Far from the Eye and Close to the Heart of Gaillac’s Winemakers

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Once upon a time, there was an old vine trunk that bore only a few clusters of grapes each harvest. Its neighbors were just as tired, exhausted even, some of them had given up and given up the ghost.
But, despite their declining yields, their tiny grapes held an incomparable taste—delicate aromas of juicy white peaches, mingled with exotic fruits and quinces. These grapes, rich in sugars, grew sweeter, blazed by the fierce sun and dried by the mistral wind.

François, a winemaker of the 11th generation of the Derrieux family, always used the juice from the fruits of this ancient trunk and its companions to craft a wine of exceptional character— enriching other wines from younger vines of the same cherished grape, known in Gaillac as Loin de l’Œil, or Len de l’El in Occitan.

Heartbroken, François had to reluctantly uproot these old vines, as their production was too scant to sustain the vineyard’s finances. This was done after the harvest.

When he pulled with all his strength to extract the old root from the earth—clinging stubbornly to the soil that had nurtured it for so many years—it let out a cry, almost like a sob.
Hearing its moans, François's heart clenched. He cradled the old trunk in his arms, held it close to his chest, caressing it gently, trying to soothe its pain. The old vine had endured so many assaults over its 50 years—climatic shocks, tools chipping at its roots, pruning shears cutting into its branches. It had become knotted, sometimes twisted, sometimes deformed.

And then, the vine confided in him, speaking softly:
"We have known many things together. I remember those April mornings in darkness, when you lit heating pads because you feared late frosts might destroy us all."
It paused, and added:

"I also remember the day in July when you came to assess the damage caused by hail, which tore through my leaves and injured my young clusters, causing me to lose a good part of my harvest."

"But now," it continued, "once uprooted, my hours are numbered. I only survive thanks to the reserves stored in my sap—reserves I cannot deepen, my roots unable to reach very far into the clay-limestone soil—water, minerals, and trace elements, as essential to me as carbon dioxide and sunlight for my leaves, my shoots, and my grapes.

Strangely, I have memories that come back to me and go back to the 1980s, but not

only 1980, when I was planting at the Domaine, but 1880, of course, when the Gaillac region was devastated by Phylloxera, this parasite that stung our roots and inevitably caused us all to perish."

But how is it that you remember such a distant time?" asked François, surprised by these words. "I was wondering the same thing you did. I believe that the Loin de L'œil vine, which was grafted onto an American vine, the only species capable of resisting phylloxera, carried within it the legacy of my ancestors."

"That must be related to genetics," François added, "so you can perhaps remember even further back—long before my family settled here in 1615."

"Yes, as far back as I can trace, I have no other kin than this Loin de l’Œil grape."
 

"So," François continues, "you've come to the same conclusion as the researchers who

studied your genetic makeup: you've been from Gaillac for centuries and centuries."

The vine spoke again:
"Promise me you will preserve my genetic heritage, so that future generations can still enjoy the delicate aromas of my grape!"

"I will do so," François assured her.
"Know that the young Loin de l’Œil vine behind us was planted at the beginning of 2022 and will start bearing fruit by the 2025 harvest—after just three leaves." 

"I’m delighted to hear that," the old trunk said softly.
"Rest assured, the lineage is secured. I can now leave in peace. Please care for it well."