Terra Skåne: the Swedish Wine Region By Noelle Norman As climate change redraws the map of European wine country, a new region is developing in southern Sweden. In Terra Skåne, pioneering winemakers, experimental grapes and a growing taste for cool-climate travel are turning the country's breadbasket into an unlikely wine destination. For anyone who has spent a summer in southern Europe recently, the appeal of a coolcation is becoming increasingly obvious. As temperatures soar, wildfires rage and Mediterranean cities begin to feel more like ovens than vacation destinations, travelers are looking north. The Nordic countries seem more and more attractive, and Sweden—land of midsummer celebrations, saunas and pickled herring—is no exception. But there is one thing a visitor might not expect to find in Sweden’s cooler climate: a wine country. Welcome to Terra Skåne. In the northwestern corner of Skåne, between Helsingborg and Båstad, vineyards are multiplying across a landscape long known as Sweden's breadbasket, where wheat, beets, potatoes and rapeseed have traditionally been more at home than grapes. In 2026, nine vineyards joined together with local municipalities and business organizations under the name Terra Skåne, a new initiative intended to put the region on the international wine map. This is not merely a marketing exercise; Swedish wine has already had its first truly grand entrance. At the 2025 Nobel Banquet in Stockholm, more than 1,300 guests—including Nobel laureates, royalty and the Swedish establishment—were served a Swedish still wine with the main course for the first time. So, how on earth do you grow wine in Sweden? The short answer is: the climate has changed, and the grapes have changed with it. Sweden is still a decidedly northern wine-growing country. The growing season is short, winters can be severe, and rain is always waiting around the corner to complicate somebody's harvest. But southern Sweden has also benefited from warmer and longer growing seasons. At the same time, grape breeders—particularly in Germany—have spent decades developing varieties known as PIWI grapes. PIWI is short for the German Pilzwiderstandsfähig, roughly “fungus-resistant.” These grapes were developed to resist diseases that traditionally force grape growers to spray their vines with fungicides and other pesticides. For vineyards in cooler, wetter climates, the development has been a game changer. Instead of trying to force the French vineyard model into a Swedish climate, growers can work with varieties that are actually suited to it. The result is a young wine culture with remarkably little baggage. Burgundy, Tuscany and Bourdeaux all have centuries of traditions guiding winemakers. Sweden has… well, a lot of optimism and some vines. There are no ancient rules telling Swedish winemakers what they can and cannot do. They get to experiment—and they are having a lot of fun doing it. Few people embody this experimental spirit better than Jeppe Appelin of Vejby Vingård. The Swedish Press first encountered Vejby Vingård almost by accident. We were cycling along the Kattegatt trail on Sweden's west coast and staying at a small hotel nearby. The vineyard was not exactly screaming for attention. We had found it solely because it appeared on Google Maps. When we arrived, it was inconspicuous and seemed closed. We knocked. There was no anwer, but the door was unlocked, so we cautiously entered. Inside stood a man with a glint in his eye and a beret on his head, zealously explaining his wines to a handful ofvisitors. This was Jeppe Appelin. Jeppe had originally been an architect. He would come home from work, turn on the television and wonder what on earth he was supposed to do with the rest of his life. Wine eventually offered an answer. He discovered that Denmark had been experimenting with commercial wine production for years. He went to see what the Danes were doing, discovered PIWI grapes, and decided that if they could grow grapes in Denmark, he could certainly try it on the Bjäre Peninsula. He returned to his childhood village, Vejbystrand, as a wine maker, which, of course, created a certain obligation. If he was going to name his wine after his place of origin, the wine had to be good. He planted his first vines in 2006 and began building what would become Vejby Vingård. There was, however, one small problem: there wasn't really a Swedish wine industry yet. Jeppe's response was, essentially, to behave as though there was. At a time when Vejby Vingård was virtually alone in the area, he put up a sign announcing: Welcome to Bjäre Wine Country. “The American way,” he told us with a grin. Jeppe credits his travels in the United States—and particularly California's Napa Valley—with inspiring that particular brand of entrepreneurial self-confidence. He had seen what happened when Americans simply decided that something was going to become a thing. In other words, fake it ‘til you make it. Today, the sign no longer looks quite so audacious. Jeppe says his original vineyard inspired dozens of others to plant vines on the Bjäre Peninsula. The region is now one of Sweden's densest vineyard destinations. The stunt, in other words, worked. Jeppe describes himself as winemaker, wine taster, sommelier, cleaner, dishwasher, label designer, salesman and customer-service department. “I’m a Renaissance man!” he says, jokingly invoking Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. He spent 15 years developing what he calls his Artisan wines, experimenting with numerous grape varieties and production techniques. His particular obsession is the ancient Georgian method of making wine in qvevri—large clay vessels buried in the ground. The technique is thousands of years old. Sweden, meanwhile, is the world's newest wine country. That juxtaposition seems to delight Jeppe. “People have been making wine with qvevri for eight thousand years. Amphorae are practically brand-new by comparison; even the pyramids are positively modern. This was before the first writing systems, before the last mammoths died out just 4,000 years ago. It’s hard to take that perspective in. It’s something so profound for humanity.” The marani (qvevri cellar) at Vejby is not what you might expect. Jeppe leads us to a large barn, before disappearing to “open from the inside”. The doors burst open and out floods Georgian choral music. Inside, flags from all around the world hang from the ceiling and the walls are covered with depictions of Georgian Orthodox saints. Everything has an air of improbable grandeur, especially considering that the cellar was built by Jeppe alone during the pandemic, brick by brick, with YouTube videos as the sole instruction manual. It is part wine cellar, part cultural centre, part personal museum. As Jeppe puts it: “It’s not just wine in a glass, it has to do with culture and history too.” Since the marani’s construction, the Georgian connection