Jane Hunter Growing a Legacy

Prologue

It was Commodore who first heard the knock. Dragging his entire 95 kg off the couch where he was sleeping, he lumbered to the front door. It had been the sound of tyres on the gravel that had woken him. That combined with the noise of the V8 engine which signalled his master was home again after another two-week absence. The St Bernard plodded out prepared to give a rapturous welcome home, only to be confounded by the knock. Surely his master hadn’t forgotten his keys?

The same sense of confusion was clouding Jane’s mind, wondering who on earth would come visiting at midnight. It wasn’t unusual for Ernie to have visitors as late as this but he wasn’t home. Confusion was replaced by dread when she opened the door to face two policemen. She didn’t need to ask; the answer was written on the men’s faces. Before a word had been spoken Jane knew that Ernie, her husband of three years, wasn’t coming home. In that one moment the axis of her world changed irrevocably.

Ernie, the gregarious larger-than-life Irishman whom she had married in 1984, had died in a head-on crash on the Christchurch motorway.

It was only a few days since she had last seen him, kissing him goodbye at Melbourne International Airport. The couple had been on one of their rare holidays together catching up with Jane’s family and doing what Ernie did best, selling wine. While Jane had come home to her job at Montana in Blenheim, Ernie saw an opportunity to sell wine in Tasmania. Never one to give up such a chance, he stayed on a few extra days before flying home to Christchurch. Instead of heading back to Blenheim immediately he stayed in the Garden City for a few days to conduct some business. On Monday night he decided to head for home despite protests from friends who believed he wasn’t in a state to drive the four hours. He should have stayed put and driven up the next day, but in typical Ernie fashion he was in a rush. His impatience cost him his life.

It was an explosive end to an explosive life. Ernie was only thirty-eight years old, Jane thirty-three.

His death, while a shock to all who knew him, was in many ways not unexpected. He lived life on the edge, always pushing the boundaries. When Jane rang his father Bill, in Belfast, he told her he had been expecting such a call. Ernie had had so many near misses as he lived life at a million miles an hour, it was to be expected he would never live to see old bones. ‘Ernie was always a daredevil and he wasn’t the best of drivers. It’s not something you think about but I guess if I had thought about it, something was bound to happen,’ Jane says.

From the moment she opened the door to face two stoic policemen, she existed in a miasma. People came and went, the phone rang continually, family overseas desperately tried to get flights to New Zealand and flowers arrived by the hundreds. So much so that Blenheim’s florists couldn’t fill all the orders—they literally ran out of stock. Workmates, associates, wine industry personnel and friends tried desperately to deflect some of the burden of trying to arrange a funeral that would fit in with family arrivals. It was all too much for Jane, a somewhat timid, shy and quietly spoken woman. ‘It’s all a bit of a blur really. People came from everywhere, people that I wouldn’t have really called my friends but they were friends of Ernie’s. They made sure I wasn’t alone.’

Jane had only been in New Zealand for a few years. All her immediate family lived overseas. Her mother and stepfather lived in Italy, her father, uncles and sisters were all in Australia and then there was Ernie’s family—based in Belfast, Ireland. The funeral had to wait for them all to arrive. Finally, a week after his death, the world got to say goodbye to Ernest Christopher Hunter.

Even that is a blur to Jane. She remembers they sang ‘How Great Thou Art’, and the 23rd Psalm was read. Terry Dunleavy, the CEO of the Wine Institute of New Zealand, gave the eulogy, and hundreds attended. Following his wishes, Jane arranged for Ernie to be cremated. ‘He had said to me he never wanted to be buried. He was such a free spirit, I didn’t want to do that to him either.’

An Irish wake was inevitable given Ernie’s propensity for a drink or two. For some of his friends it lasted two days. For Jane it was enough after a few hours. Especially when she was confronted by an employee of the Public Trust within hours of the funeral, who said he had to arrange a meeting to sort out the ownership of Hunter’s. ‘I couldn’t take any more. I just wanted to get out of there.’

She left, but a large number of Ernie’s friends stayed on at Hunter’s Restaurant, helping themselves to the wines that had made him a household name. Stories and tales of his escapades and achievements flowed almost as freely as the wine. Ernie may have died—but there were plenty who would never forget his sense of humour, loyalty, sheer gall, fiery temper, generosity, enthusiasm and determination. Wine writers throughout the country were quick to extol his achievements. Described as New Zealand’s unofficial wine ambassador, he had developed a wine company that had made the world sit up and take notice and in the process launched Marlborough as a quality wine-producing region. Montana’s chief executive Bryan Mogridge described Ernie as a ‘rampant attack on the world’.

