We drove through the Cote Chalonnaise and into the Maconnais on our first field trip at the L'Ecole de Vins de Bourgogne. At first there were hills, then plains, then hills again. Two huge limestone cliffs rose majestically yet jarringly from the vineyard landscape of Pouilly-Fuisse and commanded our undivided attention.

The earth had been angry at one point in time and the Macon bore those massive topographical ruptures like badges of honor.

It was hot and the glare was intense. We stood and admired a sea of green vines interspersed with quaint villages that expressed a South-of-France flair. The houses were stucco and each one boasted a porch, patio or large balcony. Much went on "en plein aire" in this southernmost outpost of Burgundy. Tractors puttered through the narrow streets. Linens snapped and cracked as they dried in a brisk wind. Sunlight danced painfully off the white soils. Here, the vines felt the faintest caress of a sun-soaked Mediterranean.

Not all wines are created equal.

"Vines need old soils," said our instructor, Jean-Philippe Renard. We were looking out over an expanse that was formed 195 million years ago, pretty old by most standards.

"Most of the soils of Burgundy were raised to the surface during the last continental upheaval." We looked out at the cliffs of Solutre and Vergisson as he spoke. "There are four rifts in the Cote de Nuits and four in the Cote de Beaune along a fault line that stretches all the way to Alsace. Chablis soils, relatively young by comparison, were exposed by erosion."

Soils. Well, one has to use the term loosely. Burgundy has lots of rocks, and most of them are fossils. The topsoil, even if it looks like soil, is only 31 to 44 inches deep and rests atop layers of fractured rock.

"If oxygen and water can make its way through the soil," explained our host, Frederic Marc Burrier of Maison Joseph Burrier, "the roots of the vine will follow. Poor soils and sunshine make for interesting wine. Rich soils and sunshine make for boring wine."

"For every three feet you descend down into the earth in Burgundy, you travel back one million years further," Jean-Philippe said.

This gives one serious pause for thought. If we are what we eat, then the grapevine puts into the grape what it pulls from the soil.

I was drinking dinosaurs. Yet far from colossal, the wines were elegant, balanced, ethereal and full of nuance. They were silent wines.

"The soils speak for themselves," Jean-Philippe explained. He was quiet and full of reverence. It felt like church.

We had lunch al fresco by a small, man-made pond full of frogs and ducks at the "Domaine de La Source des Fees," in Fuisse. None of us could finish the first glass of wine before the second was uncorked for tasting.

"May I pour this into the grass?" she asked.

"By all means," said our host. "The grass deserves it."

"Well, yes. I see your point," she responded. Although from England, she was born in Ireland. "We have to deserve good things because we're born bad."

"You're Catholic, aren't you?" I asked.

"I'm in remission," she responded.

"You're still recovering," quipped our guest from China.

The grass was delighted.

We had been given a lecture on the history of Burgundy and the monastic orders had featured prominently. Before Christianity, there were the polytheistic Greeks who hosted symposiums during which wine was served amid an intellectual ferment. In their altered states, they believed they could commune with God.

"Like the Greeks, I'm in contact with the gods very often," teased our instructor. We all nodded our heads in affirmation, swirling our glasses of terroir.

Louis Pasteur avowed that there is more philosophy in a glass of wine than in all the books in the library. In Burgundy, you got a real sense of this.

Lisa Airey is a certified wine educator.

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