(Claude Auguste / Manfred Klimek – Editorial team)
The closure of the von Hövel winery on the Saar has come as a surprise to many. Yet the winery is not a direct victim of that much-cited ‘wine crisis’ which has been haunting the headlines for months. The decline in sales in Europe and the US explains only a small part of the story. The real reason lies deeper – in a personal crisis within the winery’s management structure. It is not for outsiders to pass judgement on this. Anyone who has experienced just how existential such upheavals can be knows that sometimes pulling the emergency brake is not a failure, but a necessary act of self-preservation. Companies are not machines. They are sustained by people – and when these people, these long-established family businesses, reach their limits, everything begins to falter. There is no doubt, of course, that appallingly bad bureaucracy and the enormous labour costs associated with steep slopes played their part.
With von Hövel’s departure, however, more than just a business is disappearing. A chapter of German wine-growing history, dating back to the secularisation of the Church, is coming to an end. In 1803, amidst the turmoil following Napoleon’s reign (and to raise funds for the French campaigns), church-owned estates were expropriated and auctioned off. The estate of St Maximin Abbey, which had been managed by the church for centuries, passed into private hands. The Saar and the Moselle became part of Prussia, and later part of an empire whose Rieslings enjoyed worldwide prestige. In London, New York and St Petersburg, they were considered more prized than many a Bordeaux.
Von Hövel was a heir to this era. The estate was associated with vineyards such as the Oberemmeler Hütte and plots in the Scharzhofberger – names that carry weight in the international wine world. It was among the leading quality wine estates from an early stage, long before modern branding began. This region once thrived on the global renown of its delicately dry and fruit-sweet Rieslings.
The fact that such an estate is now closing also speaks of a strain that extends far beyond wine itself. The post-Covid years have thrown many sectors of the economy out of balance: rising costs, higher wages, fragile supply chains, and a general sense of uncertainty. Particularly on the steep slopes along the Saar and Moselle, where over a thousand working hours per hectare per year are required, wage increases have a direct impact on the very survival of the business. Economic reality collides here with a tradition of craftsmanship.
And yet a contradiction remains: it is precisely on the Moselle and the Saar that the classic Kabinett wines – those low-alcohol, elegant vintages – are produced, wines that should actually fit perfectly into the present day. Eight or nine per cent alcohol, vibrant acidity, a touch of fruit sweetness – wines that are easy to drink and pair well with food. They would be tailor-made for a generation that consumes more consciously and is wary of high-proof spirits.
Yet this is where the structural problem lies. Many estates struggle to embrace fruit sugar and low alcohol content as contemporary strengths. All too often, sweetness is reflexively dismissed as old-fashioned, rather than recognised as a traditional component of a distinct style. The institutions seem sluggish; their communication is tentative. There is no such thing as a self-evident German wine patriotism. People tend to look to Burgundy or Tuscany rather than to their own history since Napoleon. Yet before 1803, large parts of the top vineyards belonged to the Church – and it was only secularisation that turned them into bourgeois property and an international brand.
So with von Hövel, it is not just a business that is coming to an end. It marks the end of yet another chapter in that long lineage stretching from monastic ownership, through Prussia, to today’s economy of steep-slope vineyards. The vines remain (perhaps). The vineyards will remain (perhaps only as names that serve as a reminder). The history remains. But there is one less name to carry it forward.
Perhaps this turning point also presents a challenge: to view the low-alcohol Kabinetts not as relics, but as the future. The Saar is capable of modernity – it just needs to dare to call it that.