The fire that tells the land

Fanòi is the fire that lights up the night, the ritual that returns, season after season. Its name comes from Greek, meaning bonfire—the kind that for centuries has lit up the countryside, marking the time of the community, of waiting, of giving thanks. In the past, lighting a fire meant entrusting hopes and prayers to the land, sealing a pact with the seasons and the harvests. The flames rose into the dark, mixing sacred and profane, memory and future.

Today, that fire survives in the reflections of the wine. Two bottles, two expressions of the same land. Primitivo is the impetuous spark, the warmth that envelops, the matter that turns into ripe fruit and sweet spices. Negroamaro, on the other hand, is the embers that smolder under the ash, the more measured intensity, the tannin that gives structure, and the freshness that keeps everything in balance.

They don’t add up, they don’t confuse. They are two parallel stories, two different souls of a common identity. Fanòi is not just a name: it is the mark left by the fire on memory, the trace that endures over time. A wine that doesn’t simply tell the land, but its relationship with the sky, with the cycle of the seasons, with the ancient gestures that still find their place today, in the warmth of a sip.