24/08/2026
The Harvest...
Long before it became a date on the calendar, the harvest was a rite. In antiquity the vineyards were opened by decree — the ban des vendanges — and closed with a feast, when the last basket came in and the village finally sat down together.
The season moves in waves. Sparkling wines come in first, picked early to protect the acidity that will one day carry the bubbles. Then come the whites and the great reds, holding on for full ripeness. The sweet wines wait longest of all, deep into autumn, until Botrytis cinerea has concentrated the fruit.
Nothing is left to chance. For weeks the grower walks the rows, tasting, waiting, weighing sugar against acidity. A day too early and the wine is lean. A day too late and it loses its line. An entire vintage turns on a matter of days.
On steep slopes, hands do what no machine can: select at the source, keep the bunch whole. Elsewhere the pickers work by night, so the aromatics reach the cellar untouched.
And every year it begins again, quietly, before sunrise.
