Spain has more land planted with vines than any other country — around 920,000 hectares, and shrinking a little every year. It makes less wine than that figure suggests, because much of it is old bush vines spread thinly across dry, hot ground, low-yielding and often farmed without irrigation. That combination of scale and scarcity is a useful way in: Spain is enormous, but the parts worth knowing are often small and very specific.
The geography does the rest. The north-west corner catches Atlantic rain and grows crisp, salty whites. The central plateau sits high — vineyards above 750 metres are ordinary in Ribera del Duero — so days are hot, nights are cold, and the reds keep their acidity. The far south bakes, which is why Jerez turned instead to fortifying and long ageing. Spain also has a habit almost no other country shares: many bodegas age the wine for you and release it when it is ready. A Rioja Gran Reserva has spent five years in the cellar before it reaches a shop. Elsewhere, that waiting would be your job.
What Spanish wine tastes like
Spanish reds are built around Tempranillo, and Tempranillo tastes of red plum, dried strawberry and leather, with medium tannin — grippy but not harsh. What changes is the dressing. Traditional Rioja spends years in American oak, which adds coconut, vanilla and dill and turns the fruit savoury and gentle. Ribera del Duero and Toro, higher and hotter, give you the same grape at full volume: darker, denser, more tannic.
Grenache — Garnacha in Spanish — brings sweet red fruit and warmth, and in Priorat it becomes concentrated and stony. The whites go the other way. Albariño is citrus and sea spray, Verdejo is grassy with a bitter-almond finish, Godello sits between them with a little more weight.
Sherry is its own world: bone dry, salty and nutty, and nothing like the sweet stuff in the back of a cupboard.







