Red wine: the rise in popularity of the carignan grape Being highly susceptible to oidium (powdery mildew), the grape is not even especially easy to grow. It is very high-yielding, though, which is why it was planted across the Languedoc in the middle of the last century (you may also find it in wines from the Minervois and Faugères appelations, for example) - the idea being that it would produce as much wine for as low a price as possible. From the mid-Seventies, though, there was a big, subsidised grubbing up of carignan in the region that carried on for some decades: the total surface area of carignan there dropped by 51 per cent between 1999 and 2009, so that now there are only 39,800ha of it left. Most of the uprooted vines came from the plains - poorer sites, producing grapes and wine of a lesser quality. But a new generation of winemakers is rediscovering the gnarled old vines, with their more concentrated, complex fruit, that are left. It's not just in France that people are reclaiming the joy of old-vine carignan. Across the Atlantic, in Chile, there has been a movement to rescue carignan from some of the magnificent old dry-farmed vineyards in the region of Maule, where it had previously been mixed in with other grapes to make simple jug wine in co-operatives. A number of producers (united by the Vigno banner) are pleased to find that, vinified in small lots, with care, the fruit of these precious old vineyards makes soft, intense, concentrated red wine that seems to be scented with black olives, thyme and mace. If you want to try one, have a look at Odfjell Orzada 2008 Maule Valley, Chile (14%, £15.99, Waitrose), with its gentle, caressing texture, kiss of French and American oak and thicket of brambles. You will also, of course, find carignan under its Spanish name, cariñena, in the blend of Priorat - not exactly a byword for cheapness. Back in the Languedoc, where it seems to take on more than anywhere else a very particular smell of dried figs - like the dense and chewy fig wheels you slice up to eat with cheese - and sometimes even of fresh figs, when they're so ripe they almost burst, it turns up more often in a blend than as a single varietal wine. But you can still detect its presence. Paul Old, of Les Clos Perdus, is one of the grape's supporters. He has managed to find parcels of carignan vines that are 110 years old, and elegantly expressive in their antiquity. "They were paying people a lot of money to rip up carignan," he says. But it is drought resistant. It has good acidity... Pierre Bories blames the quality of the winemaking, and some of the grapes, for carignan's poor reputation. "It's very easy, if your dog is ill, to kill him..." To him, that figgy flare of flavour is even more than that: "Years ago in the Languedoc, everyone wanted to take out carignan and replace it with syrah," he says. People kept telling me: 'Pierre, if you want to be a star in the Languedoc you have to plant syrah and grenache. I think the Languedoc lost its identity. There is a peculiarly Languedoc feel to the reek of carignan - you almost always spot it steaming out of the glass. I tend to prefer it in blends than as a single varietal - though of course there are always exceptions, such as the one made by Paul Mas I recommended at Christmas and you can find in Majestic. Nor am I sure how much money I'd be prepared to commit to drinking carignan - £15, maybe? £20? - before I felt the complexity wasn't satisfying enough for the price. That leaves plenty of drinking scope, though - try the wines listed on the right, which all share an earthy sensuality. You can be too sophisticated sometimes.