has taken on a life of its own. Jeppe had never even been to Georgia when he began experimenting with Georgian winemaking. He searched online for Georgian communities in Sweden, eventually found a Georgian Orthodox church in Stockholm and contacted its priest. He explained what he had built. The priest responded with enthusiastic cries of “Hallelujah!” and burst out in song over the phone. Soon, a Georgian Orthodox congregation was preparing to visit Vejby Vingård to bless the cellar. The marani, the traditional Georgian wine cellar, occupies a special place in Georgian religious and family life. It is more than a place to make and store wine: in Georgian culture, the marani itself can be a sacred space. Families have traditionally gathered there for important occasions, including weddings and religious celebrations, and some maranis contain a special qvevri reserved for zedashe—wine set aside for religious use, including the Eucharist and other ceremonies. The connection between wine and worship runs deep: the cellar, the vessel and the wine all form part of a culture in which winemaking is closely intertwined with family, faith and community. The place, therefore, is holy, and Jeppe has the Holy Cross of Bolnisi as part of his logo. The blessing ceremony has become an annual tradition, complete with clergy, choir, dancers in traditional dress, incense, bells, holy water and Georgian food, provided by a restaurant based in Gothenburg. Anyone can reserve a spot at the ceremony on Vejby Vingård’s website. Even the Georgian ambassador has visited. When the ambassador learned, in disbelief, that Jeppe himself had never visited Georgia, he immediately arranged an official trip. “I was treated like a prince! Everybody received me with open arms and offered me food and wine. I had never met any of these people, but they all knew my name and acted as though we had been friends for years,” Jeppe laughs, while proudly pointing to a certificate on the wall showing that he has been named Georgian Gastronomic Ambassador: “The finest honorary wine award in Georgia—we’re talking the homeland of wine! The French can take a back seat!” In 2013, the Georgian method of making wine in clay vessels was inscribed on UNESCO’s Intangible Cultural Heritage list. In line with his aspirations to grasp the American self-confidence, Jeppe has decorated his vineyard with various UNESCO heritage signs. “I’m no World Heritage Site, the farm isn’t a World Heritage Site, but qvevri—that’s a World Heritage treasure,” he says, adding that he has allowed himself to defy the Law of Jante a little, the unwritten Swedish rule that you shouldn’t think or act like you’re better or more important than anyone else. Some of Jeppe’s wines have been professionally evaluated at prices reaching into the tens of thousands of Swedish kronor. Visitors who drop by, however, get a special tasting deal; 200 SEK (about 20 dollars) for a glass of any wine that is open. We were lucky enough to arrive as a delicious $700 bottle had just been opened. Jeppe claims to be open every day of the year (though the vineyard may not look it and visitors may simply need to push the door open). He receives visitors from all over the world and keeps a map showing where his customers have come from. In 2025, he says, visitors came from 65 countries. However, despite the increasing international appeal, Jeppe, like other wine makers, cannot escape the long arm of the Swedish bureaucracy. On June 1, 2025, Sweden introduced limited farm-gate alcohol sales in a six-year- long trial reform. This was a major change after decades in which producers were largely dependent on the state alcohol monopoly, Systembolaget, for retail sales. The reform was intended partly to strengthen small-scale producers and tourism. However, there are still many strict regulations in place. A vineyard selling wine directly to visitors needs a special permit and until June 2026, there was a requirement that the customer participate in a paid, knowledge-enhancing visit that must last at least 30 minutes. For Jeppe, who could talk about wine until Christmas, this was not a problem. But the same could not be said for everyone. “They realized that it was a rather impractical and unsustainable rule, because not everyone in Sweden likes to chat. It would be tough up in Norrland, you know, at those gin breweries—they’re quiet up there. And there are people who are shy, who might stutter, or who simply don’t like people very much. We have all sorts of awkward characters in the industry,” says Jeppe. “In Sweden, we try to be as inclusive as possible. Everyone should have equal opportunities. So they had to get rid off that requirement.” However, other requirements remain. For example, customers are limited in how much they can buy at one visit. For wine, the statutory limit is three litres, which is equal to about four bottles. “Don’t the politicians in Stockholm know that, everywhere in the world, the standard case of wine contains six bottles?!” Jeppe exclaims, frustrated. Collaborations are another subject of controversy. “Businesses should be allowed to work together, and producers should be allowed to buy and sell grapes, just as they do in America and across the rest of Europe. But under the current rules, I’m not allowed to sell or serve wine made through a collaboration with a distillery just outside Lund. They did the distilling and I paid for the work, but the arrangement fell into a grey area of the Alcohol Act. I had the matter tested, but was still told that I could not sell the wine. It’s completely unacceptable,” Jeppe says. Producers cannot simply buy and sell grapes; they are essentially limited to using grapes they own and grow themselves. This creates a particular obstacle for new wineries. Normally, when starting a winery, producers will buy grapes from established growers and make wine from them while waiting for their own vineyards to mature. That allows them to start generating revenue, pay off their loans and reinvest in the business. As their vineyards grow and they eventually produce more grapes than they need, they can in turn sell those grapes to smaller producers just starting out, creating a natural cycle within the industry. In Sweden, however, that kind of business model is largely impossible. “Everywhere else, they have that figured out. But not here,” says Jeppe who hopes that the growth of wine tourism in Terra Skåne may convince the government to change some of the regulations. Vejby Vingård does not operate a restaurant or hotel. Instead, Jeppe wishes to steer wine tourists to other local businesses for their food and accommodation. The Swedish wine industry is still small. The climate remains challenging and the regulations are still evolving. But the vines are there, and while Bordeaux and other parts of southern Europe struggle with heatwaves and fires, the future appears to favor Terra Skåne.