Without him, could Hunter’s survive?

Chapter 1

Budburst

The beginning of the vine’s cycle, when the first shoots appear on the canes

When Ernie Hunter arrived in New Zealand in 1972, Marlborough had not even been considered as a potential wine-growing region. With smooth plains, braided by rivers and bounded by naturally imposing hills that create an ever-changing palette of colours, Marlborough’s landscape at the time was dotted with sheep and punctuated by crops.

Within twelve months, though, this little forgotten rural corner of New Zealand would be on its way to becoming the talk of the wine industry.

For the Irishman who had left a country racked by political and religious strife, the emergence of a new wine region was probably the last thing on his mind. Little did he know that the machinations of Montana, New Zealand’s largest wine company, would eventually change his life both professionally and personally. The choice of Marlborough as a potential wine region was initially investigated by Montana with cloak-and-dagger-style secrecy. The company was keen to expand its holdings in New Zealand but land prices in the known wine regions of the North Island were considered exorbitant. The Board of Directors began looking outside Gisborne and Hawke’s Bay for suitable land that would be cost effective. The investigation turned up the possibility of Marlborough, a small rural land base better known for its high sunshine hours than anything else. Sunshine, combined with a variety of soil types ranging from silty alluvial loams over gravelly sub soils through to clay and compacted silts, promised exciting new grape-growing possibilities. The decision was made to buy as much suitable land as possible without anyone knowing they were the interested party. Basically they wanted to ensure there wasn’t a blow-out in land prices. To achieve that goal they began to make enquiries under the auspices of a dummy company, Cloudy Bay Developments. Their first point of contact was the Blenheim real estate firm Pyne Gould Guinness. The job of finding the land was given to John Marris, a young stock agent keen on getting into real estate. He was asked if he could locate up to 1200 hectares of land within the next twenty-four hours. John did better than that; he rang his farming clients and within the time frame came up with a potential 2900 hectares. After visiting the region, Montana settled on 1173 hectares, paying out a total of $1,345,425.00—an average of $1146.00 a hectare. Those farmers who did sell were extremely happy with the deal, especially given the average price for a hectare of farmland in Marlborough at that time was around $250.00.

It was the beginning of the Marlborough wine industry.

As Montana was making its moves into the sleepy little hamlet of Marlborough, Ernie was settling into his new life in Wellington. The twenty-three-year-old was already establishing himself as a man once met, never forgotten. Oozing personality, Ernie had the appearance of a man who didn’t really care about his looks. With tousled grey hair, beguiling smile, and eyes that were always in laugh mode, he exuded vigour. He was the embodiment of Irish personality both good and bad, and it’s fair to say he had the type of personality that spawns legends. But there was another side to Ernie. He had the cunning of a fox according to many who did business with him. And his fiery temper was renowned.

‘Boy could he blow,’ says Bill Walsh, the first grower to supply Ernie with grapes. Describing Ernie as being like a son to him, Bill says his close relationship didn’t ensure his immunity from temperamental blasts. ‘We had some real beaut arguments I can tell you. But once he got it off his chest he was back to his charming self. And boy could he charm. He had more charm in his little finger than most people have in their entire bodies.’

There were few people who knew Ernie who didn’t suffer from his temper at some stage or other. According to Jane he was always falling out with people.

But that made him even more interesting, says his lawyer David Dew, who despite his professional position was also not saved from Ernie’s temper. ‘With Ernie, when things were going smoothly he didn’t like it. If there wasn’t something happening, a bit of conflict, he would get upset. But then again he would always apologise and if we had had a row he would arrive with a bottle of wine the next day.’

The Irish personality went far beyond the charm and lilting accent. Ernie was also the classic storyteller. Just how much of what he told you was the truth, however, is debatable. But that again was part of his charm. Well-known music entrepreneur and close friend Stewart MacPherson says you took everything he told you with a pinch of salt. ‘Sometimes it was a shovelful of salt. He would definitely embellish a story—to make it fit.’

For all that, though, Ernie was one of the most entertaining people you could come across. David Dew says law practice was never the same after Ernie died. ‘He would probably have been the most entertaining client you could ever have. But at the same time he was the most trying. He would ring you up at three in the morning with a bright idea and want you to act on it. Then he would arrive the next morning with bottles of French Champagne to apologise for ringing so late. He was entertaining and interesting and I guess you don’t come across many people like that in your lifetime.’

