This Multi-Day Hike Takes in Sparkling Views of Italy's Prosecco Hills

We’re an incongruous match, the hotel and I. The rambling medieval castle accommodation crowns a cliffside, and is complete with vast ballrooms and suits of armour, along with a decidedly swanky spa and aristocratic interiors. Below it, the sweeping valley view is flanked by neat rows of vineyards and an Italian storybook village. And me? Sweaty, red-faced and breathless from the steep 370-metre climb to the castle’s apex, in scorching 32C sunshine — I’m certainly no princess. Yet, given that I’ve just completed the final nine-mile leg of a multi-day hiking trip through the Prosecco region, my inelegant arrival to CastelBrando, in the Veneto village of Cison di Valmarino, still has me feeling royally satisfied.

A few days earlier, when I’d first glimpsed the Prosecco area during my car transfer,
I’d spied a wine region like any other — undulating hills carpeted in vines and punctuated with sleepy, sun-baked towns. Zooming past fields of grapes on the roadside, I caught a brief sight of sleek vineyard tasting rooms and felt I could almost taste the characteristic fruit-forward sweetness of the fizzy wine that’s long been the UK’s favourite party tipple. However, I was about to get a different perspective by exploring the region on foot.

Secluded in the foothills of the Alps, some 50 miles north of Venice, the wine region is crisscrossed by hiking paths. They include the 32-mile Prosecco Hills Trail, which runs through the heart of the UNESCO-listed terrain. The region’s 50,000-acre core area, the Conegliano Valdobbiadene DOCG, is particularly well-suited for walking. As it has Italy’s highest-quality classification for the sparkling wine, seen as the ‘grand cru’ of the prosecco world, it’s also well-suited for tastings. And now, tour operator Inntravel’s recently launched six-day itinerary promises to take care of all of the logistics, providing detailed route maps, transferring luggage between hotels, and organising a wine-tasting and some spa time.

With little more than a hotel breakfast in my stomach and a light day pack on my back, I strike out from my first hotel in Susegana, on the edge of the Conegliano Valdobbiadene DOCG area, one sunny morning. It isn’t long before the town begins to fall away, with a settlement of small houses opening onto a municipal football pitch surrounded by vines — surely the Italian idyll, if there ever was one. I begin to climb a wooded path, where shade saves me from the intensifying heat of the day. The sounds of the road dim to nothingness, the chorus of cicadas rises to replace its hum.

I cross a tumbling stream where silvery-blue dragonflies flit and catch sight of a deer in a far-off wooded glade. Part-way into my eight-mile walk, I scale a hill to the ruined Castello di Collalto where, amid a patch of shade, I pause to munch the simple cheese and ham sandwich the hotel supplied as birds chirp above.

Onwards and Upwards

Through the four hours of climbs and descents, my near-constant companions are vineyards. Ripening in the early July sunshine above gnarled trunks, young glera grapes sit coddled in leaves. The hero of prosecco wine, fresh and floral glera grows well here and almost nowhere else. It thrives on the slopes of these ribboning valleys, UNESCO-listed for their unique ‘hogback’ terraces — vine-supporting ledges carved into the steep ridges. The more grapes I pass, the thirstier I become; by mid-afternoon when I arrive at pretty Pieve di Soligo, I’m desperate for my first taste.

At the town’s Cal Monda winery, owner Stefano Dalla Betta greets me. “Have you been waiting long? I was taking a nap!” he says, running his hand through his wild dark hair as he walks me to the edge of the vineyard. 

Standing by the vines, he sweeps an arm towards the rows. “Prosecco was born here,” he begins, “because of the natural and human element. The natural element is the hills — our fantastic gold — plus the soil and wind. The human element, our people in the past, who for centuries handmade the hillside terraces for the vines.” Stefano is quick to point out that his family’s modest 10 acres differ from the large-scale norm — and the mass-produced prosecco sold in the supermarket. We wander along terraces that date back to the 1600s, pausing to see his beehives, bat houses and organic vegetable garden.

“We follow a philosophy of biodiversity. When we all live together, animals and
nature, everything is very strong. So, we don’t cut the grass, we try not to use chemicals. Everything here’s done by hand.” He points to a sudden movement amid the vines. “This is no machine; this is my brother Massimo!” Right on cue, weather-wizened Massimo pops his head through a gap in the leaves before waving his secateurs in greeting and moving on.

Stefano goes on to explain why he pushes against the region’s monocropping trend, pointing to the three houses that back onto the vineyard. “My brothers and I, we live there. And we don’t want to drink pesticides every day. This is our life. But also, we make food, and we have a responsibility. If we don’t have biodiversity, we have nothing.” He waves for me to sit down at a table dotted with plates of nibbles and some polished glasses. “Very good prosecco, salami, formaggio,” he says, simply.

Corks are popped and I drink in the fruity-sweetness I expect from prosecco, while nibbling on locally made slivers of ham, nutty cheese and prosecco-infused biscuits. Then, Stefano pulls out something I’ve not seen before.

“This is a col fondo,” he explains. “It’s how prosecco used to be made, before it was produced in big steel tanks, like a lab.” He pours the cloudy, yellow-tinged sparkling liquid into my glass. Fermented in bottle with the yeast left unfiltered, a centuries-old technique quite different to today’s production methods, it’s characterful and nutty — somewhere between a prosecco, champagne and natural wine.

We get lost in chat and, before long, the clouds are closing in and lightning forks the sky — an electric charge breaking through the day’s heat. Still wearing his bar apron, Stefano ushers me into his car. “I’ll drop you at my favourite enoteca (wine bar) for dinner,” he shouts, as the first rain drops begin to fall.

