Contemplating complantation may not be the sexiest of titles, but in a volatile world of climate change and uncertainty perhaps it’s time to look back in shaping the future. ‘Back to the Future’ if you will (40 years old this year can you believe it, “Great Scott”?).

So, what is complantation? Succinctly, it’s the method of growing and harvesting different grape varieties together on a single plot. Once widespread, the practice virtually disappeared after phylloxera in the late 19th century, when vineyards were replanted along mono-varietal lines. Today the question is whether this old method could be the future for vineyards keen to challenge the norm of single-varietal planting.

In the long-shadowed vineyards of Alsace, the question is especially resonant: can field blends—or complantation en Français—speak to a deeper truth about terroir than varietal expression ever could? Domaine Marcel Deiss, a renowned biodynamic winery, has long championed the practice. Maverick winemaker Jean-Michel Deiss and his wife Marie-Hélène see complantation not as nostalgia but as a vital path forward.

“We don’t want the same thing everywhere. Biodiversity and ecosystems are important to try to make a vineyard healthy because each grape variety does not use the same minerals in the soil. They don’t react in the same way to disease, or to frost,” Marilyn explains.

For them, their wines speak volumes. Complantation is no sentimental nod to the past; it is a deliberate rewilding of viticulture, an agricultural philosophy bold enough to challenge the varietal orthodoxy of the appellation system itself.

Deiss and the Gospel of Terroir

Marcel Deiss’s vineyards in Bergheim frequently use complantation—field blends of Riesling, Pinot Gris, Muscat, Sylvaner, Pinot Beurot and others. For Deiss, varietal identity is secondary to the character of place: terroir, exposure, soil, and tradition together shape the wine’s voice. “The wine should taste like the land,” he insists. By harvesting all varieties at once and vinifying them together, he believes he is listening to the land without human bias.

The results? Often mesmerising. Deiss wines shimmer with minerality, oscillate between acid drive and phenolic grip, and evoke not a single grape but a kaleidoscopic lens through which the vineyard’s character is revealed. Yet they also demand a recalibration of the taster’s expectations. These are not wines to be parsed varietally, but to be understood as site narratives.

Humbrecht’s Precision Lens

Not all in Alsace share Deiss’ vision. Olivier Humbrecht MW of Domaine Zind-Humbrecht is celebrated for biodynamic farming and benchmark varietal wines. His philosophy highlights varietal transparency as the clearest way to explore terroir, and he has pointed to the practical challenges of complantation—different ripening cycles, disease pressures, and vineyard treatments—which make it a less attractive path for his Domaine.

Théo Lieber-Faller and Domaine Weinbach

The debate is not confined to Deiss and Humbrecht. Theo Lieber-Faller of Domaine Weinbach offers a perspective that bridges the divide:
“I believe in the idea of a field blend, but I’m not a hundred percent advocate of single varieties. Getting away from 100 percent varietal planting could be a good thing, especially as we face climate change.”

For Lieber-Faller, complantation may not be a dogma, but it is a pragmatic evolution—one that encourages resilience without abandoning the typicity that has long defined Alsace.

Down in the Douro: Boa Vista and Biodiversity

The echoes of this debate extend far beyond Alsace, into the schistous terraces of Portugal’s Douro Valley. At Quinta da Boa Vista—now owned by Sogevinus—old vineyards of mixed varieties are not only preserved but celebrated.

Unlike Deiss, Boa Vista doesn’t foreground complantation as philosophy. Rather, it is historical pragmatism—an ancestral method reappraised for its resilience in the face of climate change. Their Oratório site, planted in 1930 with more than 25 varieties including Touriga Nacional and Tinta Roriz, demonstrates how field blends create wines of layered complexity and, importantly, adaptability. One grape’s weakness in drought may be offset by another’s resilience.

Oenologist Ricardo Macedo here acknowledges the importance of such vineyards but notes: “A couple of years ago, this type of wine was the type of wine drunk a Douro wine, but then the tendency has been changing toward fresher wines.”

In essence, while these wines are celebrated, stylistically the trend is moving away from the higher-alcohol styles that complantation tends to produce in the Douro’s hot climate.

Conclusion: Complexity or Confusion?

So, is complantation the ultimate articulation of terroir, or a romanticised jumble? That depends on your philosophical commitments.
If you believe that terroir is the sum of its ecological parts that its articulation should not be filtered through the prism of varietal character, then Deiss’ vision is compelling. If, like Humbrecht, you value varietal precision, where the grape is the fixed variable against the fluctuating constant of place, then single-variety wines remain essential.

Théo Lieber-Faller offers a moderating view: embracing field blends as a practical response to climate change while acknowledging the continued role of varietals in Alsace’s identity. Boa Vista shows a third way: complantation not as doctrine, but as quiet resilience.
Perhaps that’s the point. In a world facing climate change and shifting tastes, looking back at older methods may be the best way forward. The future of complantation, like Doc Brown’s vision, isn’t about sticking to fixed paths. “Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.”

One thing is certain: complantation, once dismissed as anachronism, is now part of the evolving dialogue on how we define wine’s truest voice. And like all good dialogues, it resists a final answer.

Photo by John Schaidler on Unsplash