This article is taken from the November 2024 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

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The only time I’ve ever had some idea of what it’s like to be an oil sheikh was on holiday in southern Italy with my girlfriend in 2004, when there were two euros to the pound. We flew into Rome, took the train to Naples and Salerno and explored the Amalfi coast by boat.

Everywhere we went, we ordered the finest wines made from grapes that were new to me, such as Falanghina, Greco and Fiano, which we ate with fritto misto.

Best of all was Taurasi, a sturdy red known as the “Barolo of the South”. In the kind of restaurants we ate at, this was usually the most expensive wine on the list, though that rarely meant more than €40 (£20) a bottle. Ah! halcyon days!

Well, the pound isn’t what it once was, and that relationship didn’t last, but I’ve always kept a place in my heart for the wines of Campania. You can now buy Fiano in Tesco. Taurasi, however, still stands apart as something grand and mysterious. It’s made from Aglianico, which may be the grape of the legendary Falernian — though today’s wines are unlikely to have much in common with those enjoyed by Pliny the Elder.

Wine from the town of Taurasi in Irpinia has had a fine reputation for a long time, but the modern story really starts in 1878 with the founding of a winery by Antonio Mastroberardino, which is still in family hands.

According to Dr Piero Mastroberardino, the firm’s current president, in the late 19th and early 20th century Taurasi was exported to Africa, Australia, North and South America, and all over Europe. He told me about his wine being mentioned in an 1893 book published in Birmingham.

Along with Mastroberardino there were dozens of producers exporting. Sadly, all this came to an end with the Second World War, which wrecked the agricultural economy of the south. When it was over, many growers left and went to work in factories in northern Italy. Those who stayed went for quantity rather than quality wines such as Taurasi.

Piero referred to it as “the cancellation of history. We were the only one remaining after the war”. It was a similar story in other parts of Italy; the tradition of making high quality export wine was lost and only rediscovered in recent years. Chianti still hasn’t recovered the great reputation it once had.

Taurasi, however, was different thanks to Piero’s grandfather Michel Mastroberardino and his three sons, Angelo, Antonio (Piero’s father) and Walter. Not only did the firm continue exporting, but they stuck with the local varieties such as Greco and Aglianico that had built the region’s reputation, whereas in Tuscany ambitious producers planted Bordeaux grapes to create so-called Super Tuscans like Sassicaia.

Hugh Johnson referred to Antonio Mastroberardino, who died in 2014, as the “grape archaeologist” for his role in preserving and uncovering Campania’s historic varieties.

Aglianico in taurasi is one of those perfect fits between land and grape like Nebbiolo in Barolo or Pinot Noir in Burgundy. The vines are grown in volcanic soils between 1,000 and 2,000 feet above sea level, so it’s cooler than you’d expect in southern Italy: harvests can be as late as November.

Consequently, far from the wine being to the sort of baked 16 per cent monster you might find in Puglia, Taurasi always has a freshness and acidity about it.

The family’s flagship is called Taurasi Radici, which appropriately enough means “root”. It has an amazing capacity to age; Piero has wines from the 19th century which are still apparently “very lively”. In 2013 he put on a vertical tasting of wines dating back to 1952, including the legendary 1968 Radici Riserva.

The vintage I tried recently was more modern, a 2017 Radici, but it showed what is so special about this wine: its uncanny combination of sturdiness and grace. The tannins are firm, though not as firm as Barolo, and underneath there’s a delicate red cherry and rose-petal quality with a pronounced volcanic bite, as if you were actually tasting the rocks where it’s grown. It’s a true terroir wine.

For many years, theirs was the only game in town. Now there are over 50 producers, most notably Quintodecimo, Feudi di San Gregorio and Terredora di Paolo, set up in 1997 by Walter Mastroberardino following what the Wine Spectator called “a family feud”. Piero played it down when I asked him about it: “It was not a split. I bought the shares off my uncle, and we remained the sole owners.”

Though the wines can be excellent, none of the rivals has the grandeur of Taurasi Radici. It’s surprisingly affordable for one of Italy’s greatest wines, around £35 — in comparison, Sassicaia will set you back £200 minimum.

Even so, with the exchange rate not as favourable as it was in 2004, Radici is a special occasion for me. Happily Mastroberadino also produces an Aglianico Irpinia at half the price which offers a great introduction to this historic grape.