Inside the courtyards

The first thing you notice is the sound. Step through the gate off the street and the traffic falls away, replaced by a radio somewhere upstairs, a tap that never quite closes, a neighbour calling down to ask whether the bread has come. The Tbilisi courtyard — the italiuri ezo — was built for sharing, and a century later it still is.

Most were laid out in the late 1800s, when merchants built their houses around open yards ringed with carved wooden balconies. Families lived on every side, and the yard in the middle belonged to everyone: the fig tree, the washing lines, the long table brought out for weddings and funerals alike.

We don't lock the gate. If we did, who would tell us the news?— A neighbour, Sololaki

Today many of the courtyards are fragile. Balconies lean, staircases are held together by wire and good will, and the young often leave for newer flats across the river. But the people who stay are fierce about it. They repaint, they repair, and they keep the table ready.

How to visit, kindly

Courtyards are homes, not museums. Go in the late morning, keep your voice low and your camera lower, and if someone offers you a glass of wine — they will — say yes. The best way in is with someone who knows the families, which is why our editors walk these streets with a local architect every weekend.

By early afternoon the yard empties again. The radio goes quiet, the laundry stiffens in the sun, and somebody drags the table back into the shade. Tomorrow, it will all start again.