The Papal Bull

In 1925, as the world tried to find stability after turbulent times, something destined to mark the history of wine was born in northern Spain: the Rioja Designation of Origin. It was one of the first designations created in the country, and its objective was clear: to protect the origin and authenticity of wines that were already traveling beyond our borders since the late 19th century.

In those years, Rioja began to define itself not only as a producing area, but as a territory with its own identity. Haro consolidated itself as a commercial epicenter, origin controls began to be organized, and winemakers understood that the future depended on preserving the character of each town.

It was then that my great-grandfather made a decision that would change our family history.

He came from Saint-Jean-de-Luz with the quiet determination of someone who knows how to recognize the land when they tread on it. Labastida is not just any town. Protected by the Sierra de Cantabria and open to the southern sun, it has cultivated vineyards for centuries. Here, wine is not an industry: it is a custom, it is conversation, it is heritage.

The love of the land.

There were 4.2 hectares located next to the old Monastery of San Andrés de Muga, an enclave historically linked to the Franciscan order. Medieval monasteries were not just places of prayer; they were centers of agricultural knowledge. Monks cultivated, studied the land, and tended vines that nourished body and spirit. Those stones had seen generations work the fields in silence, with discipline and faith.

The terroir had something special. South orientation, slight slope, poor and stony soils that forced the vine to exert itself. And even then it was known that when the vine suffers, the wine gains character.

But acquiring those lands was not as simple as shaking hands and signing a paper. Part of those lands had been under ecclesiastical ownership or historically linked to the monastery. To formalize the purchase without future conflicts, an extraordinary authorization was needed.

And that's where the part that has always seemed almost legendary to us begins.

My great-grandfather had to request a papal bull from the then pontiff, Pius XI. A bull was an official document issued by the Holy See that resolved legal matters or granted special permissions. It was not common for a winemaker, but neither was it impossible in an era when Church and property were deeply intertwined.

Family history tells of letters, intermediaries, and months of waiting. That the process was long. That many told him it wasn't worth the trouble for a small estate. But he saw more than just hectares: he saw the future.

Finally, the papal bull arrived.

The price was around 18,000 pesetas, a considerable sum for the 1920s. It was, practically, a lifetime's savings. He bet everything on that land.

And the land responded.

Those vineyards were named Las Eladias. Over the decades, they consolidated as part of the historical and unique vineyards of Labastida, where wine has been made for more than two hundred years. Old vines, deep roots, and a way of working that never understood haste.

Las Eladias did not grow at the pace of industrialization. They grew at the pace of the seasons. Manual harvest. Respect for the variety. Minimal intervention. Listen more and force less.

While Rioja evolved and grew great under the umbrella of the designation created in 1925, our story remained that of a family and a specific plot of land. Because the true greatness of Rioja is not only in its name, but in its towns. In every vineyard that has its own history.

Today, when we make wine at Henrique de Benoît Bodega, we do so remembering that it all began with a courageous decision and a papal bull. Not as a gesture of grandiloquence, but as a symbol of determination. Of respect for origin. Of commitment to a specific land.

Las Eladias are still there. The same 4.2 hectares. The same sandy soil. The same orientation to the sun. More than a century later, the roots are deeper, but the intention is the same: to let the terroir speak.

Because wine is not born in the winery. It is born in the earth. And sometimes, to be able to work it, you have to move heaven and earth. Even ask permission from Rome.