For more than half a century, Riccardo Cotarella has been the master oenologist celebrities and world leaders trust with one of their most valuable assets: their wine. And to think it all began with a single, powerful command from his father: “Go or else.” Pursuing oenology wasn’t a suggestion. It was an ultimatum—one that exiled a reluctant 13-year-old from everything and everyone he knew and set him on a collision course with destiny.
It was a path of forced pruning that would not only continue his family’s eight-generation legacy but elevate it to unprecedented heights, ultimately changing Italian wine forever. In a wide-ranging full-immersion at his Umbrian estate, Riccardo reflects on the true meaning of terroir, the misunderstood concept of “native” grapes, and the ultimate determinant of a wine’s greatness.
Walking with Riccardo Cotarella through his Umbrian vineyard is like being in the Bologna hills, riding shotgun with Ferruccio Lamborghini in a Lamborghini. He’s not just driving; he’s explaining the philosophy behind every curve, every roar of the engine—the brilliant triumphs and painful failures that forged a legend.
That’s the level of mastery here.
The vineyard rows are immaculate. The leaves are perfect. The Merlot grapes hang with a uniformity that seems impossible. Nothing is left to chance. This isn’t farming; it’s a masterclass in control. He stops. Not randomly, but with a hunter’s focus. His hand, textured by decades of sun and soil, reaches for a branch. He does something that seems like sabotage. “I say that wine is a drug, in one sense or another,” he says, his voice a low register that seems to emanate from the earth itself. “He pauses mid-thought. His eyes, missing nothing, narrow in assessment.
With a touch so precise it disturbs nothing, he parts the leaves. Concealed beneath lies a pale, tender shoot. He smiles with a child-like grin and looks at me as if asking what should be done with this tyrannical shoot. “It fills your life, sometimes even too much, but it makes you love your work in an incredible way. It makes you feel responsible, but only up to a point. There is that trait of anarchy in wine that you cannot manage.”
His thumbnail finds the base of the tender growth.
Snap.
The shoot falls to the dirt.
No ceremony.
No mercy.
“You know perfectly well that you are in control only up to a certain point. There are elements you cannot manage: the climate, the microbiological activity of the wine. And so it’s always about being careful, careful, careful. And sometimes, no, despite technology, those little ‘animals’ inside say, ‘Now I’ll do what I want.’ Because they decide. Making wine is one thing; making vinegar is another. The bacteria inside the must or the wine don’t care about making good wine. Nature must make vinegar for its own survival. We have to manage them without killing them, logically, to make good wine.”
Something is telling me he isn’t just talking about winemaking…
“Ne Parliamo Domani”
(Let’s Sleep On It)
It is no accident. The kinship of Italian words. To trace it is to follow a path not on any map, but one that winds through the quiet rows of our mind, making connections that we wouldn’t otherwise find. We begin with the vite—the grapevine seen from a tiny hamlet of Monterubiaglio, in Umbria, where a young Riccardo Cotarella, born in 1948 into an eight-generation winemaking lineage, slept in a room with his younger brother Renzo “built directly above the family cellar.”
At night, he recalls, “the aromas of fermentation rose to our beds, impregnating our clothes and our noses.” The vite shaped his life by two profound forces: “the warmth of my mother, Mariagrazia, and the severe devotion of my father, Domenico.” This was a world where “there was no ‘I’, but always and only ‘we’,” a truth lived out in the medieval lanes of his borgo.
“We used to play, causing a bit of mischief here and there; we were always together, from school through the afternoon. And as in every group of kids, there’s a leader, right? I was the vice-leader. But the leader was the one in charge. In a certain way, I carry that boy inside me; he’s a fixed part of my life,” he reflects.
This philosophy of the collective was lived in the communal ringing of bells to move the clouds and prevent hailstorms and the emotional prayers for the health of a newborn animal. It was a life where wine was survival—the famous ammezzato, which, as Riccardo explains, was “half water and half wine… We added water to wine. Sometimes even a little sugar. It was also good. Light, fizzy.” Sure it would oxidize the moment you moved it from one room to the next, but it was a lifestyle of doing more with less…in community.”
Just as in the grapevine, excellence is not found, it is curated. Fermented in darkness. So it was for the restless Riccardo. His was a life that required curated crushing. His innate spark often flared, like the time he traded a precious bottle of his father’s wine for football stickers—a story his brother, Renzo, his “cautious, reflective counterpart,” still laughs about. It was a misguided pruning. But a deeper curiosity ignited when his father lamented that their well-crafted wine, despite its quality, could not bear the name “Tuscan,” and thus would never command the same esteem. For Riccardo, this was not a comment on geography, but a riddle of essence.