So far, en route, it seems I’ve already seen a lot of vineyards, but when it’s time to tackle the next major walk from Pieve di Soligo to San Pietro di Barbozza — a pretty hamlet on the outskirts of Valdobbiadene town — things ramp up a notch. The gently rolling terrain of my first day sharpens to steep parallel valleys and peaks, nearly all of them carpeted in vines; the characteristic boar’s back landscape I’ve been told about. A couple of hours into my six-mile walk and I’m surrounded by vast acreages of grapes on all sides. With no one else in sight, I’m tempted to pluck and sample a ripening orb from the vines (I don’t). The gnarled old plants cling to precipitous slopes, baking in the heat, inaccessible with modern machinery and barely reachable on foot. I wonder how anyone manages to harvest them. Suddenly, a bottle of Valdobbiadene Prosecco Superiore DOCG for £15 in the shop seems like a ridiculous bargain.

By the time I near the final 390-metre summit to the hamlet of San Pietro di Barbozza, the view is jaw-dropping, and my phone battery is on its last legs because of all the photos I’ve been taking. My legs are worn, too, and with sweat slicking my brow, I reward myself with a sit down at Osteria alla Terrazza for a Negroni sbagliato — made with prosecco rather than the usual gin — plus a platter of hams, cheeses and warm home-baked focaccia. The venue is aptly named, its broad terrace overlooking patchworked vineyards, small hamlets and the walking path that brought me here.

I’m treated to an even better view that evening from the terrace of Trattoria alla Cima, accessible via a free shuttle transfer from my hotel, Municipio 1815 in San Pietro. The glut of rustic tasting rooms within easy walking distance was tempting, but I’m ready for something more refined. And the family-owned restaurant, about a mile away, draws diners for its sweeping valley vistas, flame-grilled steaks and own-label prosecco.

Owner Isidoro Rebuli fills my glass with his take on col fondo. “My favourite,” he says, as I take a sip. Then, I tuck into the signature prosecco-infused risotto, laced with fresh mint and a swirl of honey, jewelled with edible flowers. It’s herbal, floral, savoury and sweet, much like the wine that accompanies it.

In the UK, prosecco is considered a party drink or aperitif, but here I see people drinking it to accompany salads, fish and pasta. Even with the steak, I ask Isidoro? “Maybe not the steak,” he says with a laugh, as a thick wedge of Italian beef lands on my table, glistening and charred. Veneto, of course, is home to celebrated reds like amarone and valpolicella — tempting, but I stick with sparkling.

A Fizz for All Occasions

Inntravel’s itinerary alternates hiking days to new hotel bases with loop walks that let you take in wineries at your own pace. With my eye on the region’s trailblazers, the next day I make a beeline for a contemporary vineyard south of San Pietro di Barbozza, in the tiny Cartizze Prosecco sub-region. Here, in this compact 267-acre area, some of the very best prosecco terroir is said to exist, and winemaker Pietro de Conti is trying to raise its profile with storytelling about old vines and organic methods. After I taste his delicious, bone-dry Cartizze PDC Extra Brut, he walks me out to his vineyards to show off the centenarian glera vines, stretching as tall as trees.

Following a recommendation from a friend, I take a brief taxi ride to a prosecco-region winemaker who is, in fact, not making prosecco at all. “I literally don’t care about making prosecco,” baseball-cap-wearing Arno Cattel tells me, speaking softly in his stripped-back tasting room, a former wine co-op from which his father launched Costadilà in 2005. His winery’s bottlings — all natural, all orange — are largely made from a blend of historic white grape varieties like bianchetta and boschera, sourced largely from old, higher-altitude vineyards, planted long before prosecco rose to international prominence. “When my father started the project, everyone said he was crazy. They all thought it was simple: plant some glera, sell the grapes and get rich,” the 30-year-old explains. “But my father wanted to make wine. Here, we get grapes from people we trust and make real wine. It’s a circular thing. We should be supporting people who care about the land.”

The taxi ride back to the hotel is a treat, but my thighs aren’t off the hook yet; the next day, it’s time to tackle a few more hills on my final major walking stretch to clifftop CastelBrando. Setting off from San Pietro di Barbozza, the landscape alters from its previous dramatic undulation, melting into softer peaks. Descending into the pretty village of Follina, a historic wool town, the valley floor flattens and I wander between cafes and shops into a Cistercian monastery. Its archways and basilica are empty and, away from the midday sun, I take a moment for quiet contemplation.

My afternoon meander brings me past a charming old waterway with a hidden shrine, through grassy meadows and via the tiny hamlet of Valmareno, all entirely invisible from the main road. Then, it’s the final push up a rocky, wooded slope to the castle — a vast fortress with more than 2,000 years of history, an on-site dungeon, chapel, several restaurants and, of course, my hotel for the night.

The staff seem completely unperturbed by my sweaty state — they’ve seen it all before. Nor do they care that, after dropping my bag off in my room, I head straight down to the hotel’s rambling spa. I spend hours floating in hydrotherapy pools overlooking the hills, soothing my sore feet in the Kneipp bath before napping in the Himalayan salt room. After the exertion of the past few days, it feels well-deserved.

By the time I descend to the terrace restaurant for dinner, the light is waning and, once again, I’m thirsty. Sommelier Melanie Fontana arrives at my table, and I don’t hesitate to ask if I can taste a local prosecco. She soon reappears with not one, but two glasses.

The first is pale straw in colour, the second golden. Melanie explains how the former, fresh and zingy, is made from the valley floor, and the other, richer and sweeter, from a few hills over.

“People think prosecco is all the same,” she says, as a pizza arrives at my table and couples clink glasses around us, “but there’s always another side of prosecco to discover.”