Our first appointment takes us to Domaine de l’Hortus, in the appellation of Pic Saint Loup. For generations, growers in this region farmed using any chemical means available--synthetic fertilizers, fungicides, pesticides, herbicides, insecticides… Vines died young, and produced poor fruit that required even further unnatural adjustments during vinification. In 1970, agronomy student and avid rock climber Jean Orliac bought and began rejuvenating five hectares of vineyards in this valley between two towering peaks. Jean combined his passion for the outdoors with his academic expertise into a sustainable approach to viticulture that eventually influenced the entire Languedoc, raising the quality of the wines and, in turn, the region’s esteem.

Tall, lean, and brimming with energy, Jean greets us, and we pile into a dented, old, white, mud-splattered Land Rover. We charge into the wilds, sliding across wet dirt roads and climbing over large rocks to reach the foothill vineyards. As we bounce around the car, Jean gesticulates in all directions. At several points, I’m pretty sure that both hands leave the wheel. We stop sideways on steep incline, and tumble out. Jean makes a few sweeping motions with his arms, explains the plantings, exposure and soil types, and ushers us back into our coach. We jet to the other side of the valley, and repeat.

The Orliac vineyards are not contiguous. Jean now owns a total of sixty hectares, spread over a few kilometers, between the two majestic peaks of L’Hortus and Pic St. Loup, from which the winery and appellation take their names—and both of which Jean scaled countless times. As we drive past a few neighbors’ plots, his elevated standards become clear. His plantings are denser, at 7,000 vines per hectare, compared to the typical 4,000. Rocks and indigenous cover crops will fill the space between rows come spring. On other properties, black plastic sheeting flaps in the wind; Jean uses plowing to control weeds, but some growers still deploy this inorganic, slow-to-decompose method. Jean spent countless hours of effort ridding his vineyards of the material.

Our store works with the l’Hortus rosé and Pic Saint Loup rouge, a Syrah, Grenache and Mourvedre blend. We sample these two wines, as well as a number of others made by Jean. In between explaining his various bottlings, Jean hops onto a forklift and loads a pallet of cases into a truck, gives orders to some vineyard workers, and takes a few calls. Apparently, he can’t sit still. Jean’s wife, sons and daughter join us for lunch in the family home; all stand at least six feet tall.

We drive to Aniane, for a visit at Mas des Brousses. This tiny, two-person project operates out of the basement of a small home in the middle of town. Geraldine Combes and her husband, Xavier Peyraud (from the family behind Tempier), farm her parents’ vineyards. From plowing to pruning, vinfication to bottling, this couple manages all aspects of production. We will meet them later, for dinner, in St.-Guilhem.

We spend the rest of the afternoon at Mas de Daumas Gassac, which produces a number of whites and reds as Vin de Pays. Their vineyards yield everything from traditional regional varieties like Syrah, Grenache and Mourvedre, to experimental crops of Nebbiolo and Sercial. They are among (if not “the”) progenitors of organic and polyculture farming practices in the Languedoc-Roussillon.

We stay that night in the medieval town of Saint-Guilhem-le-Desert. Perched on a steep slope in the narrow valley of the Gellone river, this stopping point for pilgrims on the St. James route to Santiago de Compostela is designated as one of the “most beautiful villages in France.” Much of the town’s original Romanesque architecture remains intact. Our hotel, Le Guilhaume d’Orange, ranks among the most charming places that I have ever stayed. The young proprietess, Aurore Raoul-Segala, looks very much like a young Emmanuelle Béart. Yet her beauty belies an industrious personality. In 2000, at the age of 21, she purchased the run-down property, and spent the next five years renovating it. She now not only manages the business but cooks every meal that comes out of the kitchen.

Michael, Justin and I sip Pastis in the hotel dining room as we wait for Xavier and Geraldine. Other vignerons fill the room; the board of the local cooperative has reserved most of the seats around us for a dinner meeting. Xavier and Geraldine arrive. Bookish, buxom and brunette, Geraldine stands at least a foot taller than the feisty, jovial Xavier. Justin aptly points out that, like France’s president Sarkozy, Xavier aims high in love. Perhaps lost in translation, the joke flies over Xavier’s head. When we mention our visit to l’Hortus, Xavier nods approvingly—and mentions Orliac’s statuesque daughter.

I ask Xavier about the current state of cooperatives in the Languedoc-Roussillon region. He tells me that about eighty-five per cent of the region’s production once came from cooperatives. Now, it’s closer to sixty per cent. Two factors contributed to the decline. One is the European Union’s vine pull scheme. In 1988, the EU initiated this program in an attempt reduce the wine glut that resulted from overproduction and declining demand. Growers in southern France and southern Italy received payment to uproot almost 800,000 acres of vines—the equivalent of America’s entire vineyard area. Cooperative decline also stems from the rise of the identity of the individual vigneron, and increasing consumer interest in the particular terroir of specifically delineated vineyard sites.

Dinner, as the menu describes it, is a “celebration of the truffle.” Toast and truffled caponata, soft-scrambled eggs with truffles, steak topped by truffles... I regularly crave earthy food and wine, but I’m beginning to worry about the copious quantities that we’ve consumed. I’m sure that, like garlic, this stuff will work its way through my pores for days—if not longer. Will people back home find this attractive, or bizarre? As I sniff my arm to test my theory, a round of applause signals the arrival of truffled ice cream at the table.

I’m feeling fairly weighed-down by yet another caloric extravaganza, but Xavier is all fired up. He urges us to take a stroll around St.-Guilhem. We meander through the cobblestone streets, past crenellated facades and Romanesque arches, until we make our way to the town’s ancient square. We pester a few rabbits in the abbey garden, and are back at the hotel by midnight. Tomorrow, we’ll spend more than seven hours on the road, on our way to Dagueneau.