The answer arrived in a moment of unexpected validation. During a summer spent at his uncle’s glamorous thermal spa in Umbria, a magnet for Roman cinema stars like Marcello Mastroianni and Sofia Loren, a great actor tasted the local white. “‘Where does this good, fresh white wine come from?’ he asked,” Riccardo recounts. “The restaurant manager gestured to us: ‘From the Cotarella vineyards.’” That casual acclaim, Riccardo says, “was an electric shock for me. It wasn’t just pride. It was a hunger.” But the path to quenching that hunger would not be of his own choosing, at least not so soon. It would require a violent pruning from the very vine that nurtured him, his father.
‘Ne parliamo domani’
The pivotal confrontation arrived at the breakfast table. A 13 year-old Riccardo, now in Orvieto for school, expressed a desire to study geometry, just like his friends, thereby breaking the generational legacy. His father, Domenico, did not shout. He employed a masterful tactic of delay. “My father was a mix of love and severity,” Riccardo recalls. “He said, ‘Ne parliamo domani’ (We’ll talk about it tomorrow).
You understood the seriousness from the look in his eyes. With those eyes, it was better to stay quiet.” The next morning, the verdict was delivered over breakfast. “No, Riccardo, you will not go to the surveyor’s institute. You will go to study enology in Conegliano, in the province of Treviso.” For Riccardo, the pronouncement felt more like exile than opportunity. “I had to leave my friends, the branco (the gang), my mother, my brother, my papa’,” he remembers.
The distance felt insurmountable—”ten hours by train at the time, felt light years away.” The pain was a severance from a way of being. “Being born in a small borgo of four hundred people, it’s a community, not a town. Where everyone knows everyone, everyone shares in the emotions, the joys, the pains.” He was being torn from the very fabric of this collective life, from the “we” that had defined him. “I told him, ‘No, no, I won’t go.’ He said, ‘Fine, no problem, you have two choices: Study enology or go work in the vineyard.’ What’s the problem? What I didn’t know is that he had already anticipated my response and had a hoe made especially for me. I had never held a hoe so heavy; it was lead.
I could barely lift it. I managed maybe two meters—and it wasn’t even proper hoeing, more like raking—and I threw it down. After struggling for mere meters, an old worker offered a piece of unsolicited advice: “Boy, listen to me, leave that hoe and listen to your dad. The ache in my back was a language my father didn’t need to speak,” In that moment, I felt a strange mix of humiliation and clarity.
I understood that wine was not an abstract idea. It was a story that is sometimes centuries old, a territory, its habits, customs, economy, the people involved. It’s not just a beverage; it’s a living history.” So I conceded. I was going to Conegliano. Even though I was scared. But in that moment, I had the sensation of the rightness of this decision… of his path.” This lesson was deepened at the G.B. Cerletti School of Enology, where he thrived. His father’s final lesson came just as Riccardo was stepping into his career:
“Now the problems begin that you will have to solve yourself, even if I will always be with you.” In that moment, the patient work of the vine (vite), the fermented wisdom of his life (vita), and the enforced journey from his village (via) became one story. The connection was never hidden. It was simply fermenting, in the dark, waiting to be discovered. The boy torn from his community was being prepared to build bridges for the world.
“From that despair, a fire was lit. We had to burn the old system to the ground and rebuild from the ashes.”
Riccardo’s professional ascent began in 1968 at Cantine Vaselli, where he faced hostility from older enologists who saw him as an upstart. These early humiliations, though painful, became foundational lessons in humility, teaching him “never to antagonize the younger generation.” His first crucible, foreshadowed by his father, arrived on September 8, 1970. A major shipment of Orvieto was found to be flawed. As his superiors succumbed to panic, Riccardo, heeding his father’s wise clue—”Think about it Riccardo, only a percentage of the bottles has this defect… Don’t use chemistry, use common sense”—remained calm in the chaos.
His diagnosis was brilliantly simple: Less chemistry more common sense: a single copper-enriched nozzle was contaminating the wine. “There was suddenly a great silence and, immediately afterward, the Vaselli counts ordered the machinery to be dismantled and checked.” His swift resolution earned him the ire of jealous colleagues but the absolute faith of the Vaselli counts.
