The Travel Critic

There’s nothing quite as satisfying as sticking one up the French. They are, objectively, better than us at a great many things — fashion, cooking, shrugging with devastating sarcasm, and grinding a nation’s aviation industry to a halt over a pension reform. But for the last two centuries, they’ve also cornered the market in sparkling wine, as if God Himself had decreed that only things grown in Champagne could fizz with any degree of sophistication.

Well, pas aujourd’hui, mon ami. Thanks to a warming planet (cheers, ExxonMobil!) and a few clever sods in the sun-kissed folds of the South Downs, we Brits have started churning out sparkling wine so good, it’s got the French nervously twitching in their berets. And nowhere is this quiet vinous rebellion fizzing more delightfully than at Ridgeview Wine Estate.

Ridgeview is… just wonderful. It’s that rare and satisfying combination of unpretentious quality and actual, tangible conscience. They’re a certified B Corp, which means they care — not in that hand-wringing, performative way that makes you want to punch someone at Whole Foods — but genuinely, quietly, in the way your favourite old teacher used to care whether you turned out alright.

The place is all vine-striped fields and gentle hills and views that make you want to start using words like “verdant” without sounding like a tit. There are a few essential outbuildings — bottling sheds, wine labs, probably something called a riddling rack if you’re being fancy — and then the Pavilion: a sleek, sun-drenched structure of glass and wood that serves as bar, restaurant, and soul-repair centre.

On a sunny summer’s day, it is, without exaggeration, heaven. Not the cartoon-cloud-and-harp kind, but the real sort — the “sip something cold and golden while the sun warms your shoulders and you remember how to exhale” sort. It is that good.

We were led on a tour by James, who is quite possibly the best thing to happen to wine since the corkscrew. He was knowledgeable without being dull, passionate without being preachy, and dropped just enough wine-geek science to make you feel clever without inducing the need for a lie-down. He made it all sing — the terroir, the method, the commitment to sustainability — and he did it with a grin and a knowing glint, like someone who’s seen enough hen parties fall sideways into a vineyard to know when to move the magnums out of reach.

And then lunch. Oh God, lunch. There is a level of brilliance achieved when food and wine meet in perfect harmony, and Ridgeview nails it with an effortless swagger. The dishes are seasonal, local, and plated with just the right amount of faff. Not too pretty to eat, but enough to make your Instagram story feel smug.

Naturally, we drank far too much — if such a thing is possible when the sparkling wine is this good. The Ridgeview Bloomsbury is like a flirtatious handshake between an apple orchard and a boulangerie. The Fitzrovia Rosé? Strawberries in a sunhat. And the Cavendish — well, the Cavendish doesn’t so much whisper “celebration” as shout it with a mouthful of brioche.

By the end of the afternoon, we were glowing with that particular sort of contentment that only comes from being slightly tipsy, slightly sunburnt, and completely at peace with the world.

Ridgeview isn’t trying to be Champagne. It’s not trying to imitate or compete. It’s just doing its own beautiful, brilliant English thing — and doing it spectacularly well.

Highly recommend. Go now. Take someone you love. Or someone you’re trying to impress. Or just yourself. You’ll leave fizzing.