Between Gunpowder and Chestnuts

About wild boars, hunting season, and the irony of nature

November in Umbria.
The air is thick with smoke, damp earth, and freshly pressed olive oil.
The wine has been bottled, the olives crushed and now, it’s hunting season. These are the weeks of caccia al cinghiale, the wild boar hunt, in full swing.
From the forests of Norcia to the hills around Gubbio, from the valleys of Spoleto to the fields surrounding Lake Trasimeno, where I live, gunshots echo through the hills like rolling thunder.
After the harvest, it feels as if the countryside itself suddenly stirs again: men in orange vests, dogs barking with excitement, old jeeps filled with stories and anticipation.

Those of us who live among olive groves and chestnut woods know: this is no innocent season. The mist grows thicker, the air sharper, and even my horse pricks up his ears at the sound of a shot far away.

And between the gunpowder and the echoes, there’s another scent: roasted chestnuts. Along the village streets, old men still roast their caldarroste over glowing coals, their hands blackened with soot, their voices mellowed by wine.
Chestnuts are the gentle counterpart to this rough season, where the hunt brings adrenaline, they bring comfort and warmth, a reminder that autumn isn’t only about taking, but also about giving.

From Survival to Ritual

Hunting in Umbria is as ancient as the land itself.
The Etruscans, who lived here thousands of years ago, hunted not just to survive, but to honour. For them, killing an animal was a ritual, they thanked its spirit for the sacrifice.
The Romans turned it into prestige: hunting became power, status, entertainment.

In the Middle Ages, the hunt was reserved for the nobility and the Church,
but peasants kept hunting quietly, because they had to.
For them, a single rabbit could mean the difference between hunger and a hot meal.

Until well into the twentieth century, hunting remained part of rural survival.
Only later, with prosperity and regulation, did it become what it is today:
a social ritual, an ode to tradition, an excuse to wander the woods with friends.
The rifles have changed, but the stories haven’t.

Wild Boars, Rules, and a Black Giant

Today, the hunt is tightly regulated. Especially during the wild boar drives, the battuta di caccia al cinghiale, zones must be clearly marked with red warning signs: “Attenzione: battuta di caccia in corso.” No shooting within a hundred metres of any house, and every hunter must hold a licence, insurance, and infinite patience.

It sounds reassuring, but not everything always goes to plan.
A few years ago, I found myself in the middle of a boar drive while out riding my horse,
my big black giant, majestic but soft-hearted. Suddenly, the hills erupted with noise: shouting, barking, the clanging of metal drums. A hunt was underway. That day, there were no signs.

My horse panicked. He wanted nothing more than to bolt, his fear greater than the echoes around us. His muscles tensed beneath the saddle, his breathing sharp and fast. I held on, whispering calm words that vanished into chaos, but instinct was stronger than my voice.
Only when we finally cleared the woods, did silence return and with it, the reminder of how thin the line is between man and nature, between play and peril.

Most hunting groups here are tight-knit clans. They know the woods better than Google Maps, know where the boars wallow and which way the wind will carry sound.
Half of them never hit a thing, but that isn’t the point. The point is the coffee in plastic cups, the smoke in the air, the dogs trembling with excitement. It’s an ancient choreography between man, animal, and landscape, more ritual than result.

People, Animals, and Honest Meat

I live among animals. I have a horse who often understands me better than most humans.
Animals are honest; they don’t pretend. You always know where you stand. Still, I must confess, I enjoy a good piece of wild game from time to time.

It may sound contradictory, but I see it differently. I’d rather eat a wild boar that has roamed free, fed on acorns, truffles and freedom, than a pig that never saw sunlight, stuffed with antibiotics and fear. Game is honest meat: no factories, no stress, no deceit. Just life, death, and gratitude.

My neighbour Luciano, a hunter by conviction, makes the best paté di cinghiale in the area.
“No liver,” he says proudly, “that’s for amateurs.”
His secret? A splash of cognac or red wine, a handful of rosemary, and time “to let the meat listen,” as he puts it. Patience, and respect.

Between Instinct and Friendship

Of course, not everything about hunting is romantic. Every year, there are accidents a stray bullet, a dog that runs too far ahead, a hunter who’s had one glass too many.
The headlines are blunt: “Mistaken for a boar, he shoots his brother-in-law.” You laugh, but it’s true.

And yet for many Umbrians, hunting is more than a sport. At midday, when the fire crackles, they gather around long tables, bowls of spezzatino di cinghiale, bruschette drenched in new olive oil and homemade wine with no label but plenty of character.
They laugh, exaggerate, fall silent. Stories simmer like the stew: slowly, richly, with time.

And somewhere outside, the last chestnuts fall to the ground as small reminders that nature keeps giving, even when man keeps taking.

The Lesson of the Hunt

The hunt has taught me something that has little to do with guns. That people and nature are bound together, that taking only matters when you also know how to give, and that respect doesn’t always sound gentle.

Life in the countryside teaches you that beauty rarely comes without rough edges. The mist, the fire, the silence, the shots, they are all part of it.
And maybe that’s what the Umbrians have always known: that living well isn’t about avoiding the wild, but about learning to listen to its rhythm.