From the Apennines to the Alps, September brings back to the woods one of the fruits that have fed entire communities for centuries. Browns, chestnuts, drying sheds, mills, and ancient recipes tell the story of a mountainous Italy where what we now consider an autumn flavor was a true resource for survival.
First comes the smell. Burning wood, smoke, fire-blackened peels. Then the sound of chestnuts moving in the pan and finally that inevitable gesture: taking one that is still too hot, quickly passing it from one hand to the other and trying to remove the peel without burning yourself. For many Italians, autumn begins like this. Not on the calendar, but in front of the first roasted chestnuts.
Yet behind that little seasonal scene there is a much more important story. For centuries, especially in the mountains and inland areas of the peninsula, chestnut has not been a treat to buy during a Sunday stroll. It was bread. Flour. Nourishment. Economy. In some communities it literally meant survival. To understand how much the chestnut tree has counted in Italian history, you have to leave the cities for a moment and climb towards the woods.
The breadfruit tree
The chestnut tree has often been referred to as “the breadfruit tree”. It is not a poetic expression. It explains with remarkable precision the function that this plant has had in the economy of mountain populations. Where cereal cultivation was difficult, chestnut offered an important and relatively shelf-stable food source. The fruit could be eaten fresh, boiled or roasted.
But above all it could be dried and turned into flour. From that flour were born loaves, polenta, focaccia, soups and preparations that allowed us to face the most difficult months of the year. The chestnut tree did not only bear fruit. Wood was used for beams, furniture, poles, tools and fuel. The leaves could serve as bedding for animals. Entire rural economies revolved around the same tree. This is why talking about chestnut groves means talking about a system of life.
A geography that crosses Italy
The chestnut culture crosses a good part of the peninsula. We find it in the Alps and along the Apennines, from Piedmont to Tuscany, from Emilia-Romagna to Campania, from Calabria to Sicily. Varieties, processing techniques and recipes change, but the relationship with mountain communities remains strikingly similar. In Piedmont, chestnuts have marked the cuisine of the Alpine valleys and hills.
In Emilia and Tuscany, chestnut groves have supported the inhabitants of the Apennines for centuries. In Campania, some territories have built products around the fruit that are now protected and recognized. In Calabria and Sicily, the presence of the chestnut tree reveals a mountain face of the South that often remains hidden behind the image of the coasts.
Chestnut or brown?
In everyday language, the two terms are often used synonymously. For producers and enthusiasts, however, chestnuts and browns are not exactly the same thing. Browns belong to varieties selected over time for particularly appreciated characteristics: generally larger and more regular fruits, more easily separable skin and qualities also suitable for fine processing.
Chestnuts can vary in size and shape and include an extremely large varietal heritage. It doesn’t mean that brown is simply a “better chestnut”. It means that centuries of agricultural selection have produced different varieties for different uses and territories. It is one of many examples of Italian agricultural biodiversity.
Marradi, where the chestnut is identity
Among the Italian places where the relationship with the chestnut tree is particularly evident is Marradi, in the Tuscan-Romagnolo Apennines. Here brown is not just an agricultural product. It is part of the local identity. Chestnut groves surround the area and gastronomic culture has developed over time preparations capable of using the fruit in very different ways.
Roasted browns, sweets, tortelli, jams and flours tell of a cuisine born from the availability of the mountains. Arriving around here in autumn means observing a landscape that changes color and understanding how a product can become an element of recognition for an entire country.
Mugello and Marrone PGI
In Tuscany, the Marrone del Mugello PGI represents one of the best-known productions. The recognition protects a product linked to an area in which chestnut growing has deep roots. But the most interesting part is not just the fruit. They are the chestnut groves themselves.
Many of what appear as all-natural woodlands are actually landscapes built and maintained by man over generations. The trees were tended, pruned and grafted. The undergrowth was clean. The fruits harvested. Trails and structures allowed the harvest to be transported. When this economy began to lose centrality, the landscape also changed.
Garfagnana and neccio flour
A little further west, in Garfagnana, the chestnut tree tells another story. Here chestnut flour, traditionally called neccio flour, has been a fundamental component of nutrition for centuries. Chestnuts were slowly dried in metati, small buildings built specifically for this function. On the upper floor the fruits were arranged.
Downstairs a slow fire, maintained for weeks, produced the heat and smoke necessary for drying. Once the process was completed, the dried chestnuts were cleaned and taken to the mill. From there came a sweet, fragrant flour, capable of preserving itself and becoming food during the winter.
