Memories Elide: Vieux Château Certan 1923-2020

BY NEAL MARTIN | JULY 30, 2024

1924

Georges Thienpont strides down the cobbled street, a cacophony of rattling horses and carts wheeling vegetables to the Libourne market and time-scarred barrels of wine to the quayside. He has traveled afar for an important meeting at a notary’s office. Smartly attired in a black woolen suit, bosom white shirt and black bow tie, he carries a leather briefcase stuffed with paperwork, a fountain pen secreted inside his breast pocket whose ink is about to alter his family’s history.

For a few years, Georges had successfully run the family’s wine business from the family’s picturesque 17th-century house: Hof te Cattebeke in Etikhove, an unusually hilly part of East Flanders popular with cyclists. Founded in 1842, the merchant had become a respected distributor of wine, though three years earlier, he raised relatives’ eyebrows when he ‘crossed the Rubicon’ and purchased Troplong Mondot. But that was a savvy acquisition. In the aftermath of the Great War and interminable run of pitiful growing seasons, Thienpont was able to barter a keen price, notwithstanding that it granted him a permanent base in Bordeaux. That said, it had not encouraged him to expand his vineyard holdings further.

Georges Thienpont, cigar in hand, with his wife, Joséphine. The date and location are not known, but judging by their attire, it is a formal occasion.

Things were ticking over nicely. Right Bank wines were regularly transported in barrels, by train or canal to appreciative Belgian wine lovers. Thankfully, English merchants’ interests ventured no further than the Médoc, traducing the Right Bank as the easy-drinking fare that lacked Cabernet’s nobility. Thienpont’s portfolio prudently ventured outside Pomerol and Saint-Émilion, importing barrels from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, one of the handful of Burgundy growers to bottle some of their production, while demand for Sauternes remained strong. Recently, he had acquired barrels of 1921 Yquem from de Luc-Saluces. The elixir was so unctuous and overwhelming that, as he rings the doorbell of the notary’s office, he chuckles at the thought of collectors in the next century comparing the château’s bottling with his own.

One morning, Thienpont’s wife, Joséphine (née Billiet), surprised him when she expressed a desire to own a Bordeaux vineyard using her own money. The suggestion had come out of the blue, though Georges immediately warmed to the idea and replied: “There’s an old property in Pomerol that I’ve heard is for sale. Sadly, it’s in a rather forlorn state. I’m not even sure if the de Bousquet family lives there. Even so, its wines have been rated highly in the Féret guide.”

Interest piqued, Joséphine enquired about the name of the property.

“Vieux Château Certan.”

Georges had dealt with the property before and was familiar with its particulars, potential and devotees across Belgium and Holland. A few weeks later, he books a room at the nearby Hôtel Loubat, which lay within earshot of whistling steam trains as they entered Libourne Station. The hotel’s matriarch was a grandiloquent middle-aged woman, Marie-Louise Loubat, who took every opportunity to regale a vineyard where she had bought a minor stake.

“Monsieur Thienpont,” she trilled each time he stepped into the hotel reception. “You must try my wine. Truly, the best in Pomerol.”

Thienpont would laugh politely. She had strong grounds to extol ‘her’ wine, even if Petrus was cut from a different cloth to neighboring Vieux Château Certan. Their soils had different time signatures.

The air of the notary’s reception is thick with the smell of varnished mahogany and pencil shavings. The oak-paneled walls and parquet flooring are lit by the lambent glow of Chinese lamps that drape the chamber in shadow, from which a vaguely familiar face emerges.

“Antoine Moueix,” the gentleman says with a slight Corrèze dialect. His black hair is oiled back, and his moustache is neatly trimmed; he extends his hand in greeting.

“Enchanté,” Georges replies, a little put off his stride, the handshake firm and businesslike.

“Ah, I’m glad you two are acquainted,” the notary says upbeat, arms outstretched like a preacher towards his two clients. “Let us not waste time. Both of you seek to buy estates in Pomerol, and fortunately, there are two for sale. Château Taillefer and Vieux Château Certan.”

The exact date of this photograph is unknown. It probably comes from a merchant guide to promote its wines. Wisteria is yet to climb the façade here, and it is less shaded by trees, which gives a starker impression of the chartreuse. And who is the child sitting on the bench? Nobody knows.

Since Antoine Moueix lives locally, the notary invites him to make the first choice. Georges Thienpont pictures himself returning to Etikhove and informing his wife that he had acquired a vineyard, just not the one her heart had become set upon. Antoine Moueix ruminates. The ticking grandfather clock punctures the ensuing silence, his expression inscrutable. The notary glances at his watch and asks if he has made a decision.

“After consideration,” Moueix finally says, enunciating his words carefully, “I understand that the wine of Vieux Château Certan is highly regarded…”

Thienpont’s heart sinks.

“…however, Taillefer is closer to the station and more conveniently located. If Monsieur Thienpont agrees, I will acquire Taillefer, leaving Monsieur Thienpont free to sign for Vieux Château Certan.”