This Disease Could Kill Galician Wine as We Know It

Its name is Flavescence dorée—from the French “Flavescence” (yellowing) and “dorée” (golden). It’s caused by a bacteria that disrupts the vine’s vascular system, reducing its ability to transport nutrients and water. Leaves turn yellow, berries shrivel up, vines lose their vigor—sometimes they even die. There’s no cure.

It’s spread by Scaphoideus titanus, or the American Leafhopper—a grasshopper-like insect native to North America, thought to have arrived in Europe during World War II or even earlier when American rootstocks were brought in to fight off phylloxera. Flavescence dorée first appeared in 1949 in Armagnac, and has spread to countries like Italy, the Balkans, Central Europe, Portugal, and Spain, all of where there have been sporadic outbreaks in the decades since.

Although S. titanus was spotted in Galicia in the past, it wasn’t until 2022 that the first vines tested positive for Flavescence dorée. Experts believe the disease came over from Portugal. Since then, it has spread to the Condado do Tea and O Rosal subzones of Rías Baixas, and was recently detected in Arnoia and Ribadavia, in DO Ribeiro.

But Flavescence dorée isn’t the threat we should be worried about. In fact, it hasn’t affected a single commercially-producing winery. 

The real disease affecting the Galician wine industry is a slow, wasting disease, and one that’s much more insidious: the abandonment of its vineyards. It’s a problem that affects all of Galicia’s wine regions, and one that has far-reaching implications for the future.

Take Ribeiro: the oldest Denominación de Origen in Galicia and second-oldest in Spain, Ribeiro has a vast winemaking history and cultural heritage, and it’s bleeding growers and vineyards at ever-increasing speeds.

In 2012, Ribeiro had approximately 2,200 growers. By 2017, that number had fallen to 1,700 growers and 1,400 hectares of vineyards. And just five years later, the region’s census showed it had lost another 100 hectares and 70 growers—a trend that shows no signs of slowing. This isn’t helped by the fact that the average grower in the region is 65 years old. When I visited Xose Lois Sebio in the summer of 2022, he stopped on the side of the road beside a patch of forest that didn’t look any different from the rest. “Look,” he said. “That used to be a vineyard, but the grower died during the pandemic. Now it looks like this.” Unless he had pointed it out, I wouldn’t have known there were ever vines there. It had been completely eaten up by the forest.

Or take Ribeira Sacra: I’ve written about the crisis of surplus wine the DO went through in the 2024 vintage, and the 300 growers who were left without a buyer for their grapes. If the high costs of farming on steep slopes and the lack of labor at harvest time weren’t enough, the events of this past year might be enough to make many throw in the towel.

If a grower decides to stop farming a vineyard because of old age or economic reasons, you might think they would sell the land and try to get some money for it from a young grower who could care for the vines like they deserve. Not so. Another peculiarity of the Galician mindset is a paradoxical attachment to the land, even as people flee from any association with the countryside and rural poverty. Say Grandpa Manolo died and left his house and vineyards in Ribeiro to his grandchildren, who now live in Vigo. “Sell the land? Unthinkable! It’s our family heritage!” they’d say. But leaving the cushy city job to return to the rural village and work the land is also out of the question. Top all this off with the fact that there aren’t any property taxes to incentivize a sale and Grandpa Manolo’s abandoned, slowly crumbling house with its overgrown vineyards will stay in the family for years.

Though it’s an eyesore and could be put to better use, abandoned land isn’t usually a pressing issue—unless, say, a vine disease happens to be on the loose.

“The problem is not Flavescence dorée being in active vineyards, but it being in abandoned vineyards,” Ramón Huidobro, Secretary General of Rías Baixas, told La Voz de Galicia. “Because if those vineyards aren’t treated, we won’t be able to eradicate the disease,” he said.

In the village of Cortegada, in neighboring DO Ribeiro, 80% of vineyards are abandoned and there are no more wineries. When Flavescence dorée was detected, the Galician government set up a buffer zone, where active growers were ordered to apply insecticide treatments during the season when the American Leafhopper is active. (The only way to fight the disease is by killing the insect that transmits it.) The issue is that no one is treating abandoned vineyards. “Our growers are professionals and know what treatments to apply,” Huidobro told La Voz. But in the vineyards that are abandoned, “nobody does anything.”

So now Galician growers not only have to worry about the weather, fungal diseases, invasive wasps, wild boars eating their vines, a lack of labor, and low prices for grapes, but they also have to hold off an attack by a Yanqui insect. It’s a wonder anyone stays in the wine game at all.

There lies the issue: the gradual abandonment of vineyards in Galicia is a real problem because it not only reshapes the physical landscape of Galician wine, but also erodes its diversity. Small winemakers who farm tiny plots they painstakingly piece together (or rent from owners who won’t sell their land) are now facing a lack of vineyards to be able to expand. And as aging growers struggle to balance the cost of caring for their vines with the low prices they get from their grapes (pretty much everywhere but Rías Baixas and Valdeorras), it sometimes seems like the only players capable of making grape-growing economically viable are large winery groups, either backed by Galician investors or based in other regions of Spain.  I’ve written about how these bigger players are drawn to Galicia by the increasing demand for premium white wines and the region’s unique Atlantic freshness. Many of them have come to Rías Baixas, which has its own problems, but some have settled in struggling Ribeiro and other regions like Valdeorras.

While these winery groups bring investment, resources, and jobs, their involvement can mean a shift in priorities towards large-scale production that aligns with their broader marketing goals. That’s not great for Galicia’s indigenous grape varieties and small-scale artisanal grape-growing and winemaking traditions.

While Galician wines become better-known, the diversity that makes them so special is in danger of disappearing. Don’t get me wrong—Galician wine is not in imminent danger of disappearing. Sales of Rías Baixas Albariño are as strong as ever, and there are winemakers who are making it work and doing really interesting things in the rest of Galicia. But in a region whose varietal diversity has been largely maintained over the years by its smallholding model of grape growing, I do worry about what the future holds when it looks more and more like the vineyards and traditions passed down through generations of small growers just aren’t sustainable anymore for many people.

I don’t know what the cure for this disease is, and I don’t think Galicians know either. But it’s clear to me that treating the symptoms—buying Galician wine and helping to put a dent in all that surplus stock, for example—is the first step in a future that I hope will recover vineyards, support small growers, and encourage budding winemakers to take the leap into beginning their own projects. Don’t give up hope yet. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Galicians will always surprise you with their ability to survive.