In the valley once known as Val Saint Grégoire — before history forgot its saints and renamed it — something still stirs. The slopes there hold a micro‑climate of extremes: sun and chill trading whispers, earth and sky conspiring to coax the Pinot vines into something otherworldly.
You find yourself among the trees of this valley, drawn toward a glimmer between the trunks — a wine the colour of twilight, ruby with black cherry shadows. Its scent rises as you near: crushed wild berries, a faint breath of oak bark, cool stones still wet with morning.
You drink, and it’s flesh and forest at once — supple red fruit, round tannins like moss underfoot, and an intensity that feels alive in your mouth, present, breathing. There’s no trace of heavy wood to weigh it down — just the echo of old barrels, letting the grape and ground speak for themselves.
It asks to be joined with flame‑kissed meats, both white and red. With game still warm from the hunt. With quiet company and no reason to leave the woods until morning.
Here, in the valley of Saint Grégoire, you are no longer a visitor. You are part of the myth.
