Today’s drive packs in more scenic beauty than all others combined. We wind south for an hour, towards Luberon, stopping several times to take in the wonder of the “hanging,” terraced towns of Gordes and Lacoste.

Our first stop is at La Canorgue, the picturesque setting for the movie adaptation of Peter Mayle’s book, “A Good Year.” Father and daughter team Jean-Pierre and Nathalie Margan farm their forty-five hectares and vinify organically. Cool, wet weather in 2008 necessitated extensive leaf-pulling, in order to expose the grapes to enough sunshine and adequate air circulation. Threat of rain required the Margans to harvest very early, and their crisp, minerally Cotes du Luberon Blanc and rosé reflect that decision.

As we taste, conversation turns from vintage to marketplace. The Margans use at least eight different bottle shapes, some of which seem too fat to fit the average store shelf, or wine rack. Their value-oriented line comes with a synthetic cork enclosure that one cannot re-insert into the bottle after opening—at least not without a serious struggle. Michael points out that their choices hinder the marketability of their wines. Switching to one uniform, standard bottle shape and size will increase appeal amongst retailers and restaurateurs alike, and save the Margans a lot of money. Screwcap enclosures for the less expensive bottlings will attract more female shoppers, as well as an older clientele—two demographics that are typically less-than-comfortable with corkscrews. The exchange illustrates that importers do not merely discover great wines; they can also play pivotal roles in how the wines are branded, as well as made.

Lunch takes place in the kitchen of the main house. Jean-Pierre and his wife, Martine, have prepared a cold salad of couscous, smoked salmon and roe to start. I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced a better match for crisp, Provençal rosé. A pall descends upon the kitchen as we await our main course; the stove fails to heat. Without skipping a beat, Jean-Pierre improvises by removing his sweater, rolling up his sleeves, and stoking the fire of the massive hearth next to the table. He scrambles our eggs, along with generous shavings of black truffles, in an iron skillet, over the open flames, until they are just barely cooked. Our meal concludes with the ever-present cheese course, followed by a cake and coffee.

A short drive takes us to Domaine des Terres Blanches. Michael used to, but does not currently, work with this property. The winery was purchased anew last year, and our quick tour and tasting reveal that the situation it is still too transitional to gauge. We continue on, to Domaine de Trevallon, in Les Baux. This rugged, windswept region nestles at the western foot of the Alpilles mountains, and inspired the likes of Van Gogh and Cezanne with its raw beauty.

In 1973, a twenty-three year-old Eloi Durrbach left a career in architecture to plant vines on his family’s holiday estate. He chose Syrah for the northern-exposed vineyards and Cabernet for the chalk-based soils. Perhaps no other winemaker has done as much to raise the profile of this region—in particular, that of the Les Baux de Provence AOC. However, Durrbach’s decision to use fifty per cent Cabernet in his reds precludes a claim to appellation status. He must instead label his wines as less-prestigious Vin de Pays. Like the Champagne Syndicat’s stripping of Agrapart’s Grand Cru status, French wine bureaucracy in Provence prevents Trevallon from participating in the regional designation that Durrbach ardently fought to establish.

We enter the office to find Eloi on the phone. Empty, vintage bottles of the world’s great wines surround his desk, as do unopened cases of new releases from the most esteemed estates. Maps of the region and aerial photos of his vineyards cover the walls. He finishes his call, and stands to greet us with firm handshakes and a kind smile. Soft spoken and gentle in manner, Eloi defies my preconceptions of the trail-blazing vigneron. As we prepare to tour the vines, he dons a fedora and coat. I imagine that he rarely steps out without a hat.

Sunset casts a pinkish-gold hue over the white rocks of the vineyards. When Eloi’s father bought the farmhouse in 1955, the sixty hectares around it offered nothing but stone and scrub. Nonetheless, he always believed that the land would yield great wine. They blasted the ground open with dynamite to plant their rows. Cabernet cuttings came from the neighboring Vignelaure domaine. Syrah, from Rayas, in Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Beaucastel later provided Marsanne and Roussanne, which Eloi blends with about ten per cent Chardonnay.

We return to the cellar to taste. In 2008, mildew posed serious problems among the white grapes; Eloi has a mere eight barrels of his Vin de Pays blanc. Somewhere between a white Rhone and Burgundy, this wine at once conveys both floral freshness and textural richness. For his reds, Eloi uses only whole clusters, and matures the Syrah and Cabernet separately, for up to two years in wood, until assemblage just before bottling. He feels that his 2007 is the best since his coveted 1982. (In fact, Eloi jokes about buying up bottles of his own ’82 on e-Bay…) We taste a range of vintages, but, for me, the 2005 rouge stands out as the stunner. This iconoclastic cuvee blends the high-toned aromatics of a northern Rhône with the boldness of a Bordeaux—all tobacco, blood and truffles, from nose to palate. I lean against a foudre and notice that Paul McCartney’s signature lays claim to the contents within.

Eloi and his wife, Floriane, treat us to dinner in Les Baux. Floriane’s feisty demeanor foils Eloi’s finesse. She insists on practicing her Spanish and English, rather than letting Justin and I use our feeble French. She lives for the annual bullfights in Arles, and thinks that the French eat too much bread and sugar. When I order an ile flottante for dessert, she casts a cautionary glance in my direction.

The chef escorts us to the door. He and Eloi chat like old friends. Autographs and pictures of celebrities cover the foyer walls. Many photos of the Durrbachs are among them.