Twenty years ago, the American investment banker Peter Hahn suffered a breakdown in a London taxi and took the next logical step: he quit his corporate job, bought a tiny, rundown vineyard in France, and immersed himself in the study of viniculture and winemaking. Angels in the Cellar is Hahn’s account of a year in his life as an artisanal winegrower.

Hahn’s commitment to running a small vineyard using regenerative techniques makes him stand out among the crowd of dissatisfied corporate folk chucking the fast life to find peace on a farm. Like a good businessman, Hahn has fully invested himself in learning the art of winemaking, respecting old traditions, and being willing to try less efficient and less predictable methods. This means a commitment to hours of physically demanding, monotonous labor, usually alone, in all sorts of weather.

The book is heavy on the intricacies of pruning, tilling, maintaining posts and wires, cleaning casks and bottles, and trudging up and down the rows. As a viticultural hobbyist, I appreciated this. What comes through is the constant, low-level anxiety experienced by farmers and gardeners, the knowledge that one is at the mercy of the climate. There are myriad ways in which everything can go sideways: a late frost, a wet season, poor fruit set, mildew, or drought. An awareness that the climate is changing, that freak weather events are more likely, is something that weighs on Hahn’s mind.

Hahn found himself warmly welcomed in the French winegrower community. His descriptions of some of the relationships he forms are heart-warming: the connection he experiences working with Ukrainian vine workers despite the lack of a common language, the spirit of mutual assistance between winegrowers, the interest and support from locals as they observe his efforts.

Many of his decisions seem to be driven by an almost ideological (rather than practical) vision of winemaking. Why, for example, does he only use fallen trees for his firewood? Why decline to use battery-powered pruning shears? It is not merely that he does not spray chemicals on his grapes; he also does as much by hand as he possibly can. The farm equipment he uses is ancient and rickety.

I was tempted to poke some gentle fun until I reflected on my own very small-scale viniculture approach (one hundred vines, since you ask). I also don’t spray chemicals on my vines; I also frequently choose to do things by hand instead of by machine. I instinctively prefer to use my rattletrap homemade tractor over the bigger, better options available. For me, and I suspect for Hahn, this is not primarily or solely about trying to be environmentally friendly. It has more to do with the fulfillment of work done on a human scale, the connection to the land that is only felt through touching, smelling, hearing, and observing. Hahn states at one point, “For the first time in my life, I can truly say that I am making no compromises in what I am doing. I am under no external pressure to do things differently, to be more efficient, more productive, more aggressive, more high-tech. Seeing people appreciate our wine, I’m reassured that taking a different approach, being outside of the mainstream, has been a risk well worth taking.” Maybe the best reason to do something is simply because it’s good.