The only factor that had persuaded me to make the journey, midweek on a grim Boland winter’s day, was Philip Costandius, one of the Cape’s most seasoned and interesting winemakers, who has been at Mont du Toit’s vinous helm since 2019. Philip’s CV includes stints at Delheim, Neethlingshof and Oldenburg, and, prior to our first meeting two decades ago, I had asked wine merchant and overall wine grand dame Caroline Rillema what he was like.
“Oh, Philip’s an intellectual, you know,” she said. “He reads history and stuff.”
As befits an interesting and understated bloke, Philip’s invitation to a farm previously unknown to me turned into a welcome and enriching experience, the name Mont du Toit now firmly attached to my weathered cranial faculty.
Philip was Philip – sporting a dense, well-groomed silver moustache of which Inspector Hercules Poirot would be proud – and our mutual humorous engagement was complemented by the creasing of his forehead and the glint in a pair of eyes that always appeared bright and inquisitive.
We had hardly had time to swap notes on facial hair and intellectual literature before I found myself ensconced in a bakkie next to a distinguished gentleman I had never met before. He was Stephan du Toit, a senior counsel from the Johannesburg Bar who had bought Mont du Toit in 1996.
Leaving Philip behind to attend to cellar matters, Stephan and I headed for the farm’s vineyards. The Hawequa Mountains overlooking the spread looked dramatic and surly beneath a gun-grey sky sheeted with low clouds. The soil was wet, red and rocky in places. The vines were almost bare, only a few russet leaves hanging forlornly from tired shoots, their energy depleted after the 2026 harvest.
Shiraz, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, Viognier and others: some 22 hectares set on drifts and subtle slopes.
As usual, I pried Stephan about his wine-farming ambitions and how these fitted within his legal career. It turned out his father had owned a wine farm in Stellenbosch, and fond memories have a way of burrowing into one’s consciousness until one decides to get as close as possible to reliving them. Like buying your own wine farm.
Being proudly and fiercely attached to his French Huguenot heritage – like myself – the idea of a Wellington farm appealed to Stephan. Franschhoek has laid claim to Huguenot legacy and culture, but the truth is that, a century after the Huguenots set up shop there in 1688, Wellington had the largest number of people descended from the refugees fleeing various forms of persecution in France.
It was when we started talking about wine and various wine-producing countries that things became really interesting. Portugal came up and, when regions, grape varieties and wineries were mentioned, I could not help but note that, although we were speaking Afrikaans, Stephan pronounced the Portuguese names with authentic accents.
It turned out that Stephan’s father had been South African ambassador to Portugal in the 1950s and, due to his schooling in the Land of the Big Bacalhau, my host remained fluent in Portuguese. In fact, he had just translated a seminal work by the 16th-century writer Luís Vaz de Camões from Portuguese into Afrikaans and was busy with the editing process.
Back at the cellar for a quick look around, Philip added that Stephan’s father had, after Portugal, also been ambassador to Paris and that, yes, the Mont du Toit owner was fluent in French as well.
Whether Mont du Toit’s cultural and intellectual gravitas had motivated Philip to work on the farm is unknown, but it is precisely the kind of environment in which one could expect him to continue his winemaking career.
A tasting of the wines with Stephan and Philip took place in a tasting room that also serves as the owner’s part-time office, for when we returned from the cellar he was working through an intimidating pile of paperwork. Well into his eighties, Senhor/Monsieur/Meneer is still at it.
The visit focused on red wines, and I was given the impression that Shiraz is a grape for which Stephan and Philip have a particular affinity. Not a bad call, considering that Wellington’s geographical position has, over the years, proven itself a piece of earth conducive to distinctive expressions of this Rhône stalwart.
The line-up included Mont du Toit Shiraz from the 2021 to 2025 vintages and, looking back with the benefit of hindsight, I am inclined to think of Thys Louw of Diemersdal fame describing wines as “honest”. These are wines made with minimal fuss, devoid of showiness and – honestly – crafted simply to express the earth, climate, aspect and soils in which the vines are rooted.
Estate fruit is vinified in a cellar that uses gravitational flow. Ageing takes place mostly in used barrels, with a 20% new oak component providing polish and tightening the wine’s backbone.
The standout vintage for me was 2023. Here, the Shiraz drifted away from its plush, dark-fruited sappiness towards that delicious Shiraz character of mocha and Havana cigar-box cedar, attributes the variety reveals only in certain vintages. And an effect of oak it is not, given the minimal use of new wood.
The 2021 vintage was arguably the most complete wine, with five years of age providing a settled calm beneath which compote notes of blackcurrant, mulberry and pine needle lay brooding, dark and moerig within a frame of firm tannins. The Mont du Toit Shiraz 2025, meanwhile, was bright and randy, overflowing with voluptuous juiciness that whetted a dry, maritime reef of oyster shells.
I loved the earnest nature of these wines, especially in a world where – due to having fallen out of commercial and critical favour – Shiraz and Syrah are increasingly becoming over-stylised showpieces in which the emphasis on perfume and upfront fruit dulls authenticity and, well, honesty.
Mont du Toit is open for tastings by appointment and, by the way, the tasting room is worth visiting for the splendid Cape Dutch furniture alone. Now I certainly know what I was doing there.