The tale of the other Joly
Standing on the slope of a stony Larzac terrace, hands jammed deep in pockets and hunched, wincing against a glacial wind, we dug our heels in against gnarled vines as Virgile Joly talked at great speed – worried frown playing tag with a disarmingly lovely smile. He points to a disconnected electric wire and tells us that this year they ran 6,000 volts round the vineyard to keep the wild boar out, and yet the wretched creatures still got through. It's a constant battle, he shrugs. He keeps apologising for his English, which he speaks very well (I suspect Virgile...