For the first time since our trip began, I awaken to an old, familiar feeling. A dull, but persistent ache at the base of my skull reminds me that I enjoyed one pastis too many the evening prior. I glance at my watch and bolt for the shower. Not only did I over-drink; I overslept. But it’s neither fear of Michael’s chiding, nor Justin’s raised brow of disapproval, that sends me scrambling. I need breakfast. I save precious time by tumbling—rather than carrying—my super-sized suitcase down three flights of stairs. After a slice of toast and two eggs cooked by Aurore to over-easy perfection, I’m on the road to recovery.

Our first meeting puts us back in Pic Saint Loup, at Clos Marie, with winemaker Christophe Peyrus. Christophe took over his family’s vineyards in 1991, and benefitted from the mentorship of such greats as Dagueneau, and the Foucaults of Clos Rougeard. Like those of L’Hortus, his fifty-or-so hectares are scattered about the appellation, across varying soil types and terrains. They yield an impressive range of varieties, from Grenache, Syrah, Cinsault and Mourvedre, to Grenache Blanc, Rolle, Grenache Gris, Macabeo, Muscat, etc. Such numerous, diverse micro-terroirs require an extraordinary level of skill—and mobility—to manage. As we walk to the chai, Christophe explains that he just acquired a new parcel of eighty-year-old Grenache vines, which he’s eager to start pruning.

Clos Marie makes three reds; we taste through the 2008, 2007 and 2006 offerings. Their entry-level “Olivette” (40% Grenache, 40% Syrah, 20% Mourvèdre), mid-priced “Simon” (50% Syrah, 50% Grenache), and higher-end “Metairies du Clos” (50% Carignan, 30% Grenache, 15% Syrah, 5% Cinsault) each reflect the distinct characteristics of the different vintages. The ‘06s offer deep, dark berry and game notes, supported by dense structure that will reward several years of cellaring. The ‘07s burst with bright, expressive fruit on an elegant frame. The unfinished ‘08s show a fair amount of reduction on the nose, but plenty of brambly character on the palate.

We talk with Christophe about our stay at Le Guilhaume, and our über tuber experience the night before. For parting gifts, he gives us each paperweights, made of truffles preserved in Lucite cubes. Apparently, in good years, this region is so awash in the delicacy that they turn what would otherwise cost hundreds of dollars in the U.S. into desk ornaments.

An almost seven-hour drive, and more stunning sights, separate us from Dagueneau’s village in the Loire. We pass over the snow-covered Massif Central, and cross the world’s tallest bridge, the Millau Viaduct. We arrive in St. Andelain after dark, and head straight for the family home. As our car pulls into the driveway, we hear the barking of countless dogs. We can’t see them, but I realize that this must be Didier’s infamous posse of sled huskies. Didier’s daughter, Charlotte, greets us and hands us the keys to an apartment in the center of town.

We enjoy a simple, excellent meal of couscous and Chinon in a Moroccan restaurant that Michael visited the last time he came to St. Andelain, for Didier’s funeral. The chef/owner remembers him, and the reason for his last visit. In an adamant, reverent tone, he extols Didier’s virtues and accomplishments. He assures us that nobody ever did more for their little town, as well as the Loire region, than Didier.

Didier’s generosity benefits his community long after his death. Years ago, he purchased and restored a centuries-old Protestant Temple in his village. His estate supports music performances in this venue. The concerts are subsidized for, if not entirely free to, local attendees. After dinner, we head to just such a show. For a modest few euros, enthusiasts enjoy outstanding wines sourced from Didier’s personal cellar. Aged Bordelet ciders and a 1996 Chidaine Vouvray flow freely as we listen to a Wurlitzer and drums jazz ensemble late into the night.