In the labyrinthine world of wine, tradition often trumps innovation. However, Ireland has a unique relationship to the blood of the ancient Roman gods. One Dubliner who exemplifies this is Killian Horan. As a winemaker, he is uncorking conventions, fucking around and finding out. Killian, a native of South County Dublin, is the New Romantic of oenology—whose journey from the leafy suburbs of Dublin to the sun-kissed vineyards of France and New Zealand reads like a chaotic, juicy odyssey.
Killian, a Trinity College graduate with a penchant for the outdoors, found himself working at ELY Wine Bar in Dublin. It was here, under the mentorship of Anthony Robineau—an enigmatic manager with the kind of flair exclusively reserved for sommeliers—that Killian had the ‘glass that changed my life’. This type of ‘holy fuck’ moment is a romantic commonality in most wine people’s life. Each one is similar, and every one is deeply personal.
The wine that changed Killian’s life was a white wine from southern France. To be more specific, it was from Northern Rhone near Vienne and to the south of the Côte-Rôtie AOC. One evening, after service, staff members pitched in for a few buidéal. Anthony knew Killian had a fermenting distaste for white wines and picked one to prove to him that not all white wine was your ma’s Pino Grigio. Anthony introduced him to a bottle of Condrieu.
“I didn’t even like white wine at the time,” Killian recalls, a mischievous glint in his eye. “But that Condrieu—it was like nothing I’d ever tasted. It blew my mind.” That fateful sip set the stage for a love affair that would take Killian up, up, and away.
Unsettled by the limitations of Dublin’s mostly theory-based wine industry, Killian yearned for a more tactile experience. He ventured to the Rhône Valley in France, immersing himself in the rhythms of vineyard life and working with Les Deux Cols trio. Les Deux Cols is Simon Tyrrell’s own wine-producing business, run in collaboration with Charles Derain and Gerrard McGuire.
Killian joined their team in 2018 as a willing ‘cellar rat’ because he wanted to see and do the things he’d only studied in Wine Spirit Education Trust (WSET) books till then. Killian embraced the gruelling yet gratifying labour that transforms millions of grapes into liquid poetry. “There’s something profoundly humbling about being in the vineyards,” he mused when we sat down over Zoom to chat about all things wine-making. “It’s a connection to nature that’s both grounding and exhilarating.”
More recently, Killian’s quest for viticultural enlightenment led him to Central Otago in New Zealand. Unlike the verdant expanses of France, Central Otago presented a harsh, arid landscape where every grape is hard-won. “It’s like a complete desert compared to Burgundy,” he says. “Everything has to be irrigated. It’s a different kind of struggle, but one that teaches you resilience.”
Killian’s international sojourns are as much about perfecting his craft as cultivating a philosophy and ideology. Influenced by the New Romantic movement of the 1980s—a fusion of flamboyance, artistry, and defiance—he envisioned a new paradigm for winemaking. Wine as juice and statement—bold, audacious, and impossibly cool.
In 2020, this vision materialised with the release of ‘Le Charlatan,’ an organic Côtes du Rhône blend of Syrah, Grenache, and Viognier, produced in collaboration with Les Deux Cols, and adorned with a label designed by his Gonzaga school pal Cathál de Búrca. “The name ‘Le Charlatan’ was a playful nod to the idea of an Irishman crafting a Rhône wine. It’s about challenging perceptions and having a bit of fun while we’re at it.”
If ‘Le Charlatan’ was the opening act, ‘Le Petit Canon‘ was the disaster that turned out to be a star turn. Released in 2021, this Vin de France was a blend of Syrah, Cinsault, Clairette Rose, and Bourboulenc—a composition that defied traditional categorisations.
“Imagine a Syrah in drag,” he said at the time when I interviewed him for Yay Cork. It starts with the familiar depth of Syrah but then surprises you with a flamboyant burst of Clairette Rose and the acidic thunderbolt of Bourboulenc. It’s like a session. Critics were enamoured. Descriptions like “acrobatic on the palate” and “impossibly fun” began to circulate, cementing Killian’s reputation as a winemaker.
“I’ll be back by Christmas,” he reveals. Winemaker jobs, even in New Zealand, are very competitive. He said he personally knows New Zealand’s award-winning “young winemaker of the year” and even she is finding it hard to land a job as an assistant winemaker anywhere. It’s really humbling to be in such a competitive area of the industry, so it’s no surprise that Killian remains disarmingly humble despite his burgeoning fame here in Dublin.
He speaks of imposter syndrome, of friends from school messaging him in bewilderment upon seeing his wines featured in newspapers. “It’s surreal,” he admits. “But at the end of the day, I’m just doing what I love.”
But he isn’t blind to the financial realities of being a winemaker. The simple truth is that there is no money in it. Winemakers like Killian are often lucky to break even. The grind behind each bottle is a reality check. Despite the buzz around his limited releases like ‘Le Charlatan’, ‘Le Petit Canon,’ and most recently ‘The Nouveau’, producing just a few hundred bottles doesn’t exactly cover the cost of living, let alone producing and importing.
“I’d love to run away to the French Alps and make wine,” Killian admits, “but I’ll probably need another job to support that dream.” As he plans his return to Ireland, he’s eyeing roles in wine importing to keep the passion alive without going broke—a candid acknowledgement that in this world, art often needs a side hustle.
Words: Shamim De Brún
