RIBOLLA GIALLA

There are hills in the Collio where the wind seems to speak two languages. It’s here, in San Floriano, that Franco Terpin chose to stay. Not out of convenience, but out of instinct—the instinct of farmers who listen to the land before they listen to the world.

His story doesn’t begin in a cellar, but in the fields. Born into a Slavic family, Franco grows up among vines that ignore borders, learning that ponka—the crumbly marl that falls apart between your fingers—is alive, breathing, demanding respect.  

When he decided to sign his own wines in 1994, he didn’t look for shortcuts. He chose the long road: clean farming, spontaneous fermentations, skin contact that doesn’t care about the clock. His whites turned amber, deep, tactile. They didn’t follow trends—they set them.  

Every bottle carries the imprint of a family: Franco, his wife Daniela, and their daughters Sara and Valentina. A shared craft made of soil under the nails, quiet determination, and time.  

Drinking a Terpin wine means stepping into a landscape that refuses to be tamed. It’s an invitation to slow down, to listen, to feel the vibration of a border that doesn’t divide but