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A thirty-two year handshake with a hill
Thirty-two years ago, I drove into a village called Montpeyroux. It’s a hamlet in the Herault Valley, in the wine region known as “The Languedoc.” I didn’t know it then, but I was arriving home. The stone was warm. The vines were old and stubborn and rooted in rock. And nobody was in a hurry,…
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