It was a typical September day in the Langhe, taking on charming autumn hues. Walking through those gentle hills, it was quite impossible not to bee entranced by the landscape.
Someone was walking along the ridge, that dusty path connecting the impressive Bricco di San Biagio (a place which was thought to be the site of a small monastery and a parish church during the Middle Ages) to the hill of Borgata Serra dei Turchi.
In his hand he was holding a book written by an old local priest and from time to time he halted for a brief stop to read that inique historical outline, then continued his walking.
His steps led him up to there, on that small cape from where a series of farm houses stood, facing large farmyards bordered on one side by portico and barns. Towards the end of the first millenium, a group of Saraceni soldiers stopped right there, after the invasion and the sack of Alba.
Nobody knew exactly how long that colony had settled on that hill, nor even if any soldier had regretted such destruction. The one thing that was certain is that they had choosen that place since it offered a mild climate, frugal but good food and above all the wine, the sweetest nectar of the Gods.
They certainly left that place which became know as "Serra di Turchi", unwillingly. It was really difficult to leave and he was still there walking up to the top of the hill from where he could admire all the other slopes and hills around and the valley of Alba: it was a breathtaking landscape.
Finally he was on his way back, along the long line of farms, but he stopped again curious about a strange creaking coming from an old cellar. Through the half-closed door, he could see a dark room, barely lit by a small lamp. Suddenly the door opened and a pleasant wrinkled face smiled at him. That old farmer immediately imagined he was from the city, his clothes and even more so the camera around his neck, betrayed him.
Speaking in his dialect Battistin asked him to come in to see how to make wine, and the young journalist from Milan accepted. Inside a child, aged about ten, was turning the handle of an old grape crushing machine. It was set over a tub, and it was being filled by the child's father who was pouring grapes into it. The young journalist who was enthusiastic about the scene, asked for permission to take a picture to immortalize three generations of farmers. It had turned out to be a delightful day for him too.
Some months later Battistin received an envelope containing a copy of that picture and he felt so proud of it that he decided to keep it in his precious prayer book. But that picture had been hidden and forgotten for about twenty years until a large and strong hand like of Battistin's, brought it back to light again. Osvaldo smiled recognizing his grandad, his father Luigi and himself.
That simple gesture was enough to revive something in Osvaldo; words like family and traditions began to acquire a new meaning. Reconciling himself with his origins, he finally realized who he was and who he wanted to be ever: a farmer, a man with a passion for the art of turning grapes into the nectar of the Gods.