Cultivating vines is the natural destiny for Le Marche. For centuries there has been harmony between people and nature here, between the vineyards and the farmers.
What do we do in the vineyard?
Everything and nothing. Everything we can do beforehand, leaving no need to do anything later. The plants must be healthy, because a healthy plant defends itself on its own. In the newly-planted vineyards we weed mechanically using a plough, so that the young rooted cuttings can breathe and are not stifled by the vigorous wild plants. We don’t weed at all in the fruit-bearing vineyards; instead we let the grass, sow thistles, rapeseed, dandelions, borage, ribwort plantain, chard and many other wild plants grow in the vineyard. They compete with the vines, forcing them to delve deep down to reach the minerals. In a rich and healthy environment, even the natural enemies of parasites flourish, destroying them as soon as they appear. During the winter we plant field beans between the vines as green manure, naturally enriching the soil with nitrogen. We trim the tips and reduce the number of leaves to increase the amount of sunlight and ventilation the grapes receive. All in all, we cultivate our vines in full accordance with the rules of organic farming, and from the 2018 vintage onwards all wines will show their organic certification on the label.
We use the guyot pruning system, leaving no more than seven buds. The density of plants is between 2700 and 3500 vines per hectare.
And after a day of hard work in the vineyard, the night arrives. The noises of work stop and the voices of humans fall silent. While the lights, only the lights, tell of them. The silence screams sweetly and deeply. And it is easy to understand why…
Sempre caro mi fu quest’ermo colle,
E questa siepe, che da tanta parte
Dell’ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati
Spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
Silenzi, e profondissima quiete
Io nel pensier mi fingo; ove per poco
Il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
Odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
Infinito silenzio a questa voce
Vo comparando: e mi sovvien l’eterno,
E le morte stagioni, e la presente
E viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa
Immensità s’annega il pensier mio:
E il naufragar m’è dolce in questo mare.
1819 Giacomo Leopardi