Born in Ulster in 1949, Ernie was the second of three children. His father was a Protestant policeman, his stepmother a Catholic teacher. He told friends there had been occasions when parties from both sides of the fence threatened to blow the family home up. But given Ernie’s propensity to exaggeration it’s unsure whether there is any truth in that.

Maybe it isn’t surprising that Ernie ended up on this side of the world, given how difficult times were in Ireland in the early 1970s. You were a marked man no matter which side of the fence you sat on. Managing to stay friendly with both Catholics and Protestants, he kept out of the secular fighting. Honing what were to become his trademark entrepreneurial skills, he took on odd jobs as a youngster and by the time he was sixteen he had his own bank account. That may not seem like much but in Ireland it was a huge deal, as banks were not supposed to open accounts for minors. Maybe more of the Hunter blarney had paved the way.

Musically inclined (though not in terms of playing), Ernie owned a music store, which in turn was the front for him running dances, becoming a sound engineer and touring bands. He knew the price of any instrument you cared to ask for, even if he could never play a single note on any of them. While he has been described as generous to a fault, he wasn’t a man to try to cheat, as clients were quick to discover. Despite curfews, Ernie would think nothing of using the night hours to repossess items if he had to.

It was on one such night that he came across two young boys standing in the street, hurling abuse at each other and exchanging punches. Though barely old enough to talk, the boys had learned the permeating hatred towards opposite religions and were vocalising that in true Irish style. It disgusted Ernie and he would later say it summed up what Ireland had become. It was time to get out.

His Uncle Ernie, who had been in the merchant navy, had passed on tales of this magic land at the bottom of the earth. A land where anything was possible, where the people were friendly and the opportunities endless. Ernie’s older brother Ian had already been swept up with the magic of his uncle’s tales and was currently living in New Zealand. Ernie was determined to join him. ‘He always said if he had stayed in Ireland, he would have had to take one side or the other, that was his personality,’ Jane says. ‘So he decided it was time to get out.’

Ernie set about selling his prized possessions, which included three cars, and making his travel plans to leave his homeland. While he would return three times in the next fifteen years, Ernie would never stay for more than a week. He said goodbye to his old life and began preparing to welcome in his new one in New Zealand’s capital, Wellington. Initially he got into the restaurant trade and later had what Stewart MacPherson describes as a ‘very dodgy disco on Oriental Parade’. But Wellington wasn’t what Ernie had expected. He stayed put for only twelve months, before the lure of the South called him. He moved to Christchurch, where his first foray into business was to establish a fruit and vegetable market. There is little opportunity for an entrepreneurial, party-loving Irishman in the fruit and veggie market, so it comes as no surprise that Ernie quickly began looking further afield. And for someone of his nature, the liquor industry was just the thing. With two fellow Irish expatriates and a pooling of resources, Ernie took over the ownership of Warner’s Imperial Hotel and Bottle Store.

Together the three men began to revolutionise the liquor trade, which up until this time had been very much a closed shop. Prices were set and adhered to by all outlets, something that was anathema to Ernie. He began discounting spirits and, in particular, beer. Other outlets were forced to do the same, to ensure they kept their clientele. The discounting continued until it reached almost ludicrously low levels. In the end, discounted prices weren’t enough to attract new clients so Ernie had to come up with new marketing ideas. Promotions such as placing a grand piano in the bar, via the roof (it got far more publicity than bringing it through the doors), helped, but it was only a one off. He needed something even more novel, so he came up with the idea of giving away a free chicken with every crate of beer bought. The only problem was that Ernie forgot to explain the chickens weren’t frozen. In fact, they weren’t even dead. It wasn’t long before an official tapped him on the shoulder and explained to the charismatic Irishman that maybe it wasn’t such a good look for customers to be leaving Warner’s Imperial Bottle Store lugging a crate of beer under one arm and a live chicken under the other.

His entrepreneurial skills weren’t limited to the discounting of alcohol. Ernie also claimed to have established New Zealand’s first singles bar as well as Canterbury’s first wine bar. It was at this time he became acquainted with Bill Turner, a man almost double Ernie’s age. Bill owned a small lifestyle block on the outskirts of Christchurch, ironically in a suburb called Belfast. An entrepreneur in his own right, he was growing fruit, flowers and vegetables, with a stall servicing traffic on the main highway. He was also producing cider and apple wines, which were in stock at Warner’s Bottle Store. By 1976 he had established a trial five-hectare block of grapes—the second commercial vineyard in Christchurch.

