In Barolo an event for the vines: growing on the low hills of the Langhe, drenched in sunlight, they produce the grape, song of the earth; and under their green blanket of leaves, hidden in mysterious obscurity, the grapes begin their metamorphosis into limpid wine. In the dark it signals its rising fermentation, drawing the outline of another hill within the warp of that which it encircles it, marked by the brook, opening a first gash of light. Nothing can stop the force of the incipient metamorphoses and the earth breaks open, clay exposed to the sun, allowing us a glimpse of an underground winery where the once timid song becomes a full chorale, among the infinity of glass bottles. The great maternal casks have done their part after having added the aromas of wood, the great oaks having gathered by themselves the rays of the sun. But the bursting forth in expansion is held in check by an artful circular cut which generates a round courtyard, leading the hill gently down the valley towards the brook, the dusty road, the bridge… Arch. Ugo Dellapiana
