Nick met me off the train at Carcasonne and took me to La Liviniere, and then to the nearest pub. Vincente, a young winemaker, drove us from there up to the vineyards, chalk shards clattering beneath the Land Rover, to taste the new fruit: Syrah, Grenache, red berries crushed between our teeth.

The first days in the Minervois, pre-harvest, are spent thinning Cabernet - cutting away bunches of grapes to encourage the remainder to ripen in the poor weather. Storms descend at night, forking the fields around us as we drive, half-cut, through flooded villages.

Dusk, and bats fly overhead. Beneath the whirring of their wings, the rapid click of echolocation is audible, illuminating the air around their tightly-wound bodies.