I used to think loggias were just fancy Italian balconies until I walked through one in Bologna that connected an entire city block.
The thing about loggias—these covered outdoor corridors—is that they exist in this weird in-between space that architecture students argue about over espresso. They’re not quite indoors, not fully outside, and that ambiguity is exactly what makes them so compelling for modern design. I’ve seen architects spend months agonizing over whether to call something a loggia, a portico, or just a really ambitious porch, and honestly, the distinction matters less than understanding what you’re actually trying to create: a transitional zone that extends living space while maintaining a connection to the outdoors. The Romans figured this out roughly two thousand years ago, give or take a century, when they started building colonnaded walkways that protected them from sun and rain while keeping air moving through their villas. That principle hasn’t changed, even if our materials and building codes have evolved considerably since then.
Here’s the thing: most people approach loggia design backwards. They think about aesthetics first—those romantic images of Tuscan columns and terracotta tiles—when they should be starting with climate, orientation, and how the space will actually function in their specific location.
Understanding the Structural and Environmental Framework Before You Touch a Single Column
The orientation of your loggia determines everything else, and I mean everything. A south-facing corridor in Arizona needs dramatically different design considerations than a north-facing one in Seattle, and I’ve watched homeowners make expensive mistakes by ignoring this fundamental reality. In hot climates, you want your loggia positioned to block the harshest afternoon sun—typically on the west or south side—with a roof overhang calculated to provide maximum shade during summer months while allowing lower winter sun to penetrate. The math isn’t complicated: measure the sun angle at summer solstice for your latitude, then design your overhang depth accordingly, usually somewhere between 24 to 48 inches depending on wall height. Northern climates flip this logic entirely; you’re maximizing sun exposure and protecting against wind, which means shallower overhangs and potentially glazed sections that can capture passive solar heat.
The structural framework requires more thought than most DIY resources admit.
You’re essentially building a hybrid space that needs to support a roof while maintaining open sides, and the columns or supports you choose affect everything from wind load calculations to how water drains away from the structure. I’ve seen people use standard porch posts thinking they’d work fine, only to discover that loggias—especially longer corridor-style ones—need lateral bracing that traditional posts don’t provide. Engineered lumber or steel posts are often more practical than the romantic stone columns everyone wants, particularly if you’re spanning distances over 12 feet. And wait—maybe this seems obvious, but the floor plane needs to slope away from your main building at roughly 1/4 inch per foot to prevent water from pooling or, worse, seeping back toward the foundation. Concrete is forgiving for this; wood decking requires more precision and proper flashing details that most contractors honestly skip until problems develop.
Anyway, materials.
The Messy Reality of Materials, Railings, and the Details Nobody Mentions Until Construction Starts
Choosing materials for a loggia is where theory meets the annoying constraints of building codes, budget, and long-term maintenance. Traditional loggias used local stone or brick because that’s what was available, but modern construction offers options that would’ve seemed like magic to Renaissance architects—composite materials that mimic wood without rotting, metal roofing that lasts 50 years, glass panels that block UV while maintaining views. The catch is that every material choice cascades into other decisions you haven’t considered yet. Pick a heavy clay tile roof and your support structure needs to handle roughly 850-1200 pounds per square, which means beefier columns and potentially more of them, which affects your sight lines and the open feel you probably wanted in the first place.
I guess what surprises people most is the railing situation. If your loggia is elevated more than 30 inches—and most are if they’re attached to a main floor—building codes in the US typically require 36-inch railings, which can completely destroy the aesthetic you’re imagining. Some designers work around this by creating wide planted edges or built-in seating that serves as a barrier without looking like one, though you’ll need to verify this approach with your local building department before you commit. The smarter move, honestly, is to integrate the railing design from the beginning rather than treating it as an afterthought, using materials that complement your columns and roof rather than fighting against them visually.
Lighting gets forgotten until someone tries to use the space after sunset and realizes they’ve created an expensive dark tunnel. Recessed ceiling fixtures work if you’ve planned for electrical during framing, but surface-mounted options—particularly those low-voltage LED strips along beams—provide ambient light without the institutional feel of downlights. I’ve seen some beautiful solutions using uplighting on columns that creates dramatic shadows while keeping the floor plane visible, though you’ll want to consider light pollution and how your neighbors might feel about your architectural drama bleeding into their yard.
The final detail that seperates amateur loggias from professional ones is how you terminate the corridor at both ends. Just stopping abruptly looks unfinished; you need some kind of visual and spatial resolution—a curved end wall, a step down to grade, a transition into a courtyard or garden space that feels intentional. Turns out people don’t think about exits until they’re standing in the finished space wondering why it feels awkward, and by then you’re looking at expensive modifications rather than simple design adjustments. The best loggias I’ve experienced—and I’m thinking of one in Verona that I still dream about—create a sense of journey even when they’re only 30 feet long, with subtle shifts in ceiling height, column spacing, or material texture that make the passage feel like an experience rather than just a covered sidewalk between two points.
