See through the eyes of someone who has never seen.
This land has a name: Chianti. It is in the heart of Tuscany and, for centuries, the rich, the powerful, the nobles of Florence and Siena, have created homes and estates, defended towns and cities and taken care of their people.
We walk over this land, these rolling hills that seem to become steeper and more inaccessible as we approach.
Man has tamed them, cleaned them, turned the soil, built terraces and drywalls, created tracks and traces, studied the land, planted, pruned, harvested, nurtured, and suffered, as have all who live on the land.
Beneath our feet, the compacted land reveals its mysteries: what we thought was a yellow-brown blemish of ploughed land in the distance, regains all its many colours as we come approach. These are stones that enclose the land, that form the history of homes and harvests; and we have named them: Marl and Albarese. Stone that has survived all the efforts of man; defying his attempts to collect them and build drywalls—better to leave them where they lie to embrace forever the roots of our vines, filtering all that the soil has given to their growth.
It takes more to transmute the land into tilled, tended fields, into rows of vines, into geometries of colour from plants that are loved and give us their fruit in return.
It takes more for this land to repay all that investment of sweat, hope, understanding and sacrifice.
It takes more: it takes mankind.
The stubbornness of the man who, in the far distant past first buried his hand in that soil and understood that this was where his nourishment came from; the man who learned about seeds and seasons; the man who studied the moon and the rains, sod and fertilizer; who heard within the land the breath of time, the growth of the crops, the moods of the creation, of abundance and drought, safety and fear; the man who, with the land, overcame the aeons to arrive at today, understanding all that the land can give.