Every year, the French vine speaks to us. It tells us of rather sorrowful things, that it is dying of thirst and heat, but never mind that; it is just a bit of twisted brown wood that can’t even adapt. In these conditions, there is no room for whining; it only becomes tiresome, and we are already, since the arrival of the internet and its uninterrupted flow of information, prey to what sociologists call “compassion fatigue”. The coronavirus crisis has shown us, in the space of a few weeks and over a rather long period, how “suddenly”, we can find ourselves without so much as a kilo of even the poorest quality flour within a 1000-kilometre radius… What does flour have to do with wine? Perhaps, as it goes, with a temperature gun pointed at our dazed faces, not much… So, everything is fine and we’ll be on our way; there won’t be anything very interesting to see anyway… not on the supermarket shelves and still less in a countryside left sterile by drought and boredom.