Wright started farming conventionally in the 1990s, pushing yields on vines planted in 1993. But 20 years ago, eyeing a drying climate, he pivoted. “I foresaw this 20 years ago and weaned the vines off water,” he says of his move to strip away modern viticultural crutches. Now his “slimmed down version of biodynamics” defies the Margaret River norm of lush cabernet and chardonnay from rich soils (a regional style that constitutes over 20% of Australia’s premium bottles). “Like the bush, my food source in the vineyard is leaffall, twigfall, dying grass … animal manure and rain,” he explains. Rows sit 3.5m apart and vines 2m apart, pruned lightly to ensure sprawling canopies. “I’m an advocate of leaf [cover] and dappled light,” Wright says. As such, he avoids trellis systems with the aim of easing ripening gently. All fruit is hand-picked, and Wright applies a small dose of sulphur to tackle powdery mildew – a dreaded fungal disease that can easily damage grapes – when it flares.
Unlike Australia’s more polished biodynamic estates – say, in Beechworth or McLaren Vale – Wright’s approach is rawer. “The biodynamic aim is to establish a self sustaining property, just like the bush,” he says. Cattle and sheep graze post-harvest, their manure scattered by a light harrow. No roads mark the land; Wright constantly varies his work routes to avoid soil compaction. Weeds stay, but are mowed to let native grasses thrive. “I think I’m seeing less weeds, but I’m not wanting to eliminate them as they are an essential part of diversity,” he muses. The resulting vineyard is anything but manicured – instead, it’s scrappy and real.
Wright’s philosophy of vineyard management owes much to Alex Podolinsky, a 1950s biodynamic pioneer who urged growers to observe rather than dictate. “Podalinsky taught us Active Perception: get out of the ute … just walk your patch regularly, and soon you begin to see things,” Wright recalls. “There is an intelligence in nature that we have underestimated.” Wright doesn’t actively chase vine health or fruit quality, which are seen as incidental bonuses to the main work of creating a self-sustaining ecosystem. “I don’t seek to improve fruit quality nor soil health,” he insists. “I see that as intervention.” Yields flux – last year they soared with the marri trees’ (the local eucalypts) heavy flowering, while this year they dip low. “Plants know when to rest,” he says. He grafts new shoots onto old roots – like cabernet onto chenin in 2000 – and implements a radical reworking program to build more resistant vines, training up sucker shoots from older vines onto cordon wire when he sees them emerge. “After a year I cut off the old vine just above the ground,” he explains. “That [new] vine is watered and fed by the old vine.”
The site shapes the wine. “The site is … sandy loam with clay and gravel. Not too rich, but not poor,” Wright says. Yallingup’s warmth fends off botrytis – the famous fungal rot, whose impact is not always ‘noble’ – and free-range ducks and geese act as a natural anti-pest patrol. Cooling sea breezes, thick canopies, and unmowed grass under the vines temper the region’s summer heat, slowing the sugar ripening process to allow for more flavour ripeness in the harvested grapes. “It is warmth that ripens fruit, but sunlight delivers too much,” Wright argues. His approach lets flavour build in step with sugar, so the resulting wines stay dry, crisp, and full-flavoured – the chenin green-edged, the cabernet harvested at 13.5 Baumé and vinified via open ferment. “I believe I do have a unique terroir that reflects the site because I don’t do anything really except prune,” Wright says. The fruit is mostly used for Wright’s own label, with some fruit going to Nic Peterkin’s L.A.S. Vino project.
Wright flipped viticultural norms early. “I was I think the first to let the pasture grow under the vine,” he recalls, rejecting fears of water competition that drive others to a bare-soil approach. Cattle in the vineyard? He was an early adopter, too. “I think my whole approach of not helping the vine is novel,” he adds. After switching to his hands-off approach, his yields halved, but the vines toughened. Now he seeks to further toughen the vines by adapting his sucker shoot reworking process in the absence of sucker shoots, grafting his own material in at the base of older vines to form the new shoots that will soon become the sole beneficiaries of the vine’s dveloped root systems. Wright’s hope is that this hardening process may eventually mildew-proof the vineyard. “Maybe after successive generations the vines will become immune to powdery [mildew],” he says.
Wright skips viticultural trials in favour of an all-in approach. “I let the vines grow naturally and intervene as little as possible and accept the flavours produced,” he says. The Margaret River suits all his varieties, their ripening slowed by breeze and shade. “We’re at the top end … and therefore it is warmer and a bit dryer,” he notes. His site’s distinction? Minimalism. “My site is special because I don’t do anything except prune,” he insists.
Sustainability drives Wright’s work. “Grow naturally, emphasise biodiversity, don’t force a plant to grow,” he says. Along one of the creeks on his property, he’s slowed erosion with barriers, creating a floodplain to hold moisture and salt, which he keeps off-limits to livestock in summer. “Whatever falls is left on the ground, creating habitat,” he adds. The climate has shifted – drier, warmer – but he’s ready for what comes next. “I foresaw this 20 years ago,” he says of his approach to climate change mitigation via canopy management and grafts. Next on his agenda? “Slow and steady,” he shrugs.
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