At first, it was just one or two—a trampled section between the vines, a snapped post, a paper coffee cup half-buried in the soil. He frowned, cleaned it up, and chalked it up to kids. Then it happened again. And again.
By the third week, the vineyard felt different. Tourists began using his property like a shortcut to a scenic overlook near the back hill. They crossed the rows without care, stepping over roots and dragging bags behind them.