Winemaking here is mostly restraint. We sort, we wait, and we let gravity, wild yeast and old oak do the few things we trust them to do.
The cellar is cut into the limestone so the wine can move by gravity alone. From the sorting table to the bottle, the goal never changes: take nothing away from the place, and add nothing that wasn't already there.
Fruit comes in cool, in small crates, and crosses the sorting table twice. Anything less than whole is set aside before it ever sees a vat.
Wild yeast only — the population that lives on the fruit and in the cellar. No correction, no inoculation, no hurry. Each vat finds its own rhythm.
Old barrels, never new. They lend breath and structure but no make-up — no vanilla, no toast, nothing that would speak over the vintage.
Nothing stripped away. The wine is left whole, with all the texture and sediment that honesty leaves behind. Decant the older bottles.
No pumps anywhere in the chain. The wine is moved by the fall of the hill itself, then bottled by hand — unhurried, when it is ready and not before.
Cut into the limestone in 1947, the cellar drops through three levels. Fruit enters at the top and the wine descends — sorting to vat, vat to barrel, barrel to bottle — without a pump ever touching it. Less handling, more wine left intact.
“The best thing we do in the cellar is leave.”