Today, though, this vast area has been transformed and is an exceptionally happy hunting ground, especially for those wine lovers bored with the wines of Bordeaux or miffed at Bordelais prices. Or put off by the dire reports of Bordeaux’s 2013 vintage. Languedoc-Roussillon’s climate and terroir are both spot on, and a new generation of winemakers has gleefully spotted the region’s potential.

A really tasty selection from The Wine Company this week at very generously discounted prices. There is a theme of sorts: I wonder if you can spot it. Made exclusively for The Wine -Company (Moa Ridge and The Wine Company share an owner in Suffolk-based Johnny Wheeler), the 2011 Moa Ridge Chardonnay (1) from Marlborough, New Zealand, is spiffing value at just £12 a bottle (down from £14.99). Hand-picked and oak-aged for 15 months, it’s full of citrus and spice and succulent stone fruit. It’s subtle too and gratifyingly complex, more Burgundian in style than New World, and perfect with a dozen or so of the last R-in-the-month oysters. The 2007 C.J.

When I worked at Berry Bros & Rudd 20 years ago, I had a wonderfully eccentric customer who liked to ring up during bathtime. He was a confirmed claret lover and, although he longed to broaden his horizons, he could never quite muster the courage to do so. We would spend 20 minutes or so discussing tasty alternatives from the Rhône, Spain, Italy or the New World, but his nerve always failed him and he’d retreat guiltily back to the safety of Bordeaux. He promised faithfully to be more adventurous next time, although we both knew he wouldn’t be, and I would go through the motions of giving him the prices of a Chianti or Crozes-Hermitage. ‘Hang on,’ he’d boom from the bathroom.

He might have been born in the UK and he might carry an Australian passport, but Kevin Judd of Greywacke (pron: grey-wacky) is a Kiwi through and through. Nobody grasps Marlborough better than he does, be it understanding the nuances of landscape and light as an award-winning photographer or the vagaries of climate and terroir as an award-winning wine-maker. Judd’s a New Zealand legend — wise, passionate, dry, thoughtful and focused. And my goodness he’s laconic, famously so. Having interviewed him a couple of times, I can confirm he’s not someone to use a dozen words when one or even none will do. But what he does say (or doesn’t) is said (or isn’t) with a teasing, knowing look in his eye.

Corney & Barrow have really pulled out the stops on this one. They presented a couple of dozen wines for me to taste and so delicious were they that it was the Devil’s own job trying to whittle them down to six. In fact, I gave up trying, which is why there are seven wines in this offer. Sorry, but there it is. I just couldn’t choose between them. Corney & Barrow’s MD, Adam Brett-Smith, was in especially munificent mood too.

I’m honoured — and nervous — to be following in Simon Hoggart’s colossal footsteps in these pages. Simon, God rest his soul, was not just one of our greatest political journalists; he was one of our best wine writers and his Life’s Too Short to Drink Bad Wine is a classic. I know that this column, which he made his own, is something of an institution for its readers. If I can bring a smidgeon of Simon’s wit and perspicacity to the Spectator’s wine club, I will be doing very well. Happily, our old friends Tanners of Shrewsbury have come up with a mighty tasty selection with which to start off the year.

I have always really, really hated flying. The first whiff of an airport and I'm scared out of my wits. But not only am I terrified; I also loathe and resent the contempt in which passengers are generally held by the airlines – the way we're herded like cattle and the way we're expected to eat unspeakable food with a neighbour's elbow in the face.

As befitted someone who spent half his life looking at it, my father had a beautiful watch. Although I don't recall the make, I do remember how sleek and elegant it was. My father's whole life seemed to be ruled by time and by his pathological hatred of being late. I remember once sitting in a restaurant with him as we awaited the arrival of his lunch guest, an old friend whom he had bidden to arrive at 1 p.m. My father and I had got to the restaurant 20 minutes or so before the appointed hour, as was his practice, and at five to one he glanced at his watch and sighed crossly, 'Tsk, in five minutes' time the bloody man will be late.' In later years, although a complete technophobe, my father bought himself an answering machine, fearful of the calls that he might miss when he was out.