The breadth of cider’s flavour is extraordinary, the depth of its potential beyond anything we have yet imagined, but the jewel in its crown is tannin.

This is not, obviously, to dismiss or reduce the importance and quality of cider without tannin, which include many of the best I have ever tasted. Egremont Russet, Golden Russet, Discovery, Gravenstein, Ashmead’s Kernel – ciders made from apples like these occupy no small portion of my heart and bottle rack. Foxwhelp has tannin, but that’s certainly not why it’s my joint favourite apple. The great ciders of Kent, of Norway, of Germany, of America, of Poland and of dozens of countries besides are every bit the equal of the best made in Somerset or Herefordshire or Normandy. But tannic ciders are special. 

On the face of it, tannic apples – bittersweets and bittersharps – are stupid nonsense. You can’t eat them, for starters. Many of them are irritating to grow, biennial and uneven in their ripening – a great problem with tannic apples than with sharps or sweets, since unripeness will heighten astringency. Tannic cider is a more delicate tightrope than cider without tannin, since most people (though not all, before someone pipes up) have a lower threshold for bitterness than they do for acidity, and the particular nature of tannic bitterness; that lingering, gum-puckering grip is in any case unfamiliar to the majority of consumers.

Tannins require careful management if a cider is not to express itself as unpalatably astringent. If the apples are not ripe enough or if the cider is drunk too early or in the wrong conditions, the majority of people will be put off. Tannic cider is fussier than non-tannic about how it is served; where cider without tannins is served too warm it might be sulky and a little flat, a tannic cider served cold – as is the default cider serving for most pubs and people around the world – will be angry and clenched and bitter and will show it. In my younger and more vulnerable years I had bittersweet cider straight from the fridge and wondered through cold, coarse mouthfuls quite what it was that I wasn’t getting.

Tannic cider, then, is hard work. It requires understanding from orchard to glass; from grower and maker and consumer. It requires time and care and nurture, and most people can’t be bothered so they find shortcuts.

These shortcuts manifest most obviously in the macro ciders of the west country and three counties. Taste a Strongbow (Heineken) or a Thatchers for instance and the alleged classic style of the west – the boldness, robustness, body and intensity – is conspicuous by its absence. The entire trajectory of big cider’s history in the last 60 years has been to march consciously away from the actual flavours and styles of bittersweet apples in their practice, whilst retaining the bucolic, west-country, orchardy vibes as hard as possible in their marketing. The concentrates, the grubbing up and replanting of bittersweet orchards, the chaptalisations and heavy filtrations, the artificial sweetener and dilution, all this is, in part, to anaesthetise the textural effect of bittersweet and bittersharp cider, to make something more anodyne and easy and quick to produce.

Yet the sweetening and dilution of bittersweet cider is not confined to only the biggest producers. Tannins take time to soften of their own accord and since sweetening and dilution are the quickest and cheapest shortcuts, even ciders under the umbrella of ‘craft’ take these routes in search of a product acceptable to a broader audience in a shorter space of time, understandably influenced by the gallons of keg cider from macro brands flowing ubiquitously from pub taps across the country. And in the process the true character and potential of cider made from bittersweet and bittersharp apples is diluted, compromised or lost.

Great full juice tannic cider – and especially great dry full-juice tannic cider – is the hardest style of all to make. It takes so much time, care, understanding and love. But when that care is taken, when tannic cider is done as well as it can be, the results are the most evocative, textural, flavourful and compelling ciders of all; a category unparalleled across the world of drinks.  

These are not shy, retiring, mumbling ciders. These are drinks that boom and roll and thunder; ciders of pomp and majesty; unparalleled in their depth, their breadth, their dimension. Ciders that not only pair with food, but which literally bind with it, joining in a whole greater than the sum of its parts. To match a tannic cider with protein-rich food is to partake in the seemingly magical unlocking of a hidden layer of fruits. These are drinks for people who revel in flavour; drinks that are part of the broad gastronomic tapestry, unforgettable drinks that weave spells.

What’s more they are drinks made in meaningful quantity in only two places in the world. Bittersweet and bittersharp apple orchards – orchards with no conceivable purpose but the facilitation of cider – are planted in significant number only in the west of England and just over the Welsh border, and in the North-West of France. Dry bittersweet cider really has no real home but the former. Cidermakers around the world, from central Europe to Australia to North America look on these orchards with envy, planting and harvesting whatever tannic fruit they can. Bittersweet and bittersharp apples are, simply, a treasure.

