Once upon a time, at the end of the First World War, there was a man named Jean-Baptiste Arpin.

 

Upon his return from combat, he would visit the few acres he had spotted in Pomerol, holding the soil in the palm of his hand, letting it run through his fingers again and again.

 

The more he smelt it, the more he touched it, the more he wanted it.

 

But he also had his family and future in mind.

 

 

 

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