Mint does not walk, yet it travels. It travels with people, through markets and myths, through ancient medicines and daily gestures. It is a wandering plant, nomadic by nature, spreading silently through its stolons, conquering every patch of damp earth it finds. Native to the temperate regions of Europe, Asia, and North Africa, mint has always possessed a gift: the gift of adaptation. In ditches, in gardens, among the stones of an abandoned orchard, it slips in without making a sound, leaving behind an unmistakable trail of freshness.
It belongs to the great Lamiaceae family, like thyme, sage, and rosemary, but holds within itself something different: an almost ethereal energy, woven of lightness and vitality. Cultivated by the Egyptians for its healing properties, by the Greeks to scent the rooms of hospitality, by the Romans to flavor their dishes, mint has spread over centuries along all the routes of the Mediterranean, taking root even in Southern Italy, where it thrives in sunlit courtyards, among lemon trees and amphorae cracked by time.
Today it can be found everywhere: on the edges of fields in Puglia, in the stone basins of Sicilian farmhouses, in the small gardens of Calabria, where a tuft is always ready to be plucked to refresh a glass—or a thought.

Uses and virtues between memory and daily life
Mint is not forgotten: it lingers on the skin, in the nostrils, on the palate. Its scent is an instant call, a sensory awakening that surprises. From its serrated leaves, velvety and moist like dew, an essential oil rich in menthol is extracted, a substance of countless virtues: refreshing, digestive, antiseptic, stimulating.
Peppermint (Mentha × piperita), more pungent and balsamic, and spearmint (Mentha spicata), sweet and gentler, are the best-known varieties. Yet in every form, this plant has accompanied humanity with both discretion and strength. As an infusion it calms the stomach and clears the mind; as an ointment it soothes pain and tension; in steam inhalations it frees the breath, and on hot days, a single sprig rubbed on the skin is worth more than a thousand words.
Its name comes from a legend: Mentha, the nymph loved by Hades, transformed into a plant by Persephone—jealous, yet determined to turn her into a fragrant echo rather than a faded memory. Since then, mint has been a symbol of rebirth and clarity, of passage and return, of shadow becoming light.
In Southern Italy it is an almost domestic presence: in the kitchens of grandmothers, who add a leaf to salads or boiling tea; in folk remedies for headaches and heartaches; in sachets hung by windows to ward off mosquitoes and dark thoughts. It is also said that whoever grows mint in their garden always finds a way out: for mint, with its direct, pure fragrance, teaches one to see clearly.

A gesture, an essence, a breath
Touching mint is like touching a spring. Its leaves, so lively and light, seem to quiver at the slightest touch. The inflorescences, slender and mauve-colored, tremble in the wind like tiny visual spells. But it is the scent—that cool strike rising straight to the chest—that reveals the true essence of this plant: a force that does not shout, but regenerates. A herb that purifies without invading, refreshes without chilling, stimulates without agitating.
It is the plant of gentle contrasts. It grows low, yet lifts the gaze. It thrives in damp places, yet carries the wind with it. It is used in medicine and in pastry, in rituals and cocktails, in traditional liqueurs and in the most refined cosmetics. Dried, it preserves its voice, but it is at the moment of the fresh harvest—when the sun begins to warm the earth and the leaves are still wet with dew—that mint offers itself in all its fullness.
And then, just a gesture: a leaf between the fingers, a brief inhalation. And everything brightens. Time slows, the mind opens, weariness melts away. Mint is not just a plant: it is a key. A green breach in the heat. A breath—clear, fresh, necessary—at the heart of the Mediterranean.