‘Do you remember the first day?’ ‘Yes, I remember it.’ The question, asked one evening while passing by the vineyards, opens up a memory that has remained intact for more than thirty years.

That day, there was nothing. A meadow, an old house, and on the other side of the path, a half-ruined barn that once served as a stable and hayloft. Not a vineyard in sight. It was mid-January, and a thick fog — the kind that wipes out the road — covered the whole hill. On the way, at a red light, a car almost hit his. ‘I said to myself: whatever happens, I'm going home with this vineyard, even if the world collapses.’

Arriving there, the discussion began with the former owners — the family's daughter and her husband — about the price. The hesitations lasted a while. ‘I got tired of waiting, I pulled out my chequebook and wrote the cheque.’ The amount fixed, an ultimatum was delivered bluntly: if the deposit was not accepted straight away, he would go and see another seller, well known to him, and the deal would end there. That was in 1992.

The next day, the seller went back on his decision. The cheque was accepted, payments were staggered until the notary — without a lawyer, without an accountant, a handshake and signatures. ‘Today, I have one, an accountant — but back then, we got by very well without.’

This first acquisition led to others: in 1995, the purchase of Mosconi with a friend; in 1998, that of Gabutti; then, over the years, a few smaller plots that rounded off the estate. But the big stages, the founding ones, are indeed those.

Sell? Never. ‘I don't sell just to sell. If I sell one day, it's to buy a larger plot that I like more. Otherwise, I don't sell — I don't like it.’ The ambitions, however, are still there. The rest — caviar, a Ferrari — does not interest him. A plate of pasta with beans is quite enough for him; he drives a van, and that suits him perfectly.

‘I have to do what I want to do, as always. For as long as it's possible.’ That, for him, is what paradise looks like.