This shiraz speaks to a certain place, in a world where ‘place’ is decidedly murky. But who says it has to be geographical? Can’t a place be a point on a spectrum? An X marked in your frontal cortex? Or indeed your palate? Can’t plum and stalk and spice land you somewhere? Chopper you down into a thicket of blackberry on a hot day, steam rising off a peaty marsh, trees fragrant? Centenary Hill. You won’t find it on Maps. You will find it here.