What It’s Like To Be a Winemaker In the Lebanese Hills
Peace, vineyards, and a breathtaking view. Maher Harb has created the life city dwellers dream of, but are rural idylls the answer?
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Pounding music filled the room in Riyadh, where people were partying hard. It was the first time Maher Harb had seen this side of the city, and it unnerved him. Watching this hidden hedonism unfold, he felt a powerful urge to escape.
He got in his car and drove. The world began to spin as he lost control, his body turning, again and again. Somehow, he survived with only a scratch, but the crash was a wake-up call. “The policeman let me off too; it was really strange. I took it as a sign,” he says.
Months later, breathless and sweating, he heaved his bike over the rugged terrain of St. James Way in Spain. The historic pilgrimage trails gave him space to think. It was steep and hard, but that was the point. “I had all the answers I needed,” he recalls.
It was time to go home. Harb quit his job as a telecom consultant in Saudi Arabia and embarked on a new career as a winemaker. He knew nothing about running a vineyard, only that this was how he would honor his father and their land.
Would he recommend it? Harb, now 43, has spent years building a lifestyle many dream of—immersion in nature, rolling views, and rustic cooking—sustained by a homegrown business that feeds his soul. It’s everything he imagined, but not everyone finds what they are looking for. “Whether it’s a vineyard or an office, you eventually go back to facing the same problems,” he says.
Flexible work arrangements and the COVID-19 pandemic have accelerated a counter-urbanization trend in countries around the world. Drained by digital overload and frantic schedules, people are seeking rural lifestyles in pursuit of a slower pace. But reality doesn’t always live up to the Pinterest board expectations.
“It doesn’t work if you’re not ready,” says Harb, who credits perseverance for his success. “You need to have faith in what you are doing and truly believe this is what you want in your life.”
In 2014, he traveled extensively, earning an OIV Master in wine management in France and developing his philosophy as he went. “There’s a lot of pretension around wine. In my mind, wine is rural, linked to nature, and accessible to everyone,” Harb says.
When he wasn’t traveling, he was back in Nehla, the tiny mountain village in north Lebanon where his father had left him a parcel of land. In 2012, when he began work, it hardly resembled a vineyard. Trees and bushes covered the ground, and the terraces had almost disappeared.
But he had overcome challenges before. Harnessing the ancient agricultural practices of the village, he brought balance back to the land.
The natural rhythms took him back to his childhood in these hills, where villagers discussed the phases of the moon in relation to planting cycles. Their gentle cultivation methods were in keeping with the principles of biodynamic farming, which uses organic practices guided by philosophy and cosmology.
Harb had learned about biodynamic farming on his travels and knew the movement was gaining momentum worldwide. Mounting demand for sustainable wine was fuelling interest in organic varieties, and Harb saw the potential to infuse contemporary viticulture with traditional methods that honor the origins of Lebanese wine.
In 2017, he launched Lebanon’s first biodynamic winery, focusing on indigenous grape varieties that offered a true taste of Lebanese terroir (land, soil, climate). This holistic approach, which views the vineyard as an ecosystem and farming as symbiotic with the land, proved a path to self-discovery.
“It’s an honest expression of the terroir, in complete harmony with the place and the human work,” he said.
Harb named his winery Sept, guided by a spiritual belief in the significance of the number 7 and the forces that drew him back to Lebanon. He had been abroad for 17 years, trying to escape the trauma of growing up during the war.
Harb was 17 when he left for France. He “couldn’t bear being in Lebanon anymore.” Ten years earlier, his father was killed while trying to save his brothers in the final battle of the Lebanese civil war. “He was hit by a bomb and died a week later in hospital. I have spent all my life trying to heal those scars,” he says.
Living abroad, he could block out the past, but whenever he returned home, he felt a powerful draw. “I needed to find a lifestyle that would put me at ease with the memory of dad; all my thinking took me back to the village, where he built our house,” he says.
To the outsider, it’s easy to see why he loves this place. The scenery grows more beautiful as the road curves upwards, winding through mountain villages surrounded by vineyards and wild flowers.
Sept today is an established name on the Lebanese wine scene with an award-winning Merweh that celebrates one of the country’s ancient grapes. Harb only works with Lebanese varieties. “I want to show the value of our heritage. This is wine from our land, not an imported Chardonnay or Merlot.”
In a country that has become synonymous with conflict and crisis, he is helping to revive the national image, reminding people that “we should be proud of what we have in Lebanon and take back what is ours.”
Navigating the challenges of recent years has forced him to build a business that’s resilient, though he doesn’t welcome that word. Like many Lebanese who have endured the impact of economic collapse, COVID-19, the Beirut Port blast, and now the conflict with Israel, he is tired of being patted on the back. “Stop saying we are resilient. Let’s change something so we avoid these challenges in the first place,” he says.
It hasn’t all been uphill. The best year, by far, was 2023. Sept had a reputation for food as well as wine, and word had spread about the farm-to-table culinary experiences Harb and his wife, Krystal, created.
Marriage was barely featured on Harb’s agenda before Sept. He saw it as a solo project. But when a journalist visited in 2016 to interview the rising star on Lebanon’s wine scene, the connection was immediate.
Together, the couple has created a seven-phase farm-to-table menu anchored in authentic village cuisine. As with wine, Harb’s food is about relishing what is truly Lebanese. “I think Lebanese food has been locked in this international presentation all over the world, and it didn’t really evolve,” he says.
These days, the business consumes most of his time. With a growing staff, what preoccupies him most is being a good employer. When the pandemic crisis prompted salary cuts and job losses across Lebanon, Harb responded by giving his team a raise and believes he has reaped the rewards. “Instead of trying to optimize my margins, I invested in this beautiful team that trusts me,” he says.
In 2023, when business was booming, he created a company in France to sell Sept wines to their expanding European market. “I had a feeling things might not keep going in the same direction,” he says. When war broke out in 2024, this safety net offset the dip in Lebanese sales.
Yet even in difficult times, people still come to Sept. Harb. It has built a dome with a roaring log fire so it can host visitors year-round. It’s not enough that he has created his own idyll; he wants others to share in it, too. But he is frank about the everyday stresses that accompany this way of life. “Today I am proud and happy, not because I live in a vineyard, but because I overcame the obstacles and I love what I do.”
His favorite time of year is harvest, when he casts everything aside—including, on occasion, his clothes—and connects with the natural world. It’s a personal, powerful moment of gentle harmony, when the balance he has restored in the land nourishes his spirit. But there is only so long he can stay still. There are many things that make Harb happy, and he has relinquished the idea of a single end goal. “I realize today life is not a destination. It’s about finding that alignment, with yourself and the things you love the most.”
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