We harvest
in the dark.
Picked cold,
at midnight.
Pressed slow,
by moonlight.
Aged where the
sun never reaches.
This is wine,
slowed down.
For three weeks each autumn our pickers walk the rows by headlamp, cutting fruit at the coldest hour. Heat is the enemy of nerve. Picked cool and pressed cooler, the grapes arrive bright, slow to ferment, and impossibly clean — wine with the composure of the night it was born in.
Small lots, made once and never repeated. Each bottling is numbered and offered first to our list.
Blackcurrant, graphite and a whisper of smoke, drawn long over a fine grain of tannin.
Add to cellar →Wild cherry, crushed rose and forest floor — translucent, nervy, lifted on cool acidity.
Add to cellar →Black plum, violet and cracked pepper, with the savoury depth of whole-cluster fruit.
Add to cellar →Harvest begins at midnight, by headlamp and moon. Cool fruit means clean, unhurried fermentation.
Whole-cluster and gentle, at the temperature of the night air. Nothing is rushed, nothing is forced.
Years in French oak, in a cellar carved into the hill — dark, still and a constant fifty-five degrees.
Twenty harvests between Burgundy and these hills. Keeper of the midnight cadence.
Reads the rows by feel and decides, each night, when the fruit is finally ready.
Lives among the barrels, tending the long, dark sleep of every vintage.
Planted the first vines in 2009 with one rule: never pick in daylight.
A single midnight bottling, offered first to our list. Leave your name and we will write before the moon turns.