Many are my years and many are the memories that I carry inside.
Once upon a time, here there was a smell of must. The bunches of grapes harvested by hard-working hands arrived generously in boxes of the color of the earth. What fun, at that time, for children. They were gay and participated in the harvest together with the grown-ups, then climbed on the trailers of the tractors that passed to collect the overflowing crates of black and golden fruits, waiting next to long, green rows.
The warm September sun warmed days that resounded with the singing of birds, which called for a long journey to distant shores. And voices, and laughter, of people who have always belonged to this land, like the leaves to the trees and the waves to the sea, and which mingles with the colors of this beautiful place.
I watched from above, and I awaited the fruit of the fields, of the water and the sun, the fruit of the salty wind and the work of this frank and sincere people. Between my walls, the grapes were separated from the stalks and then crushed and left to ferment. It took months for this mixture of juice and peel, through decantation and clarification, to arrive at bottling and so, like a son who grew up, it left me to go to other houses to tell our story to the people, a story told by colors, perfume and taste, which sometimes say more than words.
Even today, I welcome and listen, hosting people of all places.
I never get tired of opening my doors,
I am the
House of Memories.