03/06/2026
Last night a great storm broke over Montalcino in the dark.
We lay awake and listened, the rain and the wind moving across the hills, every olive grower here holding the same quiet fear. The trees have only just come into flower, tiny, cream and green, thousands of them on every branch, and the flower is the whole promise of the year.
A single violent night can tear those flowers from the branch before one olive ever sets. This morning we walk the rows slowly, looking up, a branch held in our hand, reading it like a page. Some of the bloom is gone. The night took its share, and the autumn will be lighter for it.
And still the grove is standing, still in flower, still ours. We have learned not to count the oil before it is in the tin. We do our part, the cut, the wait, the long quiet attention, and then we hand the rest to the sky.
The full story of this grove is on our journal. Link in bio. 🌿
