Fourteen hectares of limestone and clay on a south-facing slope. Dry-farmed, hand-tended, and read by taste rather than calendar.
South-facing, hand-tended and dry-farmed. The soil gives little water and great character. We measure ripeness by taste, not by calendar, and let the cool nights write the finish.
Thin and stony. Drains fast, holds little; the vine is forced to reach.
The estate's reservoir. A little water, held back for the dry weeks of August.
Soft, calcareous, cool. Where the roots find structure and the wine its line of acidity.
The bedrock. Sixty-year roots split it for moisture — and bring back the chalk you taste on the finish.
Cover crops turned under; the first green tips watched against late frost. We prune for fewer, better clusters.
Leaves thinned by hand for airflow and light. Dry-farmed, the vine learns thirst — and concentration follows.
Picked by taste over several passes, in the cool of morning, into small crates carried to the gravity cellar.
The wine settles in neutral oak; the slope sleeps under chalk dust and rain. Nothing is rushed back to life.
“A great site is not farmed. It is listened to.”