The imposing Oak of Terre de' Guerriero stands tall and firm, and around it you can still feel the smells of Sunday lunches, the loud clamour of wedding banquets, the deafening silences in the hot summer afternoons, Nonno Francesco's exciting stories and the children's shouting.
The Oak, an expression of virtue, strength, courage, dignity and perseverance, jealously guards the Guerrieros’ spirit. As a symbol of strength, manhood and military value, the oak anticipates the memory of a family, and transfers memories and stories from father to son. The smell of water and flour, mixed with mothballs, marks the slow everyday activities of women, while the wisdom of men is devoted to the creation of new grafts, predicting rich harvests.
The grapes graze, the swallows flies, the leaves fall, the wind sweeps them away; and then again, the sprouts, the intense blue, the green meadows and flowers announce the coming of Spring. Season after season, the "boys of '99" have grown up, becoming fathers, and then grandfathers. This is the origin of Terre de' Guerriero: 4 generations of memory, remembrances and emotions.

Everyone knew them in the town: “The Guerrieros”.From Capriglia to Pennini, through Pagliarone, 20 hectares on the Terminio Mountain, represented the large lands of the Guerrieros.
A generation of fighters, Nonno Francesco and his brothers took part in the two great wars, coming home with honour and glory of ancient memory. Really smart people, the Guerrieros, warriors by name and in fact. Their fearless spirit was controlled in their busy daily life, devoted to the activities of the great vineyard extending around the oak. Chestnuts, hazelnuts and olive groves are mixed with deep valleys and limpid streams, scenic falls and inaccessible gorges on the Partenio Mountains under whose shape the Guerrieros grew and expanded.
Hares and wild boars, the black woodpecker, the peregrine falcon, the wall lizard: they are the childhood friends of Nonno Francesco, the ingenious forefather of the Guerriero family, better known as Torrecone; that Torrecone, from whom everything started.

Nonno Francesco's eldest son, Cosimo, moves his strong and vigorous arms, involved in a warm embrace with the bellows of his accordion. Behind the clear and firm sound of musical notes, there are the customs of an everlasting conviviality that finds its best expression on special days, festivities and wedding banquets of the Guerriero Family. Nonno Francesco is the man who holds together with his great histrionic mastery the articulated plot of the family relationships, and the dense friendship network; Torrecone, a man of great silences and loud laughter. Behind him the Guerrieros sing their song, gathered under the vigorous Oak.

The rhythmic, nostalgic and hopeful sound of the accordion raises as a reminder for adults and children. Nonno Francesco calls his sons, now adults, and his still too young grandchildren, with his confident and proud eyes, as a real Torrecone. The nickname itself describes him: tall and imposing like his dear oak, confidant and keeper of immense secrets, the typical secrets of a farmer's heart, made of quiet thoughts and noisy worries. Just like the tower, from which he takes his name, Nonno Francesco foresees threats and dangers; he is supported by the ladies of the house with their strong voice, and by the children with their continuous rhythm during the games. Unassailable fortress, guard, sighting, alarm tower, reference point for the Guerriero family, he is still there, indelibly imprinted in the memory, with his faint smile, when the accordion plays its first A note. A symbol of absolute stability, total indestructibility, Torrecone remains in the memory of his family, in an ideal place, in the shadow of that oak; the oak of Terre de' Guerriero.

Since dawn you can hear dull sounds from the kitchen; pots and pans, women working to prepare lunch; then you can hear the children, in the open air, chasing Rosina and Isotta, the two little goats of the family. Men, far from the house to control the vineyard, which timidly sprouts, follow the constant rhythm of their daily work. And the challenge of the grafts, to establish who the best creator of original grafts.
The days pass slow and fast; slow, infinitely slow, at sunset, when everything begins to be quiet in the dusk, leaving room for the night sounds of the earth; fast,​ inevitably fast, in the morning, when the threat of the burning sun, speeds up the rhythm, stimulates a frantic dance of ritual activities, repeated day after day. While in the renowned cafes of the city business agreements are concluded, secret loves start, political relations are established, around the Oak, in the open countryside, everything stops, with the exciting essence of the long-awaited Arabic Wine. And suddenly everything seems quiet, clear and limpid, and like in a black and white film, you can hear the sound of the coffee maker, the flowing water, a growing smell and the women's rising call.

Gestures, sounds, colours, smells are confused, giving birth to a unique, infinitesimal moment. It's time for a cup of coffee that, now as then, consolidates bonds, breaks the ice, joins smiles, encourages the soul. Now as then, coffee becomes an ambassador of thoughts, confessions, accusations; a silent "sorry", a "thanks" hidden in the eyes from whom, like Torrecone, conceals himself behind his strong and despotic image, but at the same time welcoming and protective, and from whom a voice seems to whisper: learn from me, because I never learned.

Mortar hits, the thundering beating of the flat iron, the pounding murmuring of the sewing machine, the bubbling of the boiling water, the kneading hands, the spread out sheets, the waggle of dogs and cats, the bells announcing the wavering steps of sheep and goats. These are the noises of Guerriero House, the slow daily symphony that is perpetully replicated, from generation to generation, in the shadow of the Oak. The restless women talk quietly during their laborious activities; the tireless men, with their vigorous, strong and robust gestures, shape the vivid soil.

These days in Terre de 'Guerriero, from Nonno Francesco to Papà Cosimo, become the stage of a repeated passage of the baton, where the torch of the memories is always lit up, the flame of a still warm and lively memory resounds among the leaves of an oak that seems to hold between its thick branches all the secrets, the unspoken words, the concealed gestures, the unexposed hugs, the softened smiles, the drowned laughs. The women with the baskets on their heads triumphed like queens in the green field, carrying under the oak a rich meal of seasonal delicacies for the men gathered under it, who enjoyed tastes,​ smells and noises. Shelled spikes on the grass in the reddish light of the last hours of the day; the broad beans and the lupines of early November.

They return proud and tireless to their crafts, giving a tender caress to Polledrone, the huge cow, the little children’s friend. And again, the intense daily routine in the kitchen, among conspiratorial silences and implied words, interrupted by the continual crunch on the ground of the food passed through the hole in the wall, for the pig that during winter would be the source of the rich Sunday lunches. Untiring warrior, affectionate grandfather, severe father, serious husband, Torrecone is there, always watchful, careful observer of his family life, in the land of Terre de' Guerriero.

Firm and slim, as pungent as the sting of a queen bee, with its shrill, metallic sound due to the slow perforation of the wood, the "spinnulillo" digs and discovers fragrances and smells. It's time for the wine testing; the barrel, full of holes, announces the outcome of the hard work of many months in the vineyard. Like a knight with his sword, the proud Torrecone comes near the barrel, almost certain of the result, and absolutely sure of his work. The scene is repeated, over and over again.

At each small crack you feel like watching in the microscope, with the same curious attention, and the same trepidation; the adrenaline grows, anxiety has already grown. While the “spinnulillo” digs, memories are recalled, strong and clear. The sweat under the heat, the races at the first rain showers, the fear of hail and cruel off-season frosts are mitigated by the laughter among the rows and the joyful look at the first bunches. The life of Terre de' Guerriero flows, and now begins to flow fast, like the constant and sudden motion of the wine that comes out from the barrel. A golden liquid, almost bronze, then more and more platinum and pearly, finds its shelter in the crystal glass.