The serious institution
on 290 in Hye.

William Chris sits on Highway 290 in Hye with the unhurried confidence of a place that knows what it is. This is not the curated estate polish you find farther east on the corridor. It is a working Hill Country winery that earned its reputation in the vineyard and cellar — and then kept going.

Bill Blackmon and Chris Brundrett shook hands on a partnership in 2008 with no winery, a borrowed truck, and a clear bet on Texas fruit. Their philosophy is simple and stated plainly: great wines are grown, not made. Old-World technique in service of Texas terroir, not the other way around.

Sixteen years later, William Chris is the first and only Texas name on the World’s 50 Best Vineyards list — and the Austin Chronicle’s 2024 Winery of the Year. The Hye Society wine club has a waitlist. None of that reads like marketing when you are standing on the lawn with a glass in hand.

Ranch country wearing a tasting room — farmhouse, teepees, and a photo frame everyone finds.

The property spreads across the kind of Big 290 landscape that still feels like ranch country wearing a tasting room. There is the restored 1905 farmhouse — the original tasting room — plus outbuildings, lawn space, teepees, vineyard views, and the William Chris photo frame that every visitor eventually finds. The modern glass tasting room and Hye Society members’ room look out over estate vines and the Hill Country elevation drop that makes Hye feel bigger than its map dot.

The land carries older stories too. Thomas Benjamin Washburn moved to Hye in 1869; after a dispute over a steer in 1875, he was killed and buried on the ranch. The winery sits on that history without turning it into a theme park — just enough local lore to remind you this was working country long before wine tourism arrived.

On the pour, the reds are the serious draw. Mourvèdre shows up reliably and worthily — Texas High Plains fruit with structure and warmth. Cinsault is the one that stuck with us: usually a blending grape, but William Chris bottled it alone after a strong crop year, and the result was memorable enough to make you rethink what belongs in a single-varietal bottle.

Grown, not made.

Tempranillo and Cabernet Sauvignon round out the serious end of the list. The portfolio reads like a winery that stopped trying to be everything to everyone and got very good at Texas reds instead. Reservations are smart on weekends — the lawn fills, the music starts, and nobody is in much of a hurry to leave.

Weekends bring live music on the lawn. Each year, an art contest sends winning work onto a vintage label — a small detail that fits the place better than any marketing deck would. The Enchanté mural on the corrugated barn wall tells you everything you need to know about how William Chris thinks about itself: Texas own, unapologetic, and a little bit French when it wants to be.

Unlike the stage-set estates down the road toward Fredericksburg, William Chris feels like proof that Texas wine belongs in the conversation on its own terms. It helped move the state from regional curiosity toward national and global credibility — not by imitating Napa, but by taking Texas fruit seriously enough to let the world notice.

From here, Ab Astris was next on the list — someone in Fredericksburg had told us to go for the wine. William Chris was the institution that made that recommendation feel earned.