Since 1978, the billionaire fashion designer has sought to lead his luxury empire – and the town that became its heart – with benevolence. And with the industry bracing for tariffs and trade wars, protecting his self-made Umbrian paradise has never felt more vital
Brunello Cucinelli’s HQ has windows like an ancient aqueduct, and furnishings like a New York loft. It is soaked in light, and there’s a serene silence among the workers – not a mandated, factory kind of quiet, but one that feels more like a comfortable hush between old friends. The people dress in languid mixes of tailoring and denim, heavenly cashmere peeking out from under cream blazers, or pristine shirts rolling down over oatmeal slacks. The walls double as a supersized family photo album. They’re plastered with pictures of Brunello next to his daughters, or of the designer at awards ceremonies, or of his neutrals-only, ultra-opulent 70th birthday here, in the Umbrian town of Solomeo, or of his entire team standing in front of the pristine fountains outside, regal like the Trevi, but for high net worth minimalists.
While we wait for the designer, I accept my fourth coffee from a dutiful aide (each arrives in a heavenly white cup and saucer, the heraldic Brunello Cucinelli emblem – Solomeo’s gryphon and tower crest – painted in grey). I finish it, and worry I’m having a mild heart attack.
I could have flown into Florence, just under two hours away. Closer still is Perugia; the drive from the airport takes less time than it does a pizza to crisp in the oven. But no, Cucinelli’s team had suggested, for some divine reason, that I fly into Rome. This is the cradle of civilisation, of mad emperors, of the guys who pioneered plumbing. So under strict orders, I’d landed at Fiumicino Airport, where I’d been greeted by a driver whom we’ll call Matteo. His grey hair is contradicted by a boyish face.
Our car sprinted through the capital’s outskirts for the start of a three-hour journey, as if setting out on the classic town and country tour (Romulus and Remus edition). Except, in 2025, the crumbling ruins that make tourists elongate their “wows” soon bleed out into hard, unforgiving Eurozone highway. The empire is long gone, marble replaced by concrete, unelected emperors by elected politicians.
And yet great, quasi-mythological men still get the Italian blood pumping. Cucinelli, the billionaire fashion potentate of undone luxury, is a known commodity in every corner of this country, and on every stop of this incredibly frenzied motorway.
We stop at a sun-bleached service station; Matteo plants a small, foil-wrapped sweet called a Pocket Coffee into my hand. “Very, very good before a cigarette,” he says. I follow his recommendation, and I soon learn that Matteo is an honest man. We clamber back into the car, and so I ask: what is Mr Cucinelli actually like, then?
“A nice man, a gentleman, a big gentleman. A very, very nice person,” Matteo says as he fastens his seatbelt. “We are family. Like family.” I nod slowly, acknowledging that my driver is on the payroll. But Matteo continues, quiet, but keen to back up his assertions. It takes him a minute to translate, but like two joyful nerds in an escape room, we work it out together. “You know the name of a seismic event?”
An earthquake?
“Sì, sì. In Norcia, big seismic event… restaurants, hotels, all damaged.” He tells me that his employer came up with the money to rebuild. “Big help for Norcia.” In 2016, that historic town some 60 miles from Solomeo suffered a tremor that injured 20 people and levelled the medieval basilica of St Benedict. Cucinelli pledged to restore the monastery’s façade and in 2020, he came good. “As true Umbrians you knew how to hold your heads high and keep the plough of life straight,” he is reported to have said when the town bell tower was restored. The sum of his donation was never disclosed.
The Brunello legend runs deep in Italy. Across the country, the designer is a household name beyond the usual fashion territories of Milan and Rome. I do the rounds, speaking to mums of Italian friends, and boyfriends of friends, and friends of boyfriends of friends. “I like his work policy, like good hours… seems humble and a private person,” says Dilma, a retired legal secretary from the northern town of Mantua. “Very nice clothes and very expensive.” Giulio is just as glowing in Rome: “The cut is excellent, especially in the womenswear.” And from Udine near the Slovenian border, Camilla thinks Cucinelli appeals “to those who favour elegance over flashiness.”
The motorway melts into a lush horizon that undulates like clean radio waves on a monitor – “the green heart of Italy” as Matteo proudly calls it. The hills are topped with aching, ancient towns, stone houses clustered around a central church or castle that’s even older.
Our final destination, Solomeo, is the village turned restoration passion project that the native Umbrian son has funded, fawned over and fortified as the base of Brand Cucinelli since 1985. Today, it includes a theatre, a winery, a vineyard, a hamlet and several mansions. As you drive into the village, cypress trees begin to appear at regular intervals on each side of the road, as if steadily counting you into this safe haven.
