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Maremma House — Hori­zontal meta­phors amidst an archaic land­scape

The Maremma, the unspoilt, wild south of Tuscany is a hidden gem. Timeless rural landscapes take your breath away, magic little hill towns of Etruscan origin sit on majestic tufa rocks and fragrant pine woods along the coastline frame endless, sandy beaches.

by Andrea und Luca Ponsi in August 2017

Just the right setting for a holiday house that cap­tures the very essence of this region and trans­lates it into archi­tecture: The Maremma House.

The begin­nings

We are a father and son who run an archi­tecture and design firm, Studio Ponsi. Some years ago — after a careful exami­nation of the financial fea­si­bility, we decided to build a holiday home for our family, either by con­verting an existing structure or building a new one from scratch. There were just a couple of deal breakers: the site must be no more than a couple of hours from Flo­rence, and as close as pos­sible to the sea.

We spent two years exploring the length and breadth of the Tuscan coast, visiting little apart­ments with ter­races right on the water, villas badly in need of a makeover, farm out­buil­dings tucked away in secluded valleys, and total ruins. We decided we could not build a new house because of the strict planning rules for buil­dings close to the water, so we looked a little further inland. We dis­co­vered the Maremma region, and looked for a vacant plot in a tranquil location with a sea view.

We find the land…

The site we chose belonged to a local real-estate agent. It was a field of about half a hectare, tucked away in the hills, close to the two untouched medi­aeval vil­lages of Magliano in Toscana and Pereta. It was breath­ta­kingly beau­tiful, with an unin­ter­rupted view of vineyards, olive groves and rows of cypresses, and with the sea, Monte Argen­tario and Isola del Giglio in the distance. And it was utterly quiet.

One of the site’s most unusual and desi­rable fea­tures was a purely bureau­cratic one: it already had planning per­mission, and a design for a very tra­di­tional building by a local sur­veyor. This unique oppor­tunity came because of the rules on building in areas of out­standing natural beauty. We asked the local planning department whether we could change the design to suit our more modern tastes. They said yes, so we imme­diately bought the plot.

A few months later, when the design was almost ready, the building department of the local admi­nis­tration made us an offer. They owned a derelict con­crete slaugh­ter­house in the his­toric centre of nearby Pereta, and wanted to get shot of it. If we bought it at auction, and demo­lished it at our own expense, they would allow us to increase the area of our home by that of the slaugh­ter­house. We accepted with alacrity.

Plans and ideas

The design obviously had to comply with local rules on things like surface areas, building heights, and excava­tions, but much of it was the result of observing the sur­rounding land­scape. The lines and volumes of the house reflect the strong hori­zontals of the hills and the sea.

The ter­races, loggias and windows were designed to frame the views, funnel the sea breezes, and create an interplay of light and shadow. Our intention was to capture the domi­nating hori­zontals of the land­scape and translate them into archi­tec­tural ele­ments of the house. So we designed a house in three layers, each reflecting one cha­rac­te­ristic of the site.

The ground level, clad in blocks of tufa from local quarries, is phy­si­cally and sym­bo­li­cally rooted in the soil and history of the Maremma. The central floor echoes typical Medi­ter­ranean archi­tecture, with flat roofs, white plaster walls and small windows. The upper level is a kind of cabin, covered in wooden boards and empha­sising the building’s pro­ximity to the sea, an effect enhanced by nau­ti­cally themed details such as balusters, flights of steps, and poles.

Con­s­truction begins

Once we had com­pleted the dra­wings and obtained the permits we needed, we con­tracted out the con­s­truction to a local firm with the unlikely name of I Ten­ebrosi, meaning the tall, dark and handsome guys. The plumber, elec­trician, parquet installer and metal­worker all came from the very civi­lised little village of Magliano in Toscana.

It was a good choice: they were reliable and con­sci­en­tious, and managed to overcome many unfa­miliar chal­lenges. The plumber had a real passion for his work, making some unusual radiators and some tubular steel banisters; the elec­trician and the metal fabri­cator made the gal­va­nised outside lamps and illu­mi­nated handrails for the stairs, all to our designs. The deck installer also built a ven­ti­lated wall, a first for him.

Two years on, we still believe we made the right decision. We are friends with them all, and they still help us with occa­sional main­tenance.

Geo­logist or water diviner?

The con­s­truction went on for about a year without any par­ti­cular pro­blems. There was mains water available, but we weren’t allowed to use it to irrigate the garden or fill the swimming pool. When we started work, we brought in a water diviner, who walked round the site with his dowsing rod and declared that there was no under­ground water.

Two years later, when the building was finished, we decided to review the situation. This time we asked a geo­logist to find out whether there was an aquifer. He quoted us for some €2,000 for a preli­minary survey using probes and other instru­ments, but could not gua­rantee that there would be water.

We were just about to give him the job, but then the gar­dener told us about another highly respected diviner who would give us a con­sul­tation for a very reasonable €50. We agreed. The next day he got out of his van, took a few steps and pointed at the ground saying, in a thro­waway manner, “There’s water right here”. Then he swung a pen­dulum over the spot, walked a few more paces back and forth, and added, “It’s sixty metres deep”.

We were a bit scep­tical, but we decided to believe him. The fol­lowing week, we brought in a spe­cialist drilling company. Exactly at that point, and sixty metres below the surface, they found a magni­ficent water source that would give us a well yielding two litres a second.

Land­scaping

Having access to water meant we could take a more relaxed attitude towards land­scaping and choosing the right plants for the con­di­tions. We designed it our­selves, though we took advice from a local nursery owner.

As you might expect, we are very happy with our house. Alt­hough it is not par­ti­cu­larly huge, it is big enough for a reasonable number of people, with a variety of private and shared spaces and routes around the building. Just as it has ter­races, loggias, steps, and indoor and outdoor spaces for dif­ferent uses, so the pool is divided into spe­cific areas. The “beach” is par­ti­cu­larly sui­table for children, with only a few cen­ti­metres of water; the central section is 1.4 metres deep, and the deepest part lets you swim 15-metre lengths.

The pool reflects the vast sky, which extends from the moun­tains to the sea’s horizon. The sky and clouds are major fea­tures of the land­scape, ade­quately framed by the archi­tecture of the house. The ter­races, patios and loggias on three levels provide further vantage points from which to enjoy the beauty of the sur­roun­dings as they evolve with the seasons.

Not just a house, but a labo­ratory

Maremma House, as we call it, is a labo­ratory, in a con­stant state of flux as we expe­riment with new fur­nis­hings, finishes, colours, and land­scaping. Alt­hough it is built to last, we have designed it as a living organism with its own ske­leton, skin, and internal organs.

We also like to compare it to a ship, with the hills of the Maremma as the waves. Not lite­rally, because it does not look like an oce­an­going vessel, but it does have long straight lines and volumes, wooden bridges, metal stair­cases and a timber-clad deck cabin, and we never tire of keeping watch over the sky and the islands on the horizon.

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Text: Andrea and Luca Ponsi, August 2017

All photos and drafts © Studio Ponsi, except where otherwise indi­cated.

The house