In our summary, the history of the farm begins in 2015, with the initial recovery of a vineyard that had been destroyed by a fire years earlier. Of course, for those willing to read on, there is much more. This account, which does not aim to be a formal historiography, draws from sources typical of that discipline, from direct and indirect memories, from logic and deduction, and from books or fragments personally recovered.
We begin by saying that the real history of the farm is even more recent, as Finis Terrae was officially founded in 2020 with its first wine production: those 420 painstakingly crafted bottles, obtained from two vineyards on the slopes of Costa Novale, Riomaggiore. For convenience, the upper vineyard, recovered after the fire and central to this story, will henceforth be referred to as the “high” vineyard (about 270 m above sea level), while the inherited lower vineyard, which we mention here for the first time, will be called the “low” vineyard (around 220 m above sea level).
It would be inappropriate and contrary to our initial intent to make definitive claims about what agricultural work meant to this third generation, particularly vineyard work, but it certainly was one of the activities that allowed for daily sustenance. A clearer picture emerges for the next generation, that of Giuseppe and Elva, who, even though they found work opportunities in La Spezia in the postwar period, still had internalized the idea that vineyard labor was essential for their own economy. This first or second job, in fact, was not merely about carrying on traditions but a substantial source of income derived from selling their products: grapes, wine, Sciacchetrà (which probably at the time had not yet assumed that name, the result of later labeling to define its history, characteristics, and commercial identity, but was simply called Refursà). This last product also functioned as barter for services perceived as high-value, such as those of doctors, notaries, and lawyers (no different from Renzo’s capons for the azzeccagarbugli, Quibbleweaver, a sort of lawyer, in the classic Italian historical novel The Betrothed). It is important to understand that, while today the preservation of traditions holds great value and is an aspiration, for this generation vineyard work was still a necessity, or at least perceived as such, a legacy ingrained and experienced over time.
Finally, with the generation of Umberto and Gianfranco, as work opportunities became increasingly comprehensive, agricultural labor moves from being a necessity to a more hobby-like pursuit, with traditions kept alive. Many were likely unaware they were preserving such customs, simply continuing because it was the normality they had been raised in, a kind of inertia without deliberate intent (not necessarily less satisfying or enjoyable). While Umberto preferred more physical tasks like hand hoeing, Gianfranco chose to care for the vineyard in its entirety. It was he who maintained the vineyards alongside his father Giuseppe and later alone. The key concept to focus on for the continuation of our story is maintenance: unfortunately, once the high vineyard was destroyed by fire, continuing this work was not feasible, as recovery would have required far more time and effort, limiting attention to the lower vineyard that survived the flames.
By late July 2015, in less-than-ideal conditions, Luca and a few friends embarked on a foot inspection to locate the plot, which had become so overgrown that pioneer plants and shrubs had rendered it indistinguishable from the surrounding forest and Mediterranean scrub. Although a rack railway existed to aid farmers in the Cinque Terre with landscape and agricultural maintenance, the recovery began from the path leading to the high fields, lost amidst the vegetation just above the lower plots.
A long digression is necessary here: why Costa Novale? Costa Novale is a slope descending from the summit of the mountain at Campione down to the village of Riomaggiore, south-southeast facing, exposed to both mountain and sea winds, influenced by the maritime climate, yet already at a significant altitude. It was chosen not only for these viticulture-friendly conditions by generations we cannot fully trace but also for logistical reasons. The trail network of the Cinque Terre National Park, though in some points abandoned—especially stairways and paths leading to long-unused plots—is still extensive and well-maintained enough to provide a comprehensive view of the routes our ancestors used.
Examining the list of paths, a familiar trend emerges. The trail from Riomaggiore, near the current Carabinieri station, leads to the coastal road at the start of the Zorza straight; its continuation, uninterrupted before the coastal road was built, from the Tassonara rack railway departure up to the ridge above Costa Novale, connecting to trail 501; the 501 trail bisecting the Strada dei Santuari at Campione and proceeding toward the mountain summit at Sella della Croce / Foce; and finally, the stretch descending inland to San Benedetto via the villages of Carpena and Codeglia. Logistically, this shows how cultivating plots on the Cinque Terre heights by residents from the Val di Vara was feasible. Giuseppe himself hailed from the village of Codeglia.
At this point, trying not to lose the thread of the story, a few suggestions can be added:
The first, and briefest, is the evidence that the Cinque Terre were built from the heights down to the sea, and not the other way around, as one might logically expect from the ancient history of civilizations that grew along rivers. In this regard, see the studies on ancient settlements such as Cacinagora.
The second suggestion is that the route described earlier was indeed known as the “milk path” (a plausible etymology also applies to the Cacinagora settlement just mentioned) —that is, the path along which the milkmaid carried milk from the inland villages (from places like San Benedetto, Carpena, and Codeglia) down to Riomaggiore. It was thus an established route, not a mere reconstruction.
