The five basic human senses are sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch. The sixth, paranormal ability. The seventh? David Nieuwoudt.
David and the Cederberg team invited me to spend a few days with them at the tail end of harvest, alongside a small group of industry people, all there for the same reason – the wines, in one form or another. Strangers at the start, and somewhere between punch-downs and late dinners, no longer. I’m told this is not the kind of invitation you decline. At the time, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was saying yes to – which, in hindsight, was exactly the point.
This is my story of Cederberg, and of an experience that, at the very least, rewired a neural pathway or two.
Back home, and for once properly on holiday, I found myself on the stoep of a house in Aurora – a place where you can quite literally watch the main road arrive before it leaves again. In hand, a glass of Glup Chenin Blanc – a small Chilean detour I’ll come back to.
“Is this one of your trend wines?” Eckart, my husband, asked.
Somewhere between my answer and the last sip, it struck me how much I’d learnt, how much I’d come to love, and how comfortable I was leaving the harder science to someone else entirely. Not a bad place to land, all things considered, stepping into a new role with a deeper appreciation for everything it takes.
Standing in the Cederberg cellar, being told we were about to take pH and sugar readings from a block we had harvested earlier that morning, there was a very real, very shared fear that we might somehow derail the entire harvest with one incorrect reading.
Comfortingly, that fear was collective.
If there’s one thing the team at Cederberg has, beyond a clear skill for making great wine, it’s patience – and a very good sense of humour. From there, we were assigned tasks with an efficiency that made it clear this was not a place for spectators. Punch-downs. Tank cleaning. Unwrapping new barrels. Swelling them. Destemming. And, of course, tasting – often, and always with intent, even in its earliest, unfinished forms. These weren’t quick stops at a tasting room between shifts. We moved through tank and barrel tastings, with David walking us through the nuances of barrel types, cooper styles, and just how much influence they carry through to the final wine. We stayed with one cultivar at a time, which forced a kind of focus that’s easy to skip in everyday tasting.
At every lunch, we were treated to a selection of wines ranging from the Five Generations Chenin 2015 to Bukketraube 2025 – which, call me late, was a real treat to discover. Dinner followed much the same rhythm, paired with stories that felt like something out of a Little Golden Books series.
Enter Ghost Corner.
Not just because the bottles are meticulously wrapped and thoughtfully designed, but because the experience of drinking the wine itself feels just as considered. From the first pour to the last glass you didn’t quite plan on, it stays with you. It’s the kind of wine that reminds you why people collect, not just consume. The Ghost Corner Semillon is where it started for me, even before this trip. From Elim, it leans into citrus – lemon and lime – with a quiet thread of tropical fruit. The Ghost Corner Pinot Noir sits in contrast. From the same coastal influence, but an entirely different mood – more serious, more structured, and quietly confident. Where the Semillon lifts, the Pinot grounds.
The Five Generations Chenin and Five Generations Cabernet Sauvignon sit just beyond that – a series that deserves its own moment, and likely its own story.
So perhaps that’s what the seventh sense is, if anything – not something you see or explain, but something you feel long after you’ve left.
And, in this case, perhaps a little bit of David, too.
My two-year-old's up. Part two will have to wait.