In Defense of Generational Vines
BY STEPHANIE CUADRA
Donato Livrano, artisan grape grower in Contrada Carpari (Martina Franca).
Our hearts sunk at the sight of the grapes prostrated on the ground before us, clinging to life. Two years had passed since Roberto’s mother and father, Maria and Augusto, relocated to a more northern latitude so they could be closer to the rest of the family. Since then, visits to the Lasorte farm in Martina Franca had become less and less frequent for everyone. But as we witnessed those vines persist so defiantly, it was only natural to pause and question our priorities. This might have been casually written off as just another mild summer day in the Valle d’Itria, yet in the age of Covid everything took on greater weight in our minds.
Maybe there’s still a chance, we each wanted to hope. It was only July; surely we could coax the vines back into shape before a late-September harvest! Nearly thirty vintages preceded that moment. And to think of Maria’s capasone jars confined to emptiness in the cellar, destined in solitude to make garagiste wine never more, was really all it took to persuade us in unison. The weathered vendesi sign affixed haphazardly to the front gate by a local real estate agent would come down in defeat soon after—conceivably, a small victory for us.
Yet with the sudden revelation regarding the property’s new fate came the awareness that neither of us was equipped to undo or repair what many months of neglect had done to those beloved family vines. That is how Donato Livrano, a trusted vignaiolo from nearby Contrada Carpari, entered our lives.
“Nothing can be done this late in the growing season,” Donato spelled out plainly after one cursory glance across the disheveled field of vines. Reading the disappointment in our eyes, he hastened to reassure us that restoration of the vineyard should begin with winter pruning and that we could certainly count on him to do the job. We knew he was right about our bad timing, but reality stung like a setback nonetheless. As if to lift the mood, with a broad grin Donato suggested we accompany him back to his own vineyard.
A mere five-mile journey from the farm, Carpari felt curiously faraway. The higher terrain—its wild islets of dense green forest interspersed among tiny clos-like parcels of vines framed by dry-stone walls, the grand olive groves standing should-to-shoulder with cattle farms—caught us by surprise. As we pulled off the road onto the unpaved path leading us to where Donato now stood, the idea of place, the sense of that place, was undeniably palpable. Roberto and I were viscerally taken.
Verdeca grapes in the Contrada Carpari vineyard.
