Restoring an abandoned vineyard is in line with my own inner peace. The orderly rows of vines put my thoughts in order. In my vineyard I will always sense my grandfather who plows with the oxen and the respect he had for the land.In my vineyard I will always sense my grandmother’s silence while she collects chicory and teaches us what herbs to gather. Today I like to think that she only pretended not to see our mischief. That the only rare plant of aleatico or muscat placed by the farmers at the end of vine rows had, in fact, been planted there only for us. For our smiles and our adventures. I’m doing what I love. And I know it because I can feel it in my blood, in the bones, in the daily effort to produce a wine made of the same substance of which my land is made.
I learned about myself while at home. By home I mean my day home, the vineyard.
I am a storyteller of an entire year spent in a vineyard and told through a glass of wine.
The vineyard surrounds me, bears fruit and accompanies me in the discovery of the story that binds me to nature. A story of harmony and balance .
I learned that while working the clay soil, hoeing it and taking care of it without using chemical products, you cultivate patience and perseverance. And you can brush up on the memories of a lost childhood.
In my vineyard there is my grandfather’s smile, his marked hands, sweaty shirts, muddy boots and holey gloves. In my vineyard there is the past. But every time I am amidst the vines, good things for the future come to mind.
The days spent working in the cellar have been the leitmotif on my life, the stage of my winters. The stepping stone to my relief. They cleaned the bitterness of autumn and led me straight towards my spring.
Now the cellar cradles the quiet slowness of the wines in the vats, listens to friends debating on the quality of wine getting ready for the next vintage and welcomes the warm vibes of the harvest. Each vintage will have its own story, told by the wine.
I start a new life. I realize it when I find myself smiling in the cellar. And you know, a smile is a dream that made it.
My cellar smells of semplicity.
This is where I was born and this is where I live. This is the only place where I feel at home.
In the middle of the green Umbrian hills, among dirt roads that I know by heart, where time is marked by bells, surrounded by the smiles of curious people who have seen me grow up.
Allerona is my village: it is home, roots, colors, memories , sunsets. It is a horizon that belongs to me. It is olive trees and vineyards where as children we played to be John Rambo with improvised wooden weapons and where we were riding our bikes in the street, challenging each other with extraordinary jumping competitions.
Allerona is a still image of a past that embraces me every day, inviting me to go to what is essential.
It is enthusiasm and the smile that make sense of everything.
Strolling through a field, bumping into a shell and see the sea in a puddle.
Walnut shells from my grandfather’s breakfast that become unsinkable hulls. I’m ready to sail into the sea of the ages of the pliocene…
A sea narrated by our grandparents, a sea of a time far far away. A sea that made us dream and see plants underwater and the hills becoming waves.
Here, silent and lone, she swam on the seabed, caressing with her belly the same earth of sand and clay where I spend my days today.
She moved slowly and calmly in that remote nature of which she was the custodian. In a flawless, resistant, and peaceful equilibrium which I still feel in the fruits of my work. Just like her, quiet and attentive, I try to faithfully preserve the ancient traditions, preserving the legacy of the past while following the rhythms of nature.
She was the Whale, a road that led me to the only possible place: mine.