Pioneer Project on Usedom
Morning Light on the Lagoon
It is still cool, the wind carries the scent of salt and reeds across the fields. The Szczecin Lagoon lies like a smooth mirror, broken only by a few rippling waves. Between terminal moraine and sandy soil, the vines glisten in the first light. Standing at the edge of the field, one might think this was Rheinhessen. But it is Usedom – an island usually associated with seaside resorts, wicker beach chairs, and herring.
Christoph Kühne-Hellmessen pushes his straw hat back and walks along the vine rows. “Nobody believed this would work here,” he says, breaking off a leaf and rubbing it between his fingers. The scent is fresh, herbal, almost a hint of mint. “But that’s exactly what drives me: to start where others still doubt.”
From Mount Etna to the Baltic Sea
That he became a winemaker at all has to do with Mount Etna. For years he commuted there, planting vines on the slopes of the volcano, living among lava rock and olive groves. “Every five weeks I was down there,” he recalls. “Until Covid came. Suddenly it was over. No more flights, no way to see the vines.”
The longing remained. So he looked closer to home. “If it works on Etna, why not here?” he asked himself. In 2021 he put the first vines into the soil, advised by colleagues from the Rheingau. They suggested wider spacing between the rows because of the coastal humidity, and explained which varieties might be worth trying. In the end, seven PIWI grapes went into the ground: Sauvignac, Muscaris, Solaris, Rinot, Ravel blanc, Soreli, and Fleurtai.
“PIWIs are the future,” says Kühne-Hellmessen. “Resilient, resistant, with character.”
The Wine that Smells of the Sea
Today, in its third vintage, the grapes hang full and golden. Harvest will begin soon – all by hand, with the whole family involved. Then comes spontaneous fermentation with wild yeasts, barrels in the cellar, and waiting.
The wine is called Kühn & Hell – and it tastes as if it carries a piece of the coast within. Bloggers write of a “salty breeze on the finish,” sommeliers of the “freshness kick of northern nights.” It has even found its way to Berlin’s KaDeWe – a bottle traveling from the Baltic shore to the capital.
The volume is small: 3,000 bottles in the first year, perhaps 4,000 this season. But that’s not the point. “I’m not after quantity,” says Kühne-Hellmessen. “I want to prove that it can be done. That wine can find a home here.”
A Northern Future
Usedom is no isolated case. New vineyards are appearing in Sweden, Denmark, even southern England. Climate change is pushing the boundaries of the possible further north. While vintners in southern Germany struggle with late frosts or drought, a new chapter in the history of winegrowing is being written on the Baltic coast.
At the end of the day, when the lagoon glows in the evening light, Christoph Kühne-Hellmessen often stands at the edge of his vine rows, looking west. “Sometimes I think this is like a lab experiment,” he says. “Only you can drink the result.”
Then he laughs, lifting a grape into the air against the sky – as if to make sure that this dream isn’t just a little too crazy after all.