Nothing gives me more joy than a cider which expresses these fruits to their fullest. Ciders which have been given time and nurture and, possibly, oak. Which have allowed their tannins to unclench, their fruits to unfurl and which have reached fullness of expression. These are ciders which can win hearts and change minds. Ciders which can live for years, which can grace tables both farmhouse and restaurant; ciders which, whatever their pricepoint, can be the special occasion in and of themselves. Ciders to fall in love with.

We live in a time when big flavours are being explored and accepted more than ever before. An age of craft beers, single malt whiskies and cask strength bourbon. An age of gutsy, bitter cocktails, robust malts and intense hops. This predilection is reflected in the food we eat; her in the UK our choice has never been broader, the influence of cuisines from around the world introducing our minds and palates to more flavourful, textural dishes than ever.

This should be a world for bittersweet cider to revel in; its tannins, its structure, its enormousness, its gustatory glory, far from something to shy away from, its veritable ace in the hole. What’s more, though tannin has been the focus of this ramble, it comprises merely a fraction of the olfactory magnificence of bittersweet and bittersharp apples; a scaffolding for a world of flavour mind-boggling in its breadth, from the orange and vanilla of Dabinett to the mouthfilling jellied fruit of Brown Snout, the indulgent, Christmassy spice of Yarlington Mill, honeysuckle and waxy yellow fruits of Harry Masters’ Jersey and so many many thousand flavours besides.

Bittersweets and bittersharps are the biggest characters in our drink’s cask. The ones that make the loudest statement. As is the nature of all loud statements, they won’t be for everyone – just as peated whisky, high ester rum, fortified wines and West Coast IPA aren’t. But for those who love them – and I am convinced there would be many – nothing else will scratch the same itch. Because it is always the biggest, most memorable flavours that inspire the deepest devotion.

In the spirit of sounding the bugle for bittersweets, today I have a trio from a producer completely new to these pages and to me, and which – as is often the way, I’m afraid – have been eyeing me reproachfully for review for far too long, waiting for the right angle.

In fact this trio possibly suffered from a surfeit of possible angles I could have taken in their discussion. As all the very best people do they hail from a CH postcode, though are disappointingly from the Cheshire, rather than Wirral, section. Torn Plant – an excellent name for a cidery which almost unbelievably derives from the surnames of the two founders – are a relatively new producer based in the Delamere Forest.

I’ve had these ciders since midway through 2022 I believe, when I came across them at Middle Farm, knowing nothing about the cidery. I was impressed by the level of transparency on their labels – varieties and methods fully disclosed – and intrigued by the concept of (I presume) the same blend of two bittersweets fermented to dryness with different yeasts and in different casks.

Before I had found their angle though, they became even more intriguing, when Pellicle named Torn Plant in their top 3 cider producers of 2022 as well as one of their Trendsetters and Trailblazers for 2023. Particularly eye-catching was the suggestion from editors Matthew and Jonny that Torn Plant’s approach of using different yeasts and barrels hailed especially from beer. And both makers, Tom Plant and Noah Torn, are indeed coming from a brewing background. I found this perspective especially thought-provoking, since to my eye, as a former wine industry employee, everything Torn Plant have done here – full juice, named varieties, yeasts, barrels and so on – align perfectly with wine. A nice demonstration, then, of cider’s capacity to offer gateways to drinkers of all interesting potations, if we take a moment out from the somewhat redundant debate of which other drink we reckon it’s most like.

Anyway, on to the bottles. Dabinett and Chisel Jersey, particularly the latter, are two very tannic bittersweets indeed – though Dabinett’s voluptuously full body often goes a long way to balancing tannic grip. I can’t see vintage dates on the bottles, which is a shame, but we can assume 2020 at the very earliest. The labels talk about ‘conditioning in the bottle’, but I’m intrigued to know more about what this specifically means, as for reasons we’ll come to in the review, I don’t think this was ‘bottle conditioned’, per the method used by, for instance, Ross-on-Wye, and I’d also be surprised if they’ve used ‘conditioned’ as a synonym for ‘pét nat’, as some makers continue to.

Enough conjecture. Let’s drink some bittersweets. First up is Oubliettes, ‘fermented with wine yeast and then conditioned in bourbon barrels for six months’.

Torn Plant Oubliettes – review

How I served: Room temperature. Albeit my room is very much barn temperature right now.

