Land & People

Giovannino's Terraces

The morning sun cast its golden glow over the rolling hills of Chianti, painting the vineyards in shades of amber and green. Giovannino, a boy of eleven, rose with the first light, as he did every day in Castagnoli. His feet barely touched the cool stone floor of his room before he darted out, a small wicker basket in hand. Today, as always, he set out to explore the terraces his ancestors had shaped over centuries, embarking on a small adventure through the labyrinth of walls and vines, trying not to lose his way among the winding paths.

The dry stone walls, or “muri a secco,” stretched endlessly along the steep hillsides, their weathered stones held together by nothing but balance and care. “These walls are alive,” his father had once said, running his calloused hand over the rough surface. “They breathe with the land. Without them, the soil would wash away, and with it, everything we have.”

As Giovannino reached the first terrace, he knelt by a wall, studying it closely. He had learned to recognize its subtle whispers: the cracks that widened with each season, the moss that crept over the stones like a soft green quilt. Each stone had been placed by the mezzadri, his ancestors, who had cleared the rocky land to make it arable. Their labor had turned wild hills into orderly rows of vines, olives, and beans.

The boy’s favorite wall faced south, where the sun warmed the rocks and vines. He pressed his hand against the stones, feeling their stored heat even now, in the cool morning air. The warmth radiated life, feeding the vines that clung to the terraces. These walls, Giovannino knew, were more than barriers; they were guardians, silently working to keep the hillside alive.

Giovannino’s family still followed the old ways, planting vines along the contours of the slope. His father often spoke of how the terraces slowed the rainwater, letting it seep into the soil rather than rushing downhill in destructive torrents. “Without the walls,” he would say, “there would be nothing but mudslides and barren land.”

The boy moved to another terrace, where the vines stood proud in their autumn colors. He knew this was no ordinary land. Chianti’s hills were a testament to centuries of toil, a partnership between man and nature. The mezzadri had worked tirelessly to construct these walls, moving limestone and sandstone by hand, shaping the hillsides into a mosaic of terraces. Giovannino imagined their voices, their songs rising over the clatter of stones and the rustling of leaves.

As the sun climbed higher, Giovannino paused to eat a slice of bread his mother had packed. He sat on the edge of a terrace, his legs dangling over the side. Below him, the hills of Castagnoli rolled like waves, each terrace a testament to the resilience of the mezzadri. His father had told him about the gattaiole, the tiny channels built into the walls to guide water downhill. They were no wider than a cat’s passage, yet they played a vital role in protecting the soil and vines.

Giovannino’s eyes wandered as he walked, imagining he might discover a hidden corner or secret passage in the maze of terraces. At one point, he stumbled upon a section of the wall that had crumbled. A small pile of stones lay at its base, a reminder of the constant care the terraces needed. He made a mental note to tell his father. “Every stone matters,” his father often reminded him. “Even the smallest gap can undo generations of work.”

By late afternoon, Giovannino’s basket was filled with ripe olives, their glossy skins reflecting the sun. He began his journey home, his bare feet padding softly on the dirt paths. As he walked, he glanced back at the terraces, their shadows growing longer with the setting sun. He felt a deep sense of pride and responsibility. These walls were his responsibility, not just a connection to the land but a testament to love and labor.

That evening, as the family gathered for supper, Giovannino shared his day’s observations. His father listened intently, nodding at the mention of the fallen section of the wall. He poured himself a glass of their own Chianti Classico, the ruby-red wine catching the light of the flickering oil lamp on the table, and took a sip, savoring its earthy richness. “We will fix it tomorrow,” he said, his voice steady. “These walls have stood for centuries because we take care of them. And one day, Giovannino, it will be your turn to keep them standing.”

Giovannino smiled, his heart swelling with a quiet determination. He might only be a boy, but he was a part of something much larger—a legacy of stone, soil, and perseverance that connected him to the past and bound him to the future.