At just twenty-two, he was appointed general director. This thirteen-year tenure became his academy—a sanctuary for experimentation where the foundational ideas of his philosophy were forged. It was also here that his younger brother, Renzo, completed his “futuristic” thesis on cryomaceration, research that would later contribute to the creation of Antinori’s iconic Cervaro della Sala.
Reflecting on such pivotal moments, Cotarella shares a core tenet of his belief: “A volte cambia la vita. Un’opportunità. Ha un suo destino che qualcuno l’ha disegnato e tu non lo sai. È tutto già programmato.” (Sometimes it changes your life. An opportunity. It has a destiny that someone designed and you don’t know it. Everything is already programmed.) By 1981, he had bet everything on himself, leaving security behind to build his own consulting legacy. He was answering the very question that had haunted him since youth: what separates the good from the great?
And right then, at his moment of epiphany, came the scandal.
Not just any scandal.
The scandal of scandals.
It was 1986.
The methanol scandal. A toxic shortcut.
Twenty-three lives ended. Trust, Italy’s most precious export, evaporated. The world turned away. The “Made in Italy” brand, now a warning. “In June, this scandal broke in the morning,” Cotarella remembers, the gravity still palpable. “For months, you didn’t see a single bottle of wine in restaurants. Wineries sold for pennies because wine was now dead.” The personal stakes were immense. “The banks harassed us and asked us to repay the loans. They asked me to ‘cut up the warehouse’.” The very foundation of his life’s work was under attack. But from the ashes of this disaster, an “unstoppable revolution” emerged. The blueprint was already there.
We stood on the shoulders of giants,” he says, citing the pioneers. Giacomo Tachis, the visionary who proved science could elevate tradition, creating icons from native grapes. And Ezio Rivella, the master of commerce and technology, who understood how to stabilize wine for the world. They were the first true ‘enologist-managers.’ With the wine industry on its knees, Riccardo was invited to moderate a debate on its future. “The room was filled with a fog of shame,” he says. “We were pariahs. It felt like the end. But from that despair, a fire was lit. We had to burn the old system to the ground and rebuild from the ashes.”
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The old winemaker—the ghost in the lab coat—gone. The post-scandal era demanded the grafting of a new figure. Forced into the light. Not just a chemist, but a manager. A storyteller. A hybrid soul bridging the dirt and the global market. An oenologist-manager. A master tailor, as Cotarella says. The grape harvest is the fabric, different each year. The task: to cut a suit to fit it perfectly. Precision, yes. But also, art.
“A story that, even in its essentiality, has the power to evoke unique emotions, traditions, and stories. The simpler it is, the more powerful it is.”
The process of having a translator communicate his wine was cumbersome.“It took twice as long,” but the true failure was emotional. “The feeling was wrong.. No emotion. Just Mechanical!” Riccardo conjures the ghost of that performance, the interpreter’s flat recitation: “This wine was made by Riccardo Cotarella in 1961, a great vintage, blah blah blah!” It was a eulogy for his own passion. The room, he remembers, turned cold. In that chill, an epiphany: “The story had to be mine.”
Language became his next vintage to master. He learned English not for grammar, but for grace. To transmit not data, but soul. He discovered a fundamental thirst: the audience did not want a technical sheet; they wanted a narrative. “They wanted to know who was behind the bottle, what roots nourished the land.” This revelation became his cornerstone. “I have always believed that the true strength of communication lies in simplicity,” he says, his philosophy a clean, clear glass for a profound idea. “A story that, even in its essentiality, has the power to evoke unique emotions, traditions, and stories.
The simpler it is, the more powerful it is.” His international consecration arrived during a three-day marathon tasting with famed wine critic Robert Parker. Each day, 100 wines were assessed. Riccardo’s two revolutionary bottles—Montiano (a Merlot from Lazio) and Montevetrano (a blend from Campania)—were saved for the final moments of the final day. “I could usually read his opinion from his gestures and eyes before he spoke,” Cotarella says. “But with these two wines, there was nothing. Just ice.”
Cotarella admitted to feeling gripped by a cold fear, convinced he had failed. “I thought, it’s over. Finito.” As Parker finished, he signalled for silence. “He told me, ‘shut up,’ and continued to taste.” The silence stretched, unbearable. Then, Parker turned and declared he had just tasted “one of the best reds of my life from Italy.” He told Riccardo, “‘In a week, your life will change.’ “He was right. It was not just success; it was the validation of a dream we were told was foolish. I felt… absolved.”