It is also worth reflecting on the nature of the sources and their reliability, as well as the less explicit reasons why this account is being written (hence the occasional parenthetical digression). This issue is not new for those working in historiography, and it would be too vast and technical to treat fully here. What is peculiar in our small context, however, is how much this phenomenon is inflamed. The first point to note is that the name “Cinque Terre” sells and attracts visibility; even if this use is not always well-intentioned, it is understandable that it happens. The second, more relevant point within our control, is that even where good faith prevails, rather than improper commercial interests, one often ends up in a romanticized rhetoric. Under the label of “heroic viticulture” and the many words associated with it (from “hard work” to the more modern term “resilience”), this has the effect of standardizing and emptying of meaning what was actually done in the past. Labels are aimed at an audience seeking instant, concentrated emotion—brief epithets sprinkled with grandeur, immediacy, and spectacle, like the trailer of an epic film that will never be seen.
In gathering sources for this account—done at a hobbyist rather than professional level—it became evident that many pieces of the history of viticulture and life in the Cinque Terre have been lost. Between the world wars and the fortunate advent of the Cinque Terre DOC thanks to the work of many pioneers, many fragments of knowledge disappeared. These fragments were necessary for telling the story of a product, and often, in good faith, errors have been made (the same that the author of this account may be committing), likely also influenced by psychological biases induced by the context created by the labels discussed above. For example, the autedo, or pergola, is now considered the traditional method of vine training in the Cinque Terre, while verifiable sources suggest it was introduced just over a century ago; the practice of drying red grapes for what would now be called “red Sciacchetrà” was lost, among other things.
This romanticized storytelling elevates our ancestors—and the few current farmers—into heroes.
The paradox is that, by glorifying them, we risk stripping them of their real skills and labor, filling gaps in knowledge with embellishments, and overlooking much that they actually accomplished.
Keeping this in mind, we can return to the story of the milkmaid: it is not implausible that she carried a jug of milk along this path for the sheer number of steps and the labor involved at the time, but it is more realistic to consider the small quantity of milk that could be transported and its limited usefulness to a town like Riomaggiore, which, while it may not have had cows, certainly had sheep and goats to produce some milk. A less romanticized view would consider larger quantities carried by mules or focus more on dairy products than milk itself. For further context, one can look at the “milk route” in Monterosso, which, while niche, is documented and can serve as a comparative model, adapted to Riomaggiore.
At mid-slope, residential settlements existed. In Costa Novale, near the high fields, a conspicuous ruin remains: a three-story house with an adjacent livestock-barn. Its collapse, except for the perimeter walls, is relatively recent; Umberto and Gianfranco saw it in use, and Giuseppe relied on it in his agricultural work. These were not permanent residences but lodgings for intensive work days. More laborious tasks required staying on-site for several days, with multiple family units each occupying a floor and managing surrounding plots. Giuseppe, Elva and many predecessors tended the seaside plot of about 2,000 m²—the same destroyed in the early 2000s fire we started from.
In earlier times, building materials for dry stone walls supporting terraces were sourced locally.
When extraction sites were depleted or deemed unsuitable, they were abandoned and evocatively called “ravaneto” (from the dialect “ravanare,” to scrape the ground for anything usable). These abandoned sites, shaped like foundation trenches, were often reused for building the temporary lodgings described above.
By early August 2015, the trail from the rack railway to the high fields was cleared, reaching the plot. Gradually, the land was cleared of brush, and Umberto began hand-hoeing, starting with the two lower fields and then the entire plot. Luca had originally planned to plant olive trees, a low- maintenance crop he was familiar with from spending his childhood more with his maternal grandfather, Adriano, who tended a centuries-old olive grove in the hills near La Spezia, rather than with his paternal grandfather, Giuseppe, who was devoted to viticulture. However, Simone, one of the friends who had joined him in scouting the land, persuaded him to restore the vineyard instead. Building on the groundwork laid by his father’s hoeing, Luca personally rebuilt the dry stone walls, replanted the vines, and over time revived the overall structure of the vineyard.
After five years of hobbyist maintenance of the restored vineyard, Finis Terrae officially took shape in 2020: the high and low fields came together, and the first harvest was vinified in a friend’s cellar.
That vintage was particularly challenging: hail damaged the vineyards, wild boars invaded the high plot, and Luca himself was hit by a truck the day before harvest. Yet, the first 420 bottles of Finis Terrae Cinque Terre DOC 2020 were produced.
From 2021, Luca focused on modernizing the low fields: raising pergolas for easier cultivation, better aeration, and soil management with natural fertilizers and cover crops, allowing ancient vines to recover. Concurrently, he reconstructed numerous dry stone walls, built an irrigation aqueduct from the Strada dei Santuari to the fields, benefiting neighboring farmers, and engineered a motor-pump system for applying phytosanitary products in a more sustainable way.
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