The metato, the house of chestnuts
Entering an old metato means physically understanding how much work existed behind a bag of flour. The fire had to be controlled. He couldn’t turn off, but he couldn’t get too violent either. Drying required time and attention. It was a community process, inserted into the rhythm of autumn.
Today some metates have been recovered and continue to be used, while others survive as evidence of rural architecture. They look like simple buildings. In reality they were small production machines built with stone, wood, fire and experience.
Castagnaccio, the cuisine of necessity that has become tradition
Chestnut flour, water, oil and a few other ingredients. Castagnaccio belongs to that category of recipes that explain Italian social history better than many books. It is not born to amaze. It arises from the availability of ingredients. The variants are numerous and cross Tuscany, Liguria, Emilia-Romagna, Piedmont and other areas. Pine nuts, raisins, rosemary and walnuts can enrich the dough according to tradition and availability.
Today the castagnaccio appears in restaurants, pastry shops and festivals. For generations it has simply been a clever way to turn chestnut flour into something nutritious.
Polenta that was not born from corn
Even the word polenta can be deceiving. We immediately think of corn, but in several mountain areas chestnut flour was used for similar, dense and substantial preparations. Before the spread of corn from the Americas, European populations prepared polenta using different grains and flours. In the Italian mountains, chestnut offered a precious raw material. Once again, traditional cuisine shows that it is much less still than we imagine. Change when the available ingredients change.
Campania, land of large chestnuts
Descending south, Campania has one of the most important chestnut traditions in Italy. Irpinia is one of the symbolic territories. The Marrone di Serino and the Castagna di Montella depict an internal landscape completely different from the coastal images usually associated with the region. Woods, mountains, and small towns build an Apennine Campania here in which chestnut trees continue to have economic and cultural value. Montella Chestnut has long enjoyed European protection and is used fresh, dried and processed into numerous products. In autumn, local festivals bring attention back to this economy and transform the harvest into a tourist destination.
Roccamonfina and the chestnut groves on the volcano
Also in Campania, the Roccamonfina area offers a particularly evocative image. Chestnut groves grow on the slopes of an ancient volcanic complex. Here the chestnut is an integral part of the landscape and local agriculture. It is a perfect example of how incomprehensible Italian agricultural product is often without knowledge of geology. Soil, altitude, exposure and climate participate in the construction of the fruit characteristics exactly as happens for the vine and the olive tree.
Piedmont, the brown of the valleys
Piedmont also retains a strong chestnut culture. In the Cuneo valleys, autumn harvesting has been an essential part of the family economy for centuries. The Marrone della Valle di Susa and the Marrone di Cuneo belong to a heritage where mountains and agriculture meet. And in Piedmont, chestnut has also found one of its most elegant transformations: marron glacé. Poor mountain fruit enters pastry shops, is slowly candied and becomes a refined product. It’s almost a metaphor for Italian gastronomic history: the same ingredient can belong simultaneously to the cuisine of necessity and to haute patisserie.
The marron glacé and the luxury of patience
Making a marron glacé requires delicacy. The fruit must remain intact while it is progressively candied. Processing is slow and complex, especially when done by hand. Time appears once again. Chestnut, which for centuries was dried to survive the winter, becomes a product in which its value comes precisely from the length of the process. There is no contradiction. It is the Italian ability to use the same raw material through completely different gastronomic languages.
Calabria, Sicily and the South you don’t expect
When we imagine Calabria and Sicily we think of the sea, citrus fruits, olive trees. But you only need to go up in altitude for the landscape to change. In Calabria, between Sila and other mountain areas, chestnut groves are part of the agricultural history of inland communities. In Sicily, chestnut trees find favorable conditions, especially in mountainous and volcanic areas. On Etna, in particular, some specimens have assumed an almost monumental value.
The Chestnut Tree of One Hundred Horses
In Sant’Alfio, on the eastern slope of Mount Etna, lives one of the most famous trees in Italy: the Chestnut Tree of One Hundred Horses. Its exact age is difficult to determine, and legends and tales have sprung up around the tree over time. The most famous is that a queen accompanied by a hundred knights found shelter under her enormous hair during a thunderstorm. History or legend, the name has remained. What does not need legend is the monumentality of the tree. Being in front of a chestnut tree that has gone through centuries of history immediately changes our idea of time.