Chatting about the potential, Bill and Ernie saw the need to extend the range of wines and ciders Bill was currently producing. By this stage Marlborough’s first grapes had come on stream and the reaction to the ensuing wines had been positive. Ernie decided if Bill could grow grapes in Canterbury, he would look at investing in Marlborough. Then maybe they could blend the two regions together using Bill’s cider factory as a winery. On one of his many visits to Marlborough he went ahead and purchased a substantial 26-hectare block of land in the heart of Rapaura. In 1979 this area was renowned for its barley and lucerne. These days it is known as the Golden Mile of the Marlborough wine industry. The land was expensive at $3000 a hectare, almost double the price of other rural land being sold at the time. In typical Ernie fashion, he didn’t have the money to pay for the purchase, so he arranged a delayed settlement. The first payment of $50,000 was due in 1982, the remainder was delayed until 1985. In the meantime, he had to pay rent on the property and homestead that was included with the land. With the luck of the Irish, some could say, land prices rose substantially in the following years and by the time he came to pay for his block it had become somewhat of a bargain.

Still based in Christchurch, Ernie commuted to Blenheim to oversee the planting of (Rhine) Riesling, Gewürztraminer, Müller Thurgau, Cabernet Sauvignon and later Sauvignon Blanc. Despite his investment in the region, he had no initial intention of basing himself in Marlborough. Instead, he intended trucking his fruit to Christchurch and, along with Bill Turner, creating wines to rock the New Zealand market. By the end of 1981, the vineyard was planted and Ernie was starting to revel in his role as a landowner. He decided his quaint Marlborough homestead was the perfect spot for a New Year’s Eve party. Among the many guests were two young Germans who had been holidaying in New Zealand. Almuth Lorenz and Thomas Reckart were winemakers and had been brought to the party by Steve Carter, Penfolds New Zealand’s South Island Viticultural Manager. Just prior to midnight, before all the kissing and Auld Lang Synes started, Almuth and Thomas singled Ernie out to thank him for the evening. Inevitably the conversation turned to winemaking—something that was on Ernie’s mind at the time. Almuth apparently told him she was a winemaker and challenged him to make some wine. Full of bluster, especially after hours of drinking, Ernie agreed to her suggestion. She must have made quite an impression because despite the party and the inevitable sore head the next morning, he didn’t forget their conversation. Neither did the young German. Three-and-a-half months later she was ensconced in Bill Turner’s old cider factory in Belfast, desperately trying to make the most of the antiquated equipment Ernie had procured to make wine. Perhaps antiquated is too kind a word. After vintage, Ernie described the equipment as ‘bloody prehistoric’. Everything was either former cider-making gear or borrowed pieces from a friend’s brewery.

Grapes were brought in from Marlborough and blended with those from Bill Turner’s Lochbuie property. Arriving in an ale tanker in the middle of the night, they were juiced in an old apple screwpress before settling in former beer tanks. When it came time to bottle the wine there was no sophisticated mechanisation. Almuth, Ernie and Bill did it all by hand prior to placing the hastily created Hunter’s Wine labels on the bottles, again by hand.

It was a vintage of passion and that must have shown in the wines, because from that first vintage Hunter’s won six medals at the National Wine Show, three silver and three bronze. The 1982 Müller Thurgau Dry was just a fraction off being awarded gold. If Ernie ever needed confirmation he was doing the right thing, the wine awards were it. He was completely and totally hooked. The man of a ‘million dreams’ had big plans. ‘He said to Almuth, as the legend goes, that if you want to come back and make wine in New Zealand, then I will build you a winery,’ Jane says.

Known for his ability to exaggerate, it’s to Almuth’s credit that she did actually return in early 1983. And true to his word, Ernie had built her a winery. But not without encountering rural prejudices and jealousy. In October 1982, with his wine awards under his belt, Ernie applied to the Waimairi District Council (which administered the area north of Christchurch) to build a new winery. The site was 97A Englefield Road, a rural-based area on the outskirts of the Belfast suburb. These days the area is renowned for its expensive homes and beautiful gardens. Back then, though, it seemed the perfect spot for a winery, well away from the hustle and bustle of urban life. Ernie’s aim was to produce 12,500 cases annually from the winery, and he planned to sell his liquor industry interests in Christchurch to fund the building.

There were numerous objections and the Council didn’t appear enthusiastic about the possibility of a winery within its boundaries. What’s more, the Canterbury wine industry wasn’t too keen either. The fact that Ernie had blended Marlborough and Canterbury grapes was just too much for some of them to deal with. Choking on their Rieslings, they complained that he was ‘destroying the purity of Canterbury’s name as a top wine