Grange thrill

Australia's premier wine first appeared in 1951, a time when Australia drank virtually nothing but fortified wines. But Grange's creator Max Schubert had a vision that the country could make world-class, long-lived reds. The idea had come to him when he was sent to Spain - to learn how to make sherry. Stopping off in Bordeaux he tasted his first mature claret and the notion of an Australian equivalent was formed.

However, when he showed his 1952 Grange to his bosses the reaction was hostile. In fact, they banned Schubert from making it and he had to vinify the 1957, 1958 and 1959 vintages in secret. It wasn't until the Sydney Show in 1962 that Grange was given another public airing. The 1955 won gold, Max was vindicated and a legend was born.

Though claret was its inspiration, Grange has always been Shiraz-based (until 1991, a small percentage of Cabernet was also added) and is a red imbued with the power of South Australia's baked soil. Key to its silky power, intense fruit character and robust structure is the use of old vine material from select vineyards. The source can vary every year, though Grange is always based around fruit from venerable vines in the Barossa, normally partnered by material from McLaren Vale. Coonawarra, Clare, Magill and Padthaway are also used.

Oak aged

Fermented in small batches, the wine is finished off in new US oak, aged in the same wood for 18 months and then given a further four years of bottle maturation. It is complex, perfumed and lushly fruited yet firmly structured. Exotic spices, pure fruit (raspberry as well as blackberry) and a slowly evolving fragrant/savoury quality are signature notes. Don't even think about opening one until it's a teenager.

At a recent tasting of 15 vintages, the wines from the 1990s were appealing, but still full of pent up potential. Of recent vintages, 1994 was massively complex, velvety and powerful; 1992 was tighter; 1991 was huge, opulent, exotic and elegant, mixing concentrated black fruit, tobacco and earthy spice; the 1990 was the most open, with pure, mulberry-like fruit and mature savouriness beginning to be laid on top.

If you want Grange to drink you have to go back to the 1980s. The 1989 was still young, with concentrated, squishy black cherry, chocolate and mint; 1988 was tougher, mixing essence of black fruit with meaty, earthy power; 1987 was ready, with exotic touches of wild mushroom, raspberry compote and silky tannins. The 1986 was a highlight - ripe, concentrated pastille-like fruits mixed with tarry/chocolate-covered cherry and velvety tannins.

Compared with that (and with an elegant savoury/leathery, crushed bramble 1984) the 1985 seemed slightly muted. The 1983 was close to being the wine of the tasting: a soft, seductive, velvety nose but bang full of chewy black fruit and fine tannins.

The wines from the 1970s were more of a mixed bag: the 1978 had fruits still on show, while the 1976 was a gorgeous mouthful of faded rose petal and Vegemite on toast; but the 1975 was fading fast and the 1973 and 1972 had little to give. That said, the 1970 had a certain grumbly charm, like a beloved great-uncle muttering away in a leather armchair.

Paying the price

Sadly, you'll have to pay for the privilege of trying any of them. A 1951 went for Aus$35,000 (£12,000) last year, and virginwines.com is offering the 1985 and 1991 for £160 and £203 per bottle respectively.

Is it worth it? As with all iconic wines you are paying not just for rarity - and this is a small batch wine compared with the thousands of cases produced in Bordeaux's first growths - but for image and experience. Grange's 50-year evolution parallels Australia's fast-changing wine industry, from ignored oddity to world-beater, and it deserves to be at the top table. But maybe the reason I'm reluctant to pay more than £100 a bottle for Grange isn't down to the quality of the wine, but because I remember trying (and failing) to sell it at £13 a bottle in the 1980s. There were few takers and the staff bought most of the stock, giving me my first experience of a world-class wine. These days the entry to the Grange club is way beyond my means.

Perhaps it was inevitable, and I'm glad for Max Schubert's memory and for his successor John Duval's modest persistence that the world has finally accepted its greatness. But I'm sad that Grange has gone from the one glimpse of the classic elite that most punters could afford to become another cult wine and plaything of investors and millionaires.