When the forest was a field
Today we enter a chestnut grove and think we are simply in the woods. In the past, many of these areas were managed almost like orchards. The trees were grafted, cared for and selected. The soil was kept clean to facilitate harvesting. There were paths, dryers and mills connected to an organized economy. The abandonment of mountains in the post-World War II period disrupted many of these systems. Thousands of people have left the countries for Italian industrial cities or abroad. The chestnut groves were left without maintenance. Some have become woods. Others have been recovered in recent decades by companies and new generations.
The enemy arrived from afar
Contemporary chestnut growing has also faced significant phytosanitary problems. Among these, the chestnut gall wasp has caused serious damage over the years in several Italian regions, compromising plant production and vitality. The response involved research, monitoring and biological control. It’s an important reminder: agricultural traditions don’t survive simply because they’re ancient. They need modern skills, scientific research and adaptive capacity.
Climate change enters the woods
The climate is also changing the balance. Temperatures, droughts, irregular rainfall and extreme events can affect the health of chestnut groves and the quantity and quality of production. The tree that for centuries represented food security for mountain people is today found within a rapidly changing environment. Preserving local varieties and keeping chestnut groves productive therefore also means working on the resilience of the area.
Gathering doesn’t mean taking everything
With autumn comes the desire to enter the woods and collect chestnuts. But a chestnut grove isn’t necessarily no man’s land. Many lands are private and harvesting can be regulated locally. Ownership and dispositions of the territory must therefore be checked before filling a stock exchange. It is an elementary form of respect towards those who care for those woods and derive income from those fruits. Rural tourism only works when visitors understand that the landscape is not a free setting. It is often someone’s workplace.
The festivals and the return to the villages
Between September and November, hundreds of Italian towns celebrate chestnuts and browns. Festivals may seem like simple events, but in many small towns they serve an important function. They bring visitors back to historic centers, allow producers to sell directly, reactivate recipes, and involve local associations. Of course, not all manifestations possess the same level of quality. But when a festival remains truly linked to the product and the community, it can become an effective tool for territorial valorization.
A day in the chestnut grove
Chestnut tourism can be much more interesting than just tasting. Walking with a producer, learning to distinguish varieties and trees, seeing a burning metato, visiting a mill, and tasting freshly ground flour means turning a product into an experience. It is the same evolution we observed in wine. The consumer does not just want to buy. He wants to understand. And when he understands the work required to obtain a product, his perception of its value also changes.
Contemporary cuisine returns to the woods
In recent years, many cooks have recovered chestnuts using them beyond the confines of tradition. Not just sweets and roasted chestnuts, but pastas, fillings, creams, and accompaniments for meat, game, and vegetables. Chestnut flour enters contemporary breads, doughs and desserts. It’s an interesting recovery because it shows that protecting a tradition doesn’t mean freezing it. An ingredient remains alive when it continues to be used.
Memory inside a cartridge
Yet, after all this history, you just have to go back in front of a brazier. The chestnuts are carved, placed on the fire and slowly turned. The peel blackens. Someone bursts. They are poured into a parcel and pass from hand to hand. It is a gesture that unites very different generations. Perhaps the grandparents knew chestnut as a necessary food. Her grandchildren meet her during an autumn party. The function has changed completely. The memory, however, remained.
Italy growing away from cities
Telling chestnuts means above all remembering that a fundamental part of Italian culture was born in the mountains. Places often considered marginal have preserved biodiversity, agricultural techniques, rural architecture, and recipes that we rediscover today as heritage. For a long time we looked to those economies as symbols of a past to be overcome. Today we begin to understand its value differently. Not because it is possible to return to the peasant life of two centuries ago. But because within those systems there was knowledge of the territory that can still teach us something.
When autumn really begins
The calendar says summer is ending. The forest tells it best. The leaves slowly change color. The hedgehogs fall to the ground and open. The first bags of chestnuts are returning to the villages. Metates, where they are still used, resume smoking. Kitchens recover flours and recipes. And roast-chest sellers appear on the streets. That’s when the Italian autumn becomes recognizable. It doesn’t need big announcements. The scent of a chestnut on the fire is enough. Inside that scent are the Apennines and Alps, families, woods, mills, emigration, poverty, pastry making, biodiversity and work. All wrapped up in a fruit that we eat today almost out of nostalgia and which, for generations of Italians, was something much more serious: bread growing on trees.