Appearance: Very faintly hazy copper. All but still

On the nose: A nice, chunky bittersweet aroma here. Juicy orange fruit just tacking in a yellow tropical direction, plenty of ripe citrus peel and a righteous, well-integrated rasp of earthy, smoky leather. Is there a tiny volatile note here? I think possibly, but it’s very minimal.

In the mouth: The bittersweets are very well managed and balanced here; there’s nothing rough or coarse whatsoever. No idea what the percentages of each apple are, but it presents as though Dabinett has the tiller hand for me, with orange and vanilla overlaying a ripe, plush full body. But there are some nice waxy yellows too along with phenolics, leathers and pith from the Chisel. The tannins grip on the finish – a proper, gastronomic, foody cider – but they’re certainly not astringent. There’s that touch of volatility again, slightly smudging the edges to my personal taste – but at a level that most won’t be bothered by I shouldn’t think. I’m just a fusspot.

In a nutshell: A very happy marriage of oak and time and bittersweet apple. Just a touch of volatility blurring the fruit a little.

Next up is Suspire, ‘fermented with saison yeast, conditioned in bourbon barrels for six months and then bottle conditioned for a further 12 months.

Torn Plant Suspire – review

How I served: Room temperature

Appearance: More gold in the copper this time. 

On the nose: Unsurprisingly there’s a great deal of aromatic similarity, though I’d say the fruit here feels yellower and the intensity is perhaps one decibel down. Vanilla and hay and honeysuckle and a little petrichor atop those tones of waxy yellow fruit. Nice clarity and complexity, and I’m not finding any volatility here at all. Smashing bittersweet nose.

In the mouth: Delivery continues the story. I’d love to know the percentages of the two apples in this; although there’s a nice tannic grip, it’s beautifully integrated into the voluptuous weight of fruit and body, lending the whole thing a sense of elegance and finesse. Again, the flavours are ‘yellower’ than Oubliettes, whilst retaining a great deal of natural similarity. Moments of pineapple cube amidst the citrus rinds and phenolic tones. Cracking integration of tannin and fruit and cask and time.

In a nutshell: It takes bravery and skill to execute dry cider from this combination of apples this well. A really impressive, full, textural and balanced dry bittersweet cider. 

Last up, on paper, is the most wild and weird. Confelicity is fermented with wine and saison yeasts separately and then blended. Conditioned in a vessel that facilitated the introduction of local wild yeasts and bacteria for six months then finished and matured in a white wine barrel for a further six months.

‘A vessel that facilitated the introduction of local wild yeasts and bacteria’. There’s a description to conjure with! Colour me intrigued. Let’s do this.

Torn Plant Confelicity – review

How I served: Room temperature

Appearance: Back a tone down again.

On the nose: A very different proposition. Though it shares elements in common with the two preceding – the vanilla, the orange-yellow bittersweet fruit, the black tea and leather and hay – there’s a distinct, high-toned lambic sourness here which is very much the dominant aroma. Volatility, sure, but expressed in a distinctly beery, gueuze-y way. Wild stuff.

In the mouth: Just the same here. I’d almost have this down as a graf, along the Mills-Oliver collaboration lines. Same full, winey, grippy, textural palate as its stablemates and much of the same fruit character too. But it’s augmented and possibly overridden with a very lambic volatility. Huge, huge flavours on show. Not quite in my wheelhouse of preference – but that’s always the thing when flavours are this big. Other drinkers would likely be obsessed.

In a nutshell: A riot! I’m not sure it’s as much for me as Suspire, but fans of sour Belgian beer styles, form an orderly queue.

Conclusions

What a fascinating, brave and big-flavoured trio. It takes real skill and patience to manage the tannins of Chisel Jersey, particularly, as well as these ciders have, and real imagination to take the same blend of fruit and come up with such a diverse ensemble. Something that occurred to me after I’d finished tasting all three was how impressive it was that, despite a clearly formidable barrel programme, it was absolutely the fruit that led the flavours on show here. (Not that I’m averse to a spot of cask integration when it comes to flavour, as long-term readers will know.)

Suspire is my clear favourite, but that’s possibly the choice of a dyed-in-the-wool cider lover in general and bittersweet cider lover with quite small-c conservative tastes in particular. I can see Oubliettes going down a storm with natural wine afficionados, whilst Confelicity could be the perfect gateway for Belgian beer fans. 

I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to get round to reviewing Torn Plant – I’ll definitely be back for more soon. Bittersweet cider – and especially dry bittersweet cider – needs more brave and innovative champions like this.