There are few spectacles in Europe more pleasing to the contemplative mind than a well-ordered vineyard: the rows of vines marching with military regularity across a hillside, the leaves trembling in the breeze, and the grapes—those modest globes of promise—ripening towards their appointed destiny in bottle and glass. Yet, for all this pastoral charm, the modern vineyard is no longer governed...

At first light, when the mist still clings to the contours of the land and the vines stand silent in rows of patient green, an ancient craft meets a very modern kind of magic. Here, in the vineyard, where generations have watched the seasons turn and the grapes slowly swell with promise, a quiet revolution is underway. It is not heralded by clanging machinery or flashing lights, but by small,...