Cotarella went on to vinify in incredibly diverse countries, from Japan to Serbia to Palestine. Each experience a “chapter of a living encyclopedia.” He saw vines covered with small umbrellas in Tokyo and buried under snow in Hokkaido. These travels taught him that wine is a “window on the world,” a universal language that transcends borders.
In the intimate silence of the Cotarella dining room, the world-renowned enologist leans toward his glass, his eyes watery with emotion. In vino veritas. The ancient adage floods the space as he confronts his creation with a vulnerable, almost aching confession: “A volte parlo con il vino e gli chiedo: ‘Perché non parli?'” — “Sometimes I talk to my wine and ask: ‘Why don’t you speak?'” It is the plea of a creator to his creation, a moment where the boundary between craftsman and art dissolves.
This is not mere eccentricity; it is the same sacred impulse that compelled Michelangelo to approach the marble block not as an inert substance, but as a prison for a form already living within. He did not see himself as a sculptor imposing a body, but as a liberator, releasing the figure that God had already placed inside the stone. His famous declaration—”Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it”—is the direct kin to Cotarella’s patient courtship with his wine.
Yet, in the profound silence of the cellar, Cotarella’s philosophy finds its purest expression beyond the bottle. This was first forged at San Patrignano, where he refused all payment for twenty-two years and learned from youths in recovery that true wealth lies in redemption. “It was more that they donated to me than I could give to them,” he reflects. “There I understood what it means to fall and get back up.” This understanding found sacred ground at Cremisan, a Salesian winery near Bethlehem. Witnessing the modest conditions and critical state of the vineyards, he raised funds from famous clients and brought two Palestinian youths, Fadi Batarseh and Laith Kokali, to Italy to study enology.
Fadi now directs the winery, producing wines from local varieties like Dabouki, Hamddani, Jandali, and Baladi. Amidst political walls separating vineyards from cellar, the project became a place where Christians, Muslims, and Jews work side-by-side—wine acting as a “glue between cultures” where he’s “never heard any fighting. The secret was not in the earth… It was in the hand that tends it. The human element. The care.” For Cotarella, wine’s highest purpose is giving voice to stories of redemption, building bridges where politics cannot. “Wine is the backbone of the relationship we establish with others; it is a bond that is created slowly, almost imperceptibly… It is our Akai Ito, the red thread of destiny.
Famiglia Cotarella
The engine of Riccardo Cotarella’s world has always been family. His unbreakable bond with his brother Renzo—whom he describes as his”cautious, reflective counterpart”—was forged in tragedy and tempered by shared ambition. The premature death of their father, Domenico, in the vineyard no less, in 1972, could have shattered them. Instead, it fused their destinies.
Renzo, possessing a “singular intelligence, very theoretical and highly prepared, but with a practical grip on life,” became Riccardo’s essential counterbalance. “He looks at the future. Indeed, he realizes it before it arrives,” Riccardo says. Renzo’s own path—from confidently correcting a physics professor on copper conductivity to becoming the CEO of the Marchesi Antinori group—embodied the “classic enologist-manager” role, proving how their complementary skills could achieve greatness.
Together, they built their own empire from the ground up. In 1979, they founded the family winery, a venture that echoed their father’s first steps. “As it had begun, this family venture recalled, for emotional resonance, the first steps and the enterprise of my father,” Riccardo notes. They started humbly, producing “Est! Est!! Est!!!” in a challenging, small Montefiascone cellar. Through relentless work, they expanded to their current 200-hectare estate in Montecchio, a powerhouse producing three million bottles annually. But a legacy is not truly secure until it is passed on. The most crucial transition began in 2016, when they successfully transferred management to the next generation.
Their daughters—Dominga, Marta, and Enrica—brought “new dynamism and fresh ideas,” while his son Samuele focused on enology and marketing. Pier Paolo Chiasso, married to Dominga, is designated as the future director of Riccardo’s consulting studio and his eventual successor.
This seamless handover is the ultimate validation of his life’s work. For Riccardo, the enologist’s role extends beyond the cellar; it is to be a mentor and mediator, ensuring the delicate balance of tradition and innovation for future success. “Producing wine means taking responsibility for valuing a territory, interpreting a culture, and contributing to a much broader narrative.”
