13/05/2026
September 2017, somewhere near the Dordogne.
I cannot remember this vigneron’s name now, which bothers me a little because I remember so clearly the intensity with which he spoke about his vineyard. His dog wandered quietly beside us as we walked between rows of old vines under a leaden Bordeaux sky, the atmosphere buzzing with a coming electrical storm so typical of late summer here, and for more than an hour he explained the history of the land with the kind of passion that cannot be manufactured or taught in business school.
What fascinated me most were his ancient vines, some over 100 years old, still planted on their own original roots, some extending 10 metres along the trellising. In most of Europe that became almost impossible after the phylloxera catastrophe of the late 19th century, when the tiny root-killing insect devastated vineyards across France. But here, beside the Dordogne, the river flooded every winter and naturally interrupted the life cycle of the bugs. So these vines survived where so many others did not. Living history, still producing fruit.
He also spoke about forgotten Bordeaux grape varieties that he was trying to preserve before they disappeared entirely into the machinery of modern commercial winemaking. There was nothing fashionable or performative about it. Just a quiet determination to protect something old, regional and fragile from being lost.
I never actually bought his wines. That happens when you spend your days visiting growers across Bordeaux — you simply cannot buy everything you taste. But that almost misses the point.
Because one of the great privileges of working in wine is that knowledge is shared so generously. You arrive as a stranger and leave having been taught something profound about agriculture, history, nature and time by somebody who has devoted their life to a small patch of earth beside a river.
