Even after all this time and more than thirty grape harvests, I still bow down before your age, my millenial marn. You lay on the steep slopes of the mountains, beyond which the earth cannot be tilled. I could tell about the ideal conditions of life and growth of the vine stumps and be proud of the unique microclimate of this territory, which is a cru, that means having the highest decoration: its respect is guaranteed.
I had been dreaming about it for years. I just wanted it exactly as it is now, because it was a desire I always had had in my heart. A craved and cuddled plan, all by my own hand. My cellar is to me like a shed of monastic simplicity, spacious to guard the wines I respect, built to host work and guests. It is strong as it is made of natural and ancient materials: brick, stone, rock, wood, glass and iron, which can withstand the earthquakes that often shake my land.
Not until the end will I know if the promise will be kept, if the dream will come true with God’s will. Vain is the struggle against one castrating spring frost or the scourging of pitiless hail. With God’s will, I'll be ready to steal the berries from these unique golden or rubicund grapes, strong and always ungenerous. Their seeds will perpetuate nature.