In the end, every bottle tells this story—of a bond between brothers, a promise to a father, and a legacy carefully pruned and passed on, ensuring the roots he and Renzo planted will nourish generations to come.
Q&A with Riccardo Cotarella
Terroir. How do you define it?
Terroir is a conversation, not a decree. It is the soil, the climate, the slope of the hill, the altitude—yes, absolutely. But it is a silent language. It requires an interpreter. Beyond the soil, climate, and vines…it is the people who truly make the difference. The winemaker’s role is to listen to this encyclopedia of the land and translate its soul into the bottle. Every glass should narrate the history of its place.
What is your view on autochthonous grapes?
This is a vital discussion, but we must be precise with our language. The literal Greek meaning of autochthonous is “from the same earth,” which is poetically beautiful but scientifically misleading. Most of the grapes we consider quintessentially Italian arrived as cuttings and evolved over centuries. They became ambient. They integrated. To be dogmatic about a grape’s origin is to miss the point entirely.
So, what should the definition be?
A more pragmatic one. An autochthonous variety is the one that most eloquently expresses the potential of a specific territory. It is about performance, not pedigree. If Merlot renders Bolgheri one of the richest wine regions in Italy, then for that place, Merlot is autochthonous. It has earned its right to the soil. I prefer to think in terms of “ancient” and “recent” rather than “native” and “international.” This acknowledges history without being imprisoned by it.
Talk about some of Italy’s “ancient” varieties. Starting with Nebbiolo.
The queen! Demanding, elegant, capable of extraordinary transparency. Its various names—Spanna, Prunent—tell you everything. It speaks with a different accent in every village. Our work has been to understand its language, to guide it to express its purity without the astringency that once defined it.
And Sangiovese, the heart of Tuscany?
Ah, Sangiovese. A grape with a “deception of origins.” Its genetics are a mosaic. But today, we consider it autochthonous to Tuscany not because it was always there, but because that is where it finds its supreme voice—in Brunello, in Chianti Classico. It teaches us that a grape’s home is where it achieves its best self, often in poor, clay soils that force it to struggle, to concentrate, to become profound.
What about Aglianico?
The king of the South. It is a grape of power and structure, but it demands altitude. At 200, 500, 700 meters above sea level, it finds its balance. It is a reminder that terroir is three-dimensional.
Beyond these famous names, which lesser-known varieties capture this spirit?
Look at Cesanese from Lazio, growing in volcanic soils. Or Verdicchio from the Marche, which can taste of the mountain breeze in Matelica or the sea salt of Castelli di Jesi. Each is a unique key to a specific lock. Nero d’Avola is Sicily in a glass—its sweet, structured tannins are like the Sicilian sun itself. And Glera, the grape of Prosecco, is a fascinating case where the wine’s name is now legally tied to the territory, not the grape. This is a recognition that place is the ultimate author.
Beyond the mythology, What is the true purpose of oak barrels?
The primary, non-negotiable function of wood, especially oak, is traspirazione—transpiration. It is a slow, gentle oxidation that allows the wine to breathe, to integrate, to expand its aromatic palette. The choice of wood, its toast level, is like choosing a spice. It should enhance, never overpower. The wine itself tells you how long it needs. There is no fixed rule. The enologist’s role is to listen, to recognize the moment the wine has achieved harmony, when the voice of the fruit and the whisper of the wood become one song. That is the moment it is ready. It is a lesson in patience, in respecting the natural chronology of things. And that, perhaps, is the final secret.
You blend intuition with science. What specific scientific process is most critical, and where does human judgment intervene?
The transformation of grape must into wine is a matter of pure biology and chemistry, demanding strict control. The alchemy happens during fermentation, a period of about twenty days where the wine’s DNA is formed—its color, its aromas, its structure. We monitor the conversion of sugars by yeast and the softening of acids by bacteria. But the science is a map; it is not the journey. The human factor is the navigator. I taste a wine three hundred times. This is not measurement; it is a relationship. You must perceive its nuances, its minuzie, to guide it, to prevent complications. The machine gives you data; the palate gives you truth.
So, the future of Italian wine lies in this catalogue of ancient varieties?
The future lies in the intelligence we apply to them. The biodiversity is our treasure, but it is a living library we must study, not simply venerate. The success of Italian wine today is the marriage of these ancient, genetically variable vines with meticulous human care. It is not enough to have a historic grape. You must have the humility to listen to the land and the courage to curate what it gives you. The secret was never in the soil alone. It was, is, and shall forever be… in the hand that tends it.
