So much experience is jagged. At war with itself, our perception struggles desperately to contain the torrent of time. Entropy overbears the minutiae of being. We carve an image of ourselves too rigid. As the layers peel off our immolated self-idol we hold desperately to the form until — snap — the effigy collapses into dust.
This type of experience is taught to us, an anxious reaction to the bare stuff of the world. When being thrusts itself upon us, it is easier to erect edifices than to stand vulnerable to it. It may even be necessary. But that vulnerability is the true source of joy.
This Pignan is a wine of joy. We need not understand it or construct a narrative to contain it. It is joy.
An historic estate, with a story, with a family, with ups and downs and methods. Some say old school, some say dirty. But the wine needs no chronicle.
Sand. Ten hectares of it. Grenache. All of it. Not the Grenache you think you know. Not the Chateauneuf of parody. Not the maligned heat of 2009. Not Blowsy. No to analysis.
$142 at BCLDB