Since I was last here in Breze, Xavier Caillard took possession of a vineyard that he was renting from an old friend, from whose plots he made his Genese Rouge. This is the vineyard where he now spends the most time, as he figures out the shapes in which he wants to plant, and which trees he wants in the vineyard, and which ground cover. Xavier says that his rows undulate, and that’s an apt word. One walks through the vines and finds stones that Xavier has set on gnarled old vines, a reminder of terroir, a symbol. His children play in the old shed in the back, and have adorned it with symbols too. If they want to work with him in the vineyard, they can, but it’s not an obligation, Xavier relates. He realizes that this mission he’s been on for the better part of 24 years here is going to go well beyond his lifetime, for willow trees only can grow so fast. He would like to teach someone what he has learned. Who, or if, that will be is still up to the fates. It’s hot here today, and a fire burns on the horizon. The mechanical harvesters can set fields ablaze with an errant spark, Xavier says, as he hoists water from the well here to carefully wet the buckwheat sprouts he’s planted. He has a bottle that he keeps in a second fresh bucket of water. He says that after another two watering runs we will try it, and he opens this bottle slowly, and spends time smelling the liquid before offering us some. He wonders if we can figure out what it is, exactly, and we come close. He reveals it as a 2006 bottling, one of about 50 he made, an experiment of blending his Genese Blanc with cider made from old apple trees on his property, and just a little bit of honey. It’s marvelous.