The Goat, the Grenache and the Snow in the South

We left early, the kind of early where the air still smells of night. Luzech faded in the rearview as we headed south along the E11, chasing a curve in the map and a hunch that Cabrières might be the right place to find our next red.

By late morning, we’d crossed the spectacular sweep of the Millau Viaduct – that impossibly elegant bridge that floats above the Tarn Valley like some sort of modern cathedral – and dipped into Uzès, a town that always deserves a pause, even if you’re on a mission.

Uzès is known as the first duchy of France, and still carries itself with a quiet nobility. Winding streets of creamy limestone, an arcaded main square, and one of the best Saturday markets in the south. The Roman aqueduct Pont du Gard once carried water from Uzès to Nîmes — and you can still feel the bones of that civilisation underfoot. Even the air here has a kind of golden calm.

But this time, we didn’t linger. We had a rendezvous with a different kind of heritage — the vines of Cabrières, tucked into the folds of the Hérault, where the Pic de Vissou starts to rise like a sentinel.

We were heading to a small, quietly proud community of wine growers with its own AOP nestled within the larger Languedoc. It doesn’t shout – but it has stories. You can feel it in the air, and under your boots.

This is a land of shist soil – dry, mineral-rich, full of metal and memory. It hardly rains here, which means the vines dig deep, fighting for every drop. And in that fight, something remarkable happens: the wines become bold, grounded, and full of character. Just what we were looking for to carry our 'Triton' label — the bolder red in our Rêve de la Sirène collection.

As we pulled into L’Estabel, the local wine co-operative, we were met by Luc — head vigneron and keeper of both vines and provenance. He greeted us in front of a large goat painted onto the façade of the winery, which, as it turns out, isn’t just for show.

Inside, over coffee, Luc told us the tale of Abbé Fulcrand Cabanon, a local prior summoned to Versailles in 1687 after word spread of his healing red wine — known as vin vermeil de L’Estabel. The king — Louis XIV himself — wanted to taste this miraculous vintage. The goat, it turns out, is a nod to those beginnings, a symbol of the stubbornness and strength of the region, and the wines it continues to produce.

Luc offered to take us up into the vineyards. We climbed into his old Citroën, suspension sighing, and bounced up the stony tracks that wind through land once planted for the Romans, then for altar wine, and now again for something extraordinary.

From the ridges, the view was sweeping. The Pic de Vissou towered behind us, and Luc explained how it protects his vineyards from the harshest element the region knows — the Tramontane.

A cold, dry wind from the north, the Tramontane barrels down from the Massif Central, sweeping across the south of France with a clarity that can be both cleansing and cruel. It brings bright skies and icy conditions, stripping moisture from the vines and scorching unprotected slopes.

But not here. The Pic de Vissou acts like a great stone shoulder, shielding Cabrières from the worst of it — letting the vines dig deep and concentrate, without being battered by the bite of the wind. It’s a subtle but powerful protection, and one of the reasons this little pocket of the Languedoc produces wines with such texture and depth.

These vines are old. Gnarled. No frills. But they're survivors. Grenache, Syrah, Carignan — grapes that thrive in struggle, and reward it with flavour.

Back at the winery, we moved into the tasting room, which was cool and lined with barrels. The light was soft. The mood quietly serious. We tasted over a dozen wines — all good, some excellent — and finally landed on a Grenache-Syrah-Carignan blend that had everything: fruit, structure, balance, and a kind of quiet power that didn’t need explaining.

It’s the kind of wine that holds its own — whether alongside a beef bourguignon, a strong cheese, or just good conversation and a slow evening. We were sold. Our Mercedes groaned under 25 cases, its springs dropping an inch or two as we loaded up.

By the time we were rolling back north, somewhere near Toulouse, it started snowing — fat, wet flakes clinging to the windscreen. The first time we’ve seen snow in the south. A surprise ending to a long day full of grit, goats, and good wine.

The sort of day that reminds you why it's good to take the long route.