Journal · 4 entries
Notes, slowly.
The year of late frost
On the night of the ninth of April the valley dropped to minus three. We lit fires between the rows and waited. Most of the Chardonnay held. The 2026 will be small, and it will be ours.
Why we still turn by hand
A gyropalette does in a week what our hands do in six. We have tried it. The wine was fine. We were not — something in the ritual is part of the wine, even if we cannot prove it.
Nine hundred metres
Altitude is not a romance, it is a thermometer. At nine hundred metres the nights stay cold into August and the grapes keep their acidity — the backbone a wine with zero dosage cannot live without.
A harvest in twelve days
Twenty-two people, eleven terraces, twelve days. We pick at dawn so the grapes arrive cool at the press, and stop when the sun reaches the lower rows.
