Does anything in the world smell quite like Savennières?! As if someone ground up steel wool, tarragon, chalk, lemon peel, petrichor, beeswax and honeysuckle into a powder, freeze-dried it and then flung it on ice-cold mountain-stream water and held it to your nose. Then you taste it and it’s all rigid and arms-tightly-crossed-across-the-body and bony shoulders, and you think: #issues. Then you feel annoyed because you paid good money for this and really, there must be more. So you go back. Sniff hard. More of the above bewildering stuff. Taste again. Hint, *tiny hint*, of honey. There’s a reverberation in those skinny bones. As if someone plucked the string of a harp and you heard it in your own bones. You go back. This angry rigid little wine is starting to get under your skin. Dust. Rain-wet dust. It tastes of dust. Really? Is that good? It is. It tastes of dust and the outline of honey and that cold, ancient, cold, smooth of stones that have been washed by centuries of river. It’s not a wine for contented sipping. It’s a wine for hard, pissed-off, no-excuses soul-searching. And hard goat’s cheese. Or, if you’re a beautiful at-peace soul, chuck it in the cellar for a few years and when it’s got over all its teenage issues, bring it out and have it with fish pie. 17 points