“Among the most intense experiences is riding through the vineyards. It is not only a moment of peace and beauty: it is also a precious opportunity to observe the life of the plants up close, to capture details that would escape a distracted eye.”
Italy is the world’s top wine exporter by volume. What is the greatest commercial challenge?
The challenge is value, not volume. We have successfully shifted from exporting bulk wine to shipping over eighty percent in bottle, a profound requalification. But the gap remains: French wines command a price nearly eighty percent higher. Our opportunity, and our task, is to close that gap. This is not about making more wine; it is about better communicating the story of our unique biodiversity, our ancient varieties, and the meticulous care behind each bottle. The success of our sparkling wines, for instance, shows this is possible.
The health debate around wine is intense: What is your perspective?
We must be precise and responsible. The research surrounding the Mediterranean Diet is clear. Moderate, daily consumption of wine with food is linked to longevity and a significant reduction in cardiovascular risk. The benefit is not merely from the alcohol, but crucially from the polyphenols—the antioxidants like resveratrol found in the skin of the grape. In fact, the small amount of alcohol appears to help the body absorb these compounds more effectively. This is the science behind the so-called ‘French Paradox.’ Wine is a food of culture, to be savored in moderation as part of a balanced life.
How do you respond to the recent wave of anti-alcohol sentiment?
When criticism is biased, based on principle and preconceptions, you get into a question-answer mechanism. When there’s no reason to engage, you’re just feeding these “keyboard lions” who are angry at life, have problems with the world. I prefer constructive discussions. Ask me why wine has cultural value—that’s a conversation worth having.
Your early formation included time in a Jesuit seminary. What enduring perspective on faith remains with you today?
My year with the Jesuits in 1959 left me with a fundamental conviction: the existence of a superior God who guides our lives. I still maintain my own personal religiosity. That period was deeply formative—less about doctrine and more about developing an emotional compass, a sensitivity toward myself and others that has informed everything since.
Why has wine consistently held such profound spiritual significance across civilizations, particularly in Christianity?
Historically, wine was unique—the only substance known to alter consciousness in a way that felt like direct contact with the divine. Its survival in Europe is deeply tied to Christianity, where it became central to liturgy and a vehicle for evangelical messages. The world of wine is intensely symbolic; these symbols speak directly to our psyche.
How does this symbolic power translate into projects like the Cremisan winery in a conflict zone?
Cremisan is a beautiful, virtuous example. Run by the Salesians, it employs Christians, Muslims, and Jews. Despite the political reality—the vineyards are in Israel, the cellars in Palestine, separated by a wall—I have never heard a cross word among the workers. There, wine becomes a glue between cultures, a concrete message of hope and social rebirth.
Can you elaborate on this “symbolic value” of wine in contemporary society?
We are witnessing a gradual “desymbolization.” Wine’s value is shifting from the sacred to the anthropological—it now communicates territory and identity. Yet the power remains. In the Mediterranean, refusing wine sends a strong message of not belonging to the land. The symbolic connection between wine, earth, and cultural identity is still profound.
Passions beyond the vine?
Throughout my life, my interests have transformed, following the rhythm of time and emotion. As a young man, I immersed myself with passion in activities like trap shooting and spearfishing: sports that demand a lucid mind, a steady hand, and an almost meditative patience. Every shot, every dive was a challenge with myself, an exercise in concentration and control. But as the years passed, something inside me changed.
Those passions, though still dear, have given way to a deeper, more visceral love: horses. Today, I share my life with six splendid specimens, whom I affectionately call my “princes.” It is not just about riding them: I observe them, I listen to them, I speak with them. Every glance, every movement is a silent message, an emotion that needs no words. The bond that is created is something unique, an intimate dialogue that goes beyond mere sport. It is a return to essence, a way to reconnect with nature and, above all, with myself.
Among the most intense experiences is riding through the vineyards. It is not only a moment of peace and beauty: it is also a precious opportunity to observe the life of the plants up close, to capture details that would escape a distracted eye. In the saddle, with the right gait and an attentive gaze, I can perceive every nuance of the landscape, every signal from the earth. For me, sport has never been an end in itself. It has always been a means to cultivate authentic values: discipline, respect for what surrounds us, the harmony between body, mind, and spirit. It is an inner journey, a way to grow, to feel alive.
Credits: Photography By Daniele Mari and Famiglia Coratella Archive.
