De Battre mon Coeur s'est arrêté by Hervé Bizeul 75 cl

Description

De Battre mon Coeur s'est arrêté by Hervé Bizeul 75 cl  from the Domaine du Clos des Fées is a powerful wine with a dark red robe, this 100% Syrah presents a nose is marked by red fruits and sweet spices, the mouth is supported by silky tannins Hervé Bizeul offers us a complex Languedoc wine with an impressive aromatic range. Sincerely, this epicurean wine will captivate you with its sweetness. Once again, this red wine from Clos des Fées declares its deep love for its terroir. A real delight. Pure Syrah. Hill of granite arenas, at 600 m altitude, facing south, southeast, in the town of Lesquerde. Unique terroir, very mineralized, quartz, micas, feldspars, all altered. low pH, soils poor in appearance, very draining, yet surprisingly fertile. Easy rooting, allowing a good mobilization of water resources. Parcel of about 3 hectares, vines of about thirty years, in goblets, taken again in 2007 and put back on individual stakes of 2,10 m. Severe size.his DE BATTRE MON COEUR is a aromatic good red wine, made in France . This red wine comes from Rousillon. This wine is composed of Syrah/Shiraz.. Work in classic green: disbudding, heartbreakers, moderate leafing. Late plot. Seeking technological maturity rather than phenolic to preserve the "fresh fruit" tone and enrich the aromatic palette. Fast fermentation with frequent pumping over. Maximum ventilation. Vatting for 20 days, keeping the hat immersed. Early malolactic fermentation, moderate sulphiting and quick setting of wines by successive rackings. Raised in vats for five to six months. Bottled in April / May, after gentle filtration to capture all the energy of the adolescent wine. The Clos des Fees is a piece of vineyard where the Fairies would live, if it existed. The place is very isolated, very beautiful, very wild, very romantic and inspired this name to Hervé Bizeul. Lost in a desert scrubland, surrounded by dry stone walls, the Clos des Fees looks like a picture postcard. Here, the vines were planted with the pickaxe, in the middle of the brushes of mother rock, in small pockets of pure clay, zigzagging amidst imposing holm oaks. The stones were taken out of the vineyards, one by one, by hand or on horseback, then patiently and skilfully piled up by generations of winemakers, hard-working and not too stingy with their time. Vines with tortured arms, the village elders claim that as far back as they can remember, they have always known them as "old". In the distance, the blue cliffs of Vingrau, almost vertical, have been there for much longer, whipped almost continuously by the Tramontana. At the foot of the Pyrenees, nearby, the Mediterranean sparkles. If the fairies, at the Solstice, still meet and dance, it is here that they do it in this singular, different, mysterious place.