I’m gazing northwards on Avenue Dr Paul Durand in Tain L’Hermitage, wondering at what point in history Rhône winemakers chose to ignore the laws of gravity. I spent my formative years in the East Midlands, a Royston Vasey-adjacent place where there wasn’t much in the way of natural beauty to rest the eye on. You can imagine, then, the awe I am dumbstruck with on my first visit to the Rhône Valley. “The earth is vertical here,” I think.
I’ve arrived at the end of an incredibly dry March, and pruning season is well underway. Hunched-over students creep across the sheer, arid slopes like spiders. Behind closed doors, anxious winemakers pray for rain.
