Roussillon's sweet wines – cooler than you think

It’s 11 in the morning on a crisp, late-spring day. The trees are naked but if you lean in close, you can see how fat the lime-green, furry buds are; like small kids just begging to burst out the door and explode, given the get-go. The forsythia blossoms, on their austere and monkishly lean, dark branches are big loud yellow against the impossibly blue sky.

We get out of the car and there are the...