Ah yes, 1945 Bordeaux — the year the vineyards finally stopped ducking for cover and the grapes decided to come out of hiding and have a proper go at being fabulous and free.

The Nazis had finally packed it in and buggered off, Churchill was lighting a cigar the size of a baguette, and in Bordeaux, the vines — having had quite enough of being strafed by Messerschmitts and goose-stepped on by history — threw up their leafy arms and said, “Right. That’s it. We’re making wine. And not just any wine mind you. We’re making history, darling.”

Now, bear in mind, this wasn't your average peacetime vintage. No! This was the Great War Hangover Harvest. The soil was still shaking off its shellshock, the pickers were probably still wearing army boots, and if you listened carefully, you could hear a cork pop and a distant voice say, “I think that’s the last air raid siren or it's just a really enthusiastic sommelier.”

And what a harvest! The grapes, bless their fermented little hearts, were tiny, concentrated, and about as sweet as a French resistance fighter’s revenge. It hadn’t rained in months — ideal for viticulture, not so great for anyone hoping for a bath. The sun blazed like a victory parade, and the vines soaked it all up like they'd been promised liberation in every bottle.

And speaking of bottles: 1945 birthed some of the most mind-bogglingly sublime wines ever to slosh into a decanter. Take Mouton Rothschild — the label alone is a celebration of victory with a big shiny “V” as if to say, “V is for vino, comrades, and this one's a bloody miracle.” Tannic as a Tory backbencher, structured like post-war Europe, and with a finish longer than Churchill’s memoirs.

The Left Bank wines strutted out of the barrel like they'd just won the war themselves. Pauillac was basically swaggering. Saint-Émilion leaned in with a seductive, smoky wink. The Right Bank, always the more bohemian cousin, got its act together and produced some proper velvet bombs that made even the most cynical wine snob sigh and say, “Oh go on then, another bottle. For the Allies.”

But let’s not forget the real miracle here: in a year when rationing was still the fashion and the continent was running on black market Camembert, Bordeaux somehow cranked out a vintage so legendary it could’ve been bottled in Excalibur.

The vintage aged better than most Hollywood movie stars — and needed less work. Seventy years on, the good stuff still tastes like victory, old books, cedar chests, and a cheeky hint of “don’t you bloody forget it.”

This week Ivar Bjurner starts with a look at the left bank and Sauternes. Next up will be the right bank. Read on below to get his insights.