In Search of the Quiet Winemakers

A slow journey through France — into the cellars, the soil, and the stories behind the bottles

I didn’t plan this trip around wine.

Honestly, I just needed a break. A proper reset — no screens, no schedule, just me, an old Mercedes estate with a powerful thirst for fuel, and a boot big enough to smuggle half of Burgundy back to Henley.

Oh — and it was the middle of a heatwave.

Not the poetic kind with lavender and chilled rosé. I mean hard sun, shimmering roads, vines gasping for water, and the kind of hot car interior that melts your phone mount and turns you into a slow roast. The air smelled of dust and diesel and crushed herbs. The Mercedes drank petrol like a rugby player drinks pints, and I found myself pulling over for fuel — constantly.

But each time I stopped, something happened.

A chalkboard promising “vin naturel” would catch my eye. A stone building would turn out to be a cellar. A curious detour would turn into a conversation, a glass, a bottle, a new name in my notebook.

The car needed a drink as often as I did — and it kept leading me to the people who still make wine by feel, not formula.

Loire: Troglodytes, Chenin, and Sparkling Surprises

The journey began in the Loire Valley, near Saumur, where I stumbled across a couple who’d left the city behind to tend vines and raise bees. We sat in their garden drinking cloudy, gently fizzy Chenin — bees bumping our glasses, their dog flopped in the shade. No labels, no tasting notes. Just good, honest wine and people who clearly loved making it.

Later, I had lunch at Les Gueules Noires, a troglodyte cave — limestone walls, Michelin standard cuisine, and cold white Vouvray that felt like spring in a bottle.

Then I visited Catherine, a tall, silver-haired winemaker whose family had been making wine here since the 18th century. She welcomed me into her limestone cellar without fuss. We tasted her méthode traditionnelle sparkling Chenin, standing beside dusty barrels, the air cool and still. It was sharp, citrusy, just a whisper of toast — precise and restrained, like Catherine herself.

“We don’t rush nature,” she told me. “She knows what she’s doing.”

Beaune: Pinot Noir and Velvet Walls

In Beaune, I found a small négociant who still does things the slow way. Old wood, soft hands, long élevage. His 2019 Pinot Noir smelled like cherry stones and wet leaves. “The land’s smarter than we are,” he said, and I believed him.

Dinner that night was at Le Berger du Temps in Montagny-lès-Beaune — a glorious jumble of velvet, clocks, vintage lamps, and something taxidermied I chose not to identify. I ordered Charolais beef fillet with foie gras, and the sommelier paired it with a local Pinot Noir from Bonot et Fils that absolutely sang. Silky, earthy, full of energy. Possibly the best I’ve had all year.

Provence: Bare Feet and Big Dogs

Inland from Grasse, I met Elise, who makes rosé the old-fashioned way: wild ferments, foot stomping, no electricity. “Machines are loud,” she said. “And my feet are clean.” Her rosé tasted of salt, peach skin, and thyme — sun-soaked but subtle.

Later, I visited Domaine Lolice, where the winemaker greeted me in a dirty vest with a massive, amiable dog at his side. We stood in a cool hillside cellar, sipping cold rosé while the dog leaned against my leg like a sleepy sheep. “If you like it, you buy,” he shrugged. “If not, we open something else.” I liked it very much.

Monbazillac: Breakfast Wine and the Virtue of Rot

In Monbazillac, a winemaker handed me a glass of golden dessert wine at 10am and said, “Breakfast?” I didn’t argue.

His wine was sweet, floral, layered — a product of noble rot, which sounds awful but tastes extraordinary. “The trick,” he said, “is knowing when to stop watching the grapes and start trusting them.”

Languedoc: Schist, Solar Panels, and Slow Wine

In Corbières, I drank Grenache under a fig tree with a man who powered his cellar with solar panels and sold his wine on trust. We talked about wild boar, water shortages, and the madness of making wine without compromise in a climate like this. “We’re not just making wine,” he said. “We’re trying to leave the land better than we found it.”

Just east, in Cabrières, I met Luc, who walked me through his vineyard, kicking at the brittle, dark schist soil with his boot. “This stuff matters,” he said. The rocky terroir holds heat and forces the vines to dig deep, creating structured, mineral reds with a quiet wildness. His wines were savoury, smoky, stony — completely grounded in place.

“You don’t make wine from Cabrières,” Luc told me. “You make it with it.”

What Stayed With Me

Everywhere I went, I found winemakers living sustainability without slogans.

No glossy greenwashing, no marketing spin — just people composting, dry-farming, working with the seasons, and making wine in a way that would be recognisable to their great-grandparents.

They weren’t trying to be fashionable. They were trying to be faithful — to their land, their history, their vines.

Back Home, But Not Really

Now back in Henley, I opened the bottle from Catherine’s cellar. The cork crumbled. The label was crooked. The wine? Crisp, bright, honest.

For a moment, I was there again — standing barefoot in a dusty vineyard, sweat on my back, glass in hand, tasting sunlight through stone.

Then I glanced out the window at the old Mercedes, parked slightly wonky, still coated in vineyard dust and dead flies, and groaning under the weight of too many brilliant detours.

She’d taken me further than I expected — into hidden cellars, wild hillsides, tiny villages, and conversations I’ll treasure longer than the wine.

And then I remembered what this journey was really about:

Not just flavour. But place. Stewardship. Time.

And the quiet, radical act of making something beautiful — slowly, carefully, and with care for the world around it.