At the end of a road that no one has thought of paving at the exit of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, when we think we are lost, appears through the dry branch a small rusty sign: Caves of Chateau Rayas.

As far as the eye can see, everything is out of age. The tired car, the building that has nothing of a castle, the rare vineyards, the forest, the silence. The songs of the birds compete with the smear of the branches in the wind. And that's it.

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