The Wild Heart of Rosé

You’d be forgiven for thinking Provence was all lavender fields and rosé in a glass the colour of a ballerina’s tutu. But head east, toward the less-manicured hills of the Var, and you’ll find something with a little more grit – and a lot more flavour.

I came to the Var not looking for wine exactly, but for what wine reveals. I wanted to get closer to the dirt – to the people who work it, and the bottles that don’t make it into airport duty-free. What I found was a region that’s still rugged around the edges, with winemakers who talk less about “notes of peach” and more about stubborn vines, water shortages, and getting up before sunrise to beat the heat.

The landscape here is tough and beautiful. Scrubby hillsides, pine trees twisted by the mistral, and ancient stone terraces that look like they’ve been holding up the earth since Roman times. It’s not postcard pretty in the usual way – but there’s something raw and real about it. The kind of place where you want to get your boots dirty.

I visited a small domaine just outside Brignoles, where the winemaker – a wiry man named Pascal with hands like bark – poured me a glass of something he called “experimental.” It was a cloudy rosé made in clay amphorae, with no added sulphites and the faintest whiff of wild herbs. “People say it’s not typical,” he shrugged. “I say neither am I.”

That’s the thing about the Var. Yes, it’s known for rosé – pale, dry, crisp – and you’ll find plenty of that here. But it’s also a region of quiet rebellion. Young winemakers are moving in alongside generations-old families, bringing biodynamics, natural ferments, and a refusal to chase supermarket polish. They’re not making wines to impress sommeliers in Paris. They’re making wines that taste like here – sunburnt, herbal, slightly feral.

The soil plays a big part. Schist, clay-limestone, quartz and sandstone – every patch has its own mood, and the vines dig deep to find water. It’s getting harder, they tell me. Summers are harsher, and the vines are stressed. But that stress, oddly, makes for better wine – more concentrated, more expressive. “Like people,” one grower joked. “The more they’ve been through, the more interesting they are.”

There’s a rhythm to winemaking here that feels both ancient and strangely contemporary. Big steel tanks sit next to old oak barrels. Solar panels power the tractors. One domaine had a DJ booth set up in the courtyard, and I arrived to the sound of deep house bouncing off the vines. But the work itself is timeless: hands in the soil, grapes crushed underfoot, barrels sealed with wax and hope.

Tasting wine here isn’t some white-tablecloth affair. It’s more likely to be in a dusty shed with mismatched glasses and a dog under the table. There’s always bread, sometimes cheese, and a lot of shrugging when you ask about vintages or formalities. “Try this,” they say. “It’s better than last year. Or maybe worse. You tell me.”

And that’s why I love it. The Var doesn’t pretend. It doesn’t sell you a dream. It just is. There’s freedom in that – and personality. The wines might not be “perfect,” but they have stories. You can taste the sun, the wind, the wild thyme that grows between the rows.

Back in the UK, I opened a bottle I brought home – a humble-looking red with a handwritten label and a wax-sealed top. I poured a glass, closed my eyes, and there it was again: the dusty road, the cicadas, the grin on Pascal’s face as he handed